The enemy
August 10, 1995
Draco
“You need to bake it for forty minutes at two hundred sixty degrees,” Theo corrects me with his usual know-it-all tone, while I desperately try to figure out how this damn Muggle oven works.
He sighs exasperatedly, crossing his arms. “It’s not hard, Malfoy. Turn that knob. No, not that one, the other one. No, wait—”
A click, and the oven shuts off completely. Theo runs a hand over his face, frustrated, pushing me away to do it himself.
Today is one of those special days when Dora has left us to our fate because she’s too busy saving the world with her stupid Auror job. Which means only one thing: we’re at the mercy of Aunt Andromeda. And with my aunt, you don’t argue. If she says we’re cooking today, we’re cooking.
No Quidditch in the garden, no magical duels to decide who’s the strongest, no experiments with potions of questionable effects. Just flour, dough, and an alarming amount of Muggle kitchen utensils that I don’t understand the purpose of.
I admit, albeit reluctantly, that I actually like cooking. Despite being told my whole life that it was elf work, despite my mother recoiling every time I got near the kitchen, despite my father probably disowning me for simply touching a pot without a wand.
I pick up a pinch of flour from the pile left on the counter, stealthily approach Theo from behind, and, with all the grace in the world, drop it on his head.
Snow, magic, art. I’m an artist.
He slowly turns toward me, eyes squinted, nostrils flaring, posture that of someone about to commit premeditated murder. “I washed my hair this morning.”
Shit.
I raise my hands in surrender and put on my most angelic expression. It doesn’t work. Of course.
Theo scoops up two large handfuls of flour and charges at me, while I skillfully dodge every attempt.
“Stop and take it, bastard!” he yells, missing both times.
I laugh, move, keep dodging, until the kitchen turns into a white, dusty battlefield. Somewhere, Aunt Andromeda is probably reconsidering her decision to leave us unsupervised.
I’ve never felt so good in my life.
Since the night at the cemetery, something between Theo and me has changed. There’s a new trust between us, a stronger bond. He told me everything about Cedric—every detail, even the ones I wish I hadn’t known. He showed me his scars, telling me the story behind each one. He talked about the Manor after his mother died, about his father, and the bottle he always carried.
And I, in turn, told him my story. I told him how I realized that the ideology they drilled into us was rotten to the core. I showed him my wounds, told him about Christmas and the Cruciatus, about the feeling of pain that breaks you.
In less than twenty days, we’ll return to Hogwarts and put our masks back on. But now, at least for now, it’s just the two of us. Two boys throwing handfuls of flour at each other, laughing, allowing ourselves the luxury of being vulnerable.
A sudden, eerie green light illuminates the room.
We turn around still laughing, expecting to find Dora back, maybe ready to scold us for the mess in the kitchen. But it’s not her.
Someone else has appeared in the fireplace. Someone with a horrified expression, framed by messy hair.
Theo stiffens beside me. The flour he was holding falls silently to the ground. “Shit...” he murmurs, and I feel my blood freeze in my veins.
Hermione
Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott.
Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott, in Andromeda Tonks’ house.
Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott, in Andromeda Tonks’ house, wearing ridiculous colorful aprons, covered in flour.
I must have taken the wrong fireplace. A parallel universe? A spell gone wrong? Or did I hit my head and I’m in a coma?
“What are you two doing here?” I ask, stunned, my hand instinctively sliding to the wand hidden in the back pocket of my jeans.
The kitchen door creaks open, and Andromeda enters with her usual grace, unfazed by the chaos around her. Her gaze lands on the two white-floured Slytherins, and her lips curl into an amused smile.
“Dear, come in, come in. We’re making dinner. Will you stay with us? Dora should be here any minute.”
Simple, natural. As if it weren’t strange to have Malfoy and Nott in her house, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“I… I mean, yes,” I stutter, my eyes still fixed on the two boys in front of me. “I’ll gladly stay for dinner.”
Andromeda raises her wand, making the flour vanish in an instant, cleaning up the mess and restoring some semblance of order to the kitchen. Then, without hesitation, she pushes the two toward the door. “Why don’t you go keep Hermione company on the veranda while I finish preparing? What do you think?”
It’s not a question.
They nod, dazed, remove their aprons, and disappear from the room without a word.
Something’s off. These aren’t the Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott I know. Neither of them has screamed “filthy half-blood,” neither has protested the idea of spending time with me. Neither has shown disdain or disgust.
I slide my wand into my sleeve, ready for anything, before following them out.
“Granger.”
They both greet me. Malfoy with his hands in his pockets, Nott rocking back and forth on his feet.
“It’s a pleasure to see you.”
A short, spontaneous laugh escapes me. A pleasure? For them, it would be a pleasure to see me dead.
“Why are you here?” I ask bluntly. I have no time or patience for this little act.
“Well, she’s my aunt, isn’t she?” Malfoy replies, shrugging casually. The Muggle denim of his jeans makes him almost look human. Almost.
I raise an eyebrow.
His aunt. Sure. The entire Black family disowned her, and now he spends his summers at her house?
“Give me a damn explanation,” I growl, trying to mask the tension in my voice.
Malfoy doesn’t flinch. “When, that night, you and Potter freed Black, I was there. Do you remember?”
I nod. I remember every moment of that night.
“I had just asked Sirius for help to run away from my house. He contacted me at the start of fourth year. And this summer, we spent it here, Theo and I. Because neither of us wanted to stay with our families.”
His voice is flat, neutral. Too neutral. As if he’s trying to keep control. My stomach tightens.
This story... this story makes sense. But why tell it to me? Why tell me the truth?
“And why, pray tell, didn’t the two Slytherin princes want to spend time with their noble families?” I ask with sarcasm, my voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Because this year you’d get nine presents instead of ten?”
The joke is cruel, childish, pointless. I know, but I can’t help myself.
And I understand even more how true it is the very moment Malfoy steps forward, his hands clenching and relaxing at his sides, his jaw tense, his eyes piercing through me.
“No, Granger,” he hisses, tilting his head to the side. His smile is tight, forced. “We didn’t want to stay because we’re tired of getting cutting curses or Cruciatus depending on our fathers’ moods.”
The air freezes. His words hit me like a punch to the stomach. I tried to hurt them, just like they’ve hurt me so many times. I succeeded. And I didn’t expect to hear the truth. So raw, so brutal. Damned real.
“I…”
I don’t know what to say. What stupid phrase could fix the mess I just made?
Malfoy scoffs, as if he has no idea what to do with my obvious guilt, and sits down on the veranda’s little couch. Nott immediately follows, sitting next to his friend.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world, I sit next to them. Holy Godric, why am I doing this?
Malfoy intertwines his fingers in front of him. Nott crosses his legs, his probing gaze shifting between me and the Slytherin next to him.
“Anyway, Granger,” Malfoy speaks with a firmer voice than I expected, almost casually, but the way he clenches his jaw betrays him. “I’m sorry for everything,” his voice is low, measured. “For every joke, for every insult, for every shitty comment about blood, for every curse. I don’t believe in that crap, but that’s what was expected of me.”
There’s no arrogance or sarcasm. He really means it.
Nott nods. “Sorry from me too, Granger. Same for me, you know... either that, or another Cruciatus.”
I feel my breath growing heavier. I should feel satisfaction, right? I should feel the weight of their words as a victory, a justice long awaited. Yet, all I feel is an oppressive knot in my stomach, a voice screaming at me to doubt them in my head.
Every insult, every disdainful look, every stifled laugh behind my back—these have all left invisible scars that still throb beneath my skin.
I want to believe it. Really. But it hurts. I want to believe them, but my mind is still searching for deception.
“I want to believe you,” I whisper, my voice more fragile than I’d like. “But it’s hard to do so.” I force myself to look at both of them, searching their eyes for an answer. “Give me a reason. Something more to believe you.”
Nott sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, they are darker than before. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to convince me, but the way his expression fades makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong.
Malfoy, on the other hand, stares blankly ahead. His chin resting on his intertwined hands, a strand of blonde hair falling over his forehead. Then, in a soft voice, he breaks the silence.
“Do you remember Dobby?”
The question catches me off guard. “Yes…” I respond, uncertain.
Malfoy slowly raises his gaze to me. “Have you ever wondered why Dobby, a house-elf at Malfoy Manor, in second year, thought so highly of Harry Potter? Have you ever wondered why he liked someone he had only ever heard the worst about from my father?”
My heart skips a beat.
“It means that someone, inside that house, was telling him about Harry. Telling him he wasn’t a worthless being who deserved to die.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “And that someone was me.”
The knot in my stomach tightens even further, almost causing me pain.
Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. It can’t be true. He can’t have admitted to liking Harry in some way.
Beside him, Nott places a hand on his knee, squeezing it slightly, as if to comfort him. As if he’s the one who needs comforting.
“Not always what we show tells who we really are,” Nott murmurs, looking at Malfoy instead of me.
I feel like I’m suffocating. My mind is a storm of thoughts, overlapping memories, pain that I don’t know whether to let go of or hold on to even tighter.
“I believe you,” I admit in one breath. The words leave before I can stop them, before I can convince myself otherwise. “Thank you for apologizing to me.”
And for one brief moment, it feels like I can breathe a little better. But the moment doesn’t last long.
“You have to keep the secret.”
Malfoy’s voice is harsher now, more tense. "Potter and Weasley can’t know anything. If something changes at Hogwarts and our parents find out, we could be sent to Durmstrang. Or worse, especially now that he’s back."
He. Voldemort. Even they believe Harry. A chill runs down my spine.
I have power in my hands that I never wanted. I could hurt them. I could destroy them. I could use this truth against them, bring down the Prince of Slytherin and his most loyal henchman with a single word.
And the thought makes me feel sick.
"I swear. It will remain a secret."
Silence falls over us, heavy, oppressive, impossible to ignore. But none of us tries to fill it. We leave it there, to settle. To remind us of what just happened.
Then suddenly, the door bursts open. Three pairs of eyes snap toward it.
"Guys, we have a problem regarding—"
Sirius Black stops dead, his eyes wide when he sees me. "Hermione? What are you doing here?"
"I just came to say hello to Andromeda," I murmur, my voice hoarse, still carrying the weight of everything. "But the evening’s going differently than I expected."
Malfoy speaks up, his voice more controlled than I expected. "We explained a bit to her, in general."
Sirius curses under his breath. "Shit. Okay... fine." But the concern in his expression is impossible to ignore. "I’ll explain more later. Just know that you’re with us now."
With us.
I don’t even know what that means, I don’t even know if I’m ready to be. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
"Now we’ve got a problem to solve."
Malfoy and Nott stand up simultaneously, fear written on their faces, anxiety in their eyes, the tension radiating from them—these are real emotions. "What?"
Sirius takes a deep breath, and when he speaks, his voice is so serious that it sends shivers down my spine.
"Last week, Greyback and Bellatrix escaped from Azkaban, along with other Death Eaters." He pauses, as if trying to control his anger. "And to punish the pureblood families that didn’t openly side with Voldemort during the war, they’ve kidnapped members of each family to bite them tonight, during the full moon."
The air grows heavier than I thought possible.
"Blaise Zabini is among them."
The cold seeps into my bones. I don’t care who Blaise Zabini is, I don’t care that he’s not my friend. What matters is that we have very little time.