Hogwarts After Hours

"Mr. Collins, surely there are more important things for you to be doing with this spare block than releasing Peace Disturbers in the corridors?" Hermione chastised the group of sixth years outside her classroom, doing her very best McGonagall impression—perfectly crooked brow and all.

The boys fidgeted nervously in front of her, ties sloppy and shirts untucked, reminding her immensely of Harry and Ron during her own time at Hogwarts.

Some things never change.

"Yes, Professor Granger..."

Releasing a tired sigh, Hermione let them go with a measly five points deducted from Gryffindor and Slytherin respectively, turning back into her classroom to finish her marking.

"I should write a strongly worded owl to George and Ronald… Bloody Peace Disturbers, indeed," she mumbled to herself, grabbing her quill. "Not that it would help. They never listened to me before—why should they now?"

"Talking to ourselves still, Granger? I thought we worked on this bad habit before."

A bored voice rang out in the empty classroom. Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose in aggravation, taking a calming breath before acknowledging the tall figure leaning casually against her open doorway.

Draco sodding Malfoy.

The bane of her very existence from first year, now a perpetual thorn in her side once more as a fellow professor.

When McGonagall had appeared in her office at the end of last year with a request—and a bottle of elf wine to sweeten the deal—Hermione should have known there would be a catch. Minerva had never resorted to bribery before, and Hermione knew she couldn’t very well say no to the woman who had taught her everything she knew.

One drink led to another, and to accompany her hangover the next morning, she had a shiny new, blonde Potions professor to show around.

"What do you want now, Malfoy?" Hermione groaned, leaning back in her leather armchair to scowl at him.

Draco Malfoy was all man now. No longer the pointy, polished prat she once knew—no. Now, Malfoy filled out his robes perfectly , with sculpted muscles courtesy of his time spent on the Quidditch pitch with the Slytherin House team and his years in the Italian countryside during his Potions mastery. His hair fell in loose waves across his forehead, his icy grey eyes still sharp but without the usual nasty glares she had grown accustomed to during their school years.

His smirk—crooked, infuriating—was now enhanced by a dimple she didn’t recall seeing before.

As Ginny often said, the git was fit.

Hermione suppressed a shiver, refusing to let him see the pink flush creeping across her freckled cheeks. He didn’t need more ammunition to fire at her—their battles of dry wit were already at an all-time high.

She liked to think she had matured in the years since the war. She had tea with Minerva every Sunday, helped Neville in the greenhouses every Wednesday after lessons, and had even befriended Pansy Parkinson , much to everyone’s surprise.

Pansy had taken over Charms after Professor Flitwick retired, shortly after Professor Sprout’s passing several years prior. He had confided in Hermione that the castle no longer felt like home.

Hermione had to admit, she quite liked Pansy these days. She was sharp, dry-humored, and—after a few drinks at The Three Broomsticks—the two had bonded over their mutual love of Charms and Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge .

But since the reappearance of one tall, blonde ex-Death Eater , it felt as though they had reverted to their old childish antics—name-calling, witty banter, and attempting to one-up each other at every turn.

"The ability to Confund myself," Malfoy responded dryly, stepping inside. His dragon-skin loafers clicked against the stone floor as he took a seat across from her, kicking his feet up onto her desk—right over the essays she had been marking.

Hermione shot him a glare.

"I cannot get the sight of Longbottom's bare arse out of my head," he continued, shuddering violently. His ivory skin paled even further as if reliving the trauma.

Hermione raised a knowing brow, doing her best to stifle her amusement as she shuffled the parchment rolls on her desk.

"It’s Friday , Malfoy. You should know better than to walk into his office on a Friday afternoon."

She had made that mistake one too many times herself. And as much as she adored Pansy these days, she didn’t much favor seeing her friend’s tits bouncing over top of her oldest friend’s lap.

“I didn’t go to his office, Granger. I went to the greenhouses.” Malfoy groaned, rubbing a hand over his face, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

Hermione gasped. “They were going at it in plain sight again!?” She let out a startled laugh.

Malfoy’s gaze met hers, eyebrows narrowed. “Again.”

“Huh,” Hermione said dryly. “And here I thought you were the one with the proclivity for public displays of affection…” She trailed off, refusing to make eye contact as memories surfaced—memories of her Prefect days, patrolling corridors only to find Malfoy and Pansy tangled together in dimly lit alcoves.

Malfoy released a sputtering laugh, cheeks tinged pink as he fought to control himself. “Ah, no… Pansy’s the one who loves a good public shag. I mostly just liked being… well, never mind.” He coughed. “My point is, I’m traumatised by the bumbling white arse of Longbottom, and I don’t think I’ll recover anytime soon.” He threw his head back dramatically, arm draped across his forehead, sneaking a peek at Hermione out of the corner of his eye.

“Say, Granger, what are you doing this evening? Maybe a drink at Rosmerta’s will soothe my poor trauma.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. This was the third time this week he had tried to drag her to the Three Broomsticks. Ever since he had returned to Hogwarts and found her practically buried in paperwork, Draco Malfoy had made it his personal mission to get her roaring drunk at every opportunity.

“Malfoy, I have essays to grade,” she groaned, gesturing at the mountain of parchment on her desk. “I don’t have time for a drink when I have over fifty rolls to go through. O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s are in a week, and these students need all the help they can get.”

Malfoy let out a low whistle. “You need to get shagged, Granger. Let some of that stress go.”

Hermione choked. Face flushing, eyes watering, she coughed loudly, caught completely off guard.

“What? Do you prefer if I say fucked ? How about making love ?” Malfoy smirked. “Ah, yes, I bet you and Weaselbee were love makers , weren’t you?”

Hermione let out a dry laugh. “Not really, Malfoy.” She flicked her wand, sending the marked essays into the ‘finished’ pile. “We had a few awkward shags in the grimy bath at Grimmauld, realized we were better off as friends, and now it’s just the occasional drunken hook-up at a pub when I have the time.” She shrugged, refusing to acknowledge his dumbfounded expression—or the flicker of interest in his sharp grey eyes. No, couldn’t be. Draco Malfoy had zero interest in tumbling naked with her. Drunkenly or otherwise.

“Well, that’s… interesting, Granger.” His voice was lower, rougher. He cleared his throat. “Come on, let’s strike a deal. I’ll help you mark these essays—it’ll go faster that way—and then you come have a drink with me. Just one drink, Granger, it won’t kill you.”

“That you know of…” she muttered. But it was the weekend. And she could use a drink.

“Fine.” She sighed. “One drink. Just one drink, Malfoy. I mean it.”

Malfoy grinned, looping his index finger around hers in a clumsy attempt at a ‘pinky promise’—a Muggle tradition she had taught him months ago, though he still didn’t quite understand it. Merlin, she was not allowed to find that cute. Absolutely not.

“You have to help me grade first,” she said sternly, shoving a stack of essays into his face. “Take the third and fourth years—those were the only years your marks were higher than mine anyway.”

Malfoy chuckled. “Only because in third year you took so many classes you didn’t know what day it was, and in fourth year you were too busy keeping Potter from getting eaten by a dragon.”

Hermione stared at him, surprised he knew about her third-year Time-Turner fiasco.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Granger, you were about as subtle as a Sphinx—bumbling around looking like you hadn’t slept in weeks.” He smirked. “You’d be walking right in front of me after Ancient Runes, then vanish , only for me to find you five minutes later asleep in the library.”

Hermione huffed but said nothing. Instead, she focused on grading as Malfoy lazily flipped through a student’s essay, twirling her spare quill between his fingers. She wasn’t looking at him. Not at all. Not at the way the afternoon light made his hair practically glow. Not at his ridiculously long eyelashes, or the way his lips curled at the edges in amusement.

“Granger, you’re staring.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

His smirk deepened, but after a moment, he let it go and turned his attention back to his grading. Hermione forced herself to focus on hers, biting her lip as she tried to ignore the warm scent of peppermint drifting from across the desk.

She really needed that drink.

***

The Three Broomsticks was buzzing with Friday night energy.

Hermione sighed in contentment as she clinked her butterbeer against Malfoy’s glass of firewhiskey.

“Cheers, Granger. To surviving another week with those insufferable little dunderheads.”

She snorted. “Did you just quote Snape?”

“I like to think of it as honoring his legacy.” Malfoy smirked. He took a slow sip of his firewhiskey, then groaned. “Merlin, my wrist is going to be out of commission after all that grading.”

Hermione arched a brow, lips twitching. “Oh? Not the first time your wrist has had an intense workout, I imagine.”

Malfoy inhaled sharply—too sharply. Firewhiskey shot straight out of his nose .

Both of them froze, wide-eyed. Then, at the exact same time , they burst into hysterical laughter.

It took them minutes to recover, wiping away tears as they gasped for breath.

“You’re awful ,” Malfoy wheezed, still chuckling.

“I know,” Hermione smirked, raising her glass in a mock toast.

The laughter faded into something softer, quieter. They sat there, nursing their drinks, reminiscing about how far they’d come since they were forced to work together.

Hermione sighed, swirling the remnants of her butterbeer. “I just wish the rest of the staff would give you a chance, you know? It’s been almost a year since you joined.”

Malfoy waved her off. “Don’t worry about it, Granger. I’m used to it. It’s what I deserve. Being an ex-Death Eater and all.”

Hermione bristled. “ Bollocks. If they can accept Pansy and Theo, they can bloody well accept you. You’re the best Potions Master Hogwarts has had since Snape died.”

Malfoy scoffed disbelievingly. “What about Slughorn?”

Hermione smirked. “The only thing Slughorn was good for was a bad gamble and fifty quid .”

Malfoy blinked. “What the hell is a quid ?”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. “Not today, Malfoy. Not today.”

The two of them chatted amicably, her second firewhiskey warming Hermione’s veins and loosening the sharp edges of another long week. Malfoy, to her surprise, was easy company when he wasn’t being a complete menace. He was funny— really funny, in that dry, self-deprecating way that she never would have associated with the arrogant boy he once was.

They were mid-conversation—Malfoy animatedly describing a third-year’s attempt at brewing a Draught of Peace that had nearly turned into an actual explosion —when two figures flopped unceremoniously into the seats beside them.

Neville and Pansy.

Neville looked far too smug for someone who had been caught mid-activity in the greenhouses earlier that day. Pansy, however, simply looked pleased with herself, tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear as she flagged down Rosmerta for drinks.

Malfoy groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his face. “I cannot look at you, Longbottom.”

Neville rolled his eyes. “Oh, come off it, Malfoy—”

“ No! ” Malfoy cut him off, sitting up sharply and pointing an accusatory finger. “Your bare arse , Longbottom. My innocent eyes.” He shuddered theatrically, taking a deep swig of firewhiskey.

Hermione, already tipsy, dissolved into giggles.

“Really,” she sighed, shaking her head. “You two must stop shagging in public places.”

Pansy, unbothered, smirked at Malfoy. “Oh, please. He shouldn’t mind. He always liked getting caught—”

Malfoy’s wand was out in a flash . “ Silencio. ”

Pansy’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. She scowled at him, huffing dramatically as she crossed her arms.

Hermione squinted, her alcohol-soaked brain working sluggishly through the implications. “Wait… what do you mean he liked getting caught?”

Malfoy cleared his throat loudly. “Nothing. Parkinson is a pathological liar —horrible habit, really.”

But Hermione was watching him carefully now, her brow furrowed. Pansy, still silenced, was glaring daggers at him, her fingers tapping impatiently on the table.

Malfoy downed the rest of his firewhiskey. “ Anyway ,” he said loudly, standing up and offering Hermione a hand. “Granger, you’re sloshed . Let’s get you back to the castle before you pass out in Rosmerta’s lap.”

Hermione pouted but let him pull her to her feet, wobbling only slightly. “ Fine, ” she sighed, waving lazily at Neville and Pansy before letting Malfoy steer her toward the door.

The walk back to the castle was surprisingly nice. The night air was cool, crisp against her flushed skin, and the stars above sparkled like something out of a fairytale.

Hermione hummed as they walked, swaying slightly. “So…” she started, blinking up at him. “What did Pansy mean?”

Malfoy kept his eyes forward. “Nothing. She’s full of shite.”

Hermione squinted. “Malfoy.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Another time, Granger.”

She blew a stray curl out of her face, making a hmph sound of dissatisfaction. “You’re infuriating.”

Malfoy chuckled but didn’t argue.

They reached her staff flat, the enchanted portrait guarding the entrance eyeing them with thinly veiled amusement. Hermione fumbled with the latch on her satchel, trying to pull out her wand to unlock the door when she suddenly felt a warm presence very close to her.

Malfoy leaned in—just slightly—and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to her cheek.

“Goodnight, Granger.”

Hermione blinked, her brain short-circuiting as he stepped back, smirking at her dazed expression before turning on his heel and heading off toward his own quarters.

She stood there, frozen , heart hammering as she replayed the moment in her head.

The portrait of the old healer snorted. “Well? Are you going to stand out here all night, or are you going to go in?”

Hermione startled, cheeks burning. “Oh. Right.”

She muttered the password, stepping inside, shutting the door behind her, and promptly flopping onto her bed.

What the bloody hell just happened?

Her last thought before sleep claimed her was that she was definitely going to have a hangover in the morning.

And that Draco Malfoy was going to be absolute hell to deal with after this.