Checkmate
Draco was anxious. A feeling so rare for him that even in the presence of the Dark Lord, he always managed to remain composed. It was a trait he attributed to his mastery of Occlumency.
But around Hermione, composure slipped through his fingers entirely. Tonight, after seeing how stunning she looked, he couldn’t summon the courage to meet her gaze. Not after the way she’d blushed in his presence that morning. He told himself he needed some semblance of self control if he was going to tell her everything.
And yet, he didn’t want to occlude this time. He relished the churn in his gut, the way her presence scattered his thoughts and made him forget how to form proper sentences when their eyes met. Her voice carried a fire he couldn’t resist, and he wanted to bask in it, even as his heart ached.
Still, he needed to stay steady tonight. When she entered the room for dinner, wearing a dress that hugged every place his hands longed to linger, her hair pinned up as if it awaited his fingers to release her curls, his restraint nearly shattered. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, couldn’t stop himself from yearning to hang on to her every word. But tonight, he resolved not to lose control. Not when she was angry.
He had to explain everything, before she left again. Before his idiotic friends, who invited themselves to the dinner he carefully planned how he would explain everything, but they ruined it completely. He’d deal with them later.
Hermione stood before him, arms crossed tightly, her glare colder than he’d seen in weeks. It was that sharp, dangerous Granger glare, the one that could wither even the bravest soul. He hadn’t seen her like this since her first week in the house. Cold, calculating, and utterly furious. It struck him how very Slytherin the Golden Girl was at times.
“Well then,” she said, her voice sharp and cutting, devoid of the warmth he’d heard earlier that evening. “What is it you have to say?”
“Could you… please sit down? It’s going to be a long story,” Draco replied, lowering himself into the armchair by the fireplace. The study felt much cozier than the vast, impersonal dining room. He slumped, not knowing where to begin. He couldn't stand having her hate him like she once did. He hesitated a moment before asking, “Are you okay? What did I do to upset you?”
“I’m fine. Just finish what you need to say, Malfoy. It’s late,” she replied, her voice as cold as her gaze.
“Grang—”
“No, Draco,” she interrupted firmly. “Just explain.”
And so, he did. He told her everything. The twisted, sordid truth. He spoke of Astoria, Pansy, Theo, and the others who suffered under the weight of his Voldemort's legacy. He explained the devastating trauma Astoria and he endured because of his misguided attempt to annul their marriage. He described how the Death Eaters paraded them as entertainment, night after night. How his father, in his arrogance, made decisions that only tightened the noose around their family, all under the guise of “protection.”
Draco didn’t spare himself. He confessed the terrible things he’d done, driven by fear of losing his mother. None of it made him proud. And then, the worst of it all, he told her about the curse. The damned curse that now ensnared Hermione in its cruel web.
When he finished, Hermione was silent. Speechless. It was a sight Draco never imagined he’d see. Hermione Granger, without a single retort. Her face drained of its usual vibrance. But then, as if regaining back her composure, a sob tore from her lips, raw and sudden. She began to cry.
“Granger,” Draco whispered, kneeling before her, his hands cradling her face gently. “I didn’t mean to upset you… Merlin, all I ever do is hurt you… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”
Her tear streaked face tilted upward, and she shook her head softly before pulling him into an embrace. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, as though she could find solace in his proximity.
Minutes passed in the quiet solace of their closeness. Hermione’s breaths slowed, her trembling steadied. Yet she didn’t let go.
When she finally moved back, her eyes sought his. They were molten amber, filled with an intensity that left Draco breathless. She stared at him, her gaze tracing the lines of his face, the storm in his gray eyes. Slowly, her attention dropped to his lips, and she leaned in, her intent unmistakable to soothe him, to melt away his worry with the barest brush of her lips.
But Draco flinched. He pulled back, his grasp on her still hesitant, unsure.
Hermione swallowed her disappointment, pushing past the sting of rejection. She wasn’t ready to crumble yet. “What is the curse, Draco?” she asked, her hands still resting on his shoulders, unwilling to let go. “What did your father curse you with?”
Draco froze, stunned into silence. Was it her almost kiss that rattled him? Or the sound of his name on her lips, tender and unguarded? He decided it was the latter. His name. Her voice. It rang in his ears like a melody he couldn’t escape. She never called him Draco before. It made him feel like he belonged. Like there was a space she carved in her life for him.
“Granger,” he finally managed, though he saw the faint flicker of disappointment in her furrowed brows. She expected something else something more.
“The curse,” he continued, his voice heavy, “is more complicated than just me.”
Hermione nodded, listening intently, her hand drifting to her knees as if grauding herself. He ached at the loss of her touch.
“Each of us,” Draco explained, “was cursed with something designed to make us miserable or so Voldemort believed. It was his backup plan. A way to punish his closest followers if they failed him. He knew our parents’ worst flaws. He knew their fears. He used that knowledge to twist us into his pawns, even after death.
“My father didn’t hate me,” Draco said bitterly. “He was a coward, yes, but he wasn’t a monster. Foolish as it sounds, he thought he was doing me a favor when he made the curse. He believed it would bring me joy. Instead…” Draco hesitated, shame clouding his voice. “Instead, he cursed me to marry a any Muggleborn girl and consummate the marriage within three months. He knew I loved a Muggleborn girl and believed the curse would break when I wed her. But he failed to realize…” His voice broke, his tone heavy with regret. “He failed to realize she hated everything I stood for and the pain my prejudice caused her.”
He looked tired, older than his years, a ghost of the sharp, witty young man he once was. “If I fail, the curse will eventually kill every Muggleborn,” he added, his voice laced with bitterness. “Voldemort’s nice little trick to shape the world he wanted, from beyond the grave.”
Hermione gasped, shock and sorrow washing over her features. “Draco…” she whispered, reaching for his face, but he flinched back, unwilling to accept comfort, not when she didn't understand the capacity of his betrayal.
He wasn’t finished. “Lucius knew,” Draco continued, his voice raw. “He knew how ashamed I was for hurting you. He must have seen it—the way I…” He faltered, his words breaking apart. “Merlin, Hermione. He knew how I felt about you.”
Tears brimmed in Hermione’s eyes. “Draco…” she began, but he silenced her by gently brushing his fingers along her cheek.
“I lied to you,” he admitted softly, his gaze fixed on hers. “But you deserve the truth.”
Hermione’s voice broke as she confessed, “I lied too. I was sent by the Ministry to monitor the children of Death Eaters, to determine if you’d been truly rehabilitated. I’m sorry, Draco. I’m so sorry.”
Draco stared at her, reeling. Somehow, despite everything, he still trusted her. How? He didn’t know. But the trust was there, steadfast and unshaken.
“The Ministry may have sent me,” Hermione continued hurriedly, “but I grew to care for you. You became my friend. I felt guilty for lying to you. Draco, you have nothing to be sorry for. Neither of us came into this with the best intentions.” She leaned closer to him, her voice softening. “Draco, do you still lov..."
He cut her off, desperate to unburden himself before she could speak further. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness; not now, not ever. But Draco was selfish, and if there was one thing he would allow himself to be selfish about, it was Hermione. He wanted her, needed her, even if he didn’t deserve her.
“Why were you upset yesterday, Granger?” he asked abruptly, his voice quieter now.
Hermione looked away, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “I was upset,” she murmured, “because I heard you… with Pansy.”
Draco frowned, confusion creasing his brow.
“I thought you were with her,” Hermione confessed, her words coming faster. “I got jealous.”
Draco’s eyes widened as the realization hit him like a a splash of water. “You were jealous?” he asked, his voice cracking.
She hesitated for a moment before meeting his gaze. “Yes, I was. Because…” Her voice was barely above a whisper now. “Because I love you.”
Draco’s breath hitched. He reached out instinctively, his hands cradling her face as if she might disappear. His fingers brushed over her lips, reverent and trembling.
“I love you too, Hermione,” he blurted, his voice shaky, utterly unlike his usual self.
Hermione shuddered at his touch, her resolve melting. She wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him closer until their noses touched. “Then let’s end this curse,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Eyes glazed over with something else, lust maybe. Her lips captured his in a searing kiss, full of passion and promises unspoken.
Draco pulled her closer, his heart pounding. For once, hope surged within him. Maybe his father had finally done something right with this curse.