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Chapter Text

She stood before the peculiar Time Turner, her heart heavy with the weight of all she was about to leave behind. This particular device was unlike the one she had once worn so casually around her neck as a schoolgirl. That one had been returned to Professor McGonagall five years ago, carefully surrendered with the solemn promise that she was finished meddling with the fabric of time. 

She had told herself she was done. She had told herself she would never risk it again. Yet she could still conjure the old one in her mind as clearly as if it rested in her palm now, every detail etched in memory.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the Time Turner of her third year, the one she had treasured with such awe. The metal had been light, perhaps titanium, though plated with worn gold that had chipped with use and age. Within the delicate rings, there had rested a narrow hourglass, its fine silver sand glimmering like moonlight. She remembered how the rings turned, one full rotation equating to a single hour, the motion of time itself so simple in her grasp.

That year had been extraordinary. For a girl so desperate to devour knowledge, the ability to attend every class she wished had felt like a blessing from the heavens. She had felt the high of trust when Dumbledore and McGonagall had pressed such a dangerous treasure into her hands. 

Only later had she recognised the truth. Once the war ended, she understood with bitter clarity that this too had been part of Dumbledore’s quiet machinations. He had seen them not as children, but as chess pieces to be manoeuvred across his great board, soldiers in a battle too heavy for their young shoulders.

No, she didn’t regret saving Buckbeak or Sirius. She regretted how gullible she was in believing their headmaster truly cared for their well-being. They had been nothing more than children, manipulated like pawns in a larger game, used as soldiers in a war where they should have been protected.

The sharpness of unfamiliar metal dragged her back to the present. The Time Turner now resting in her hand was no trinket of gold-plated school days. It was gleaming silver, solid and cold, forged with artistry that made her breath catch. Along the upper band, words had been engraved, crisp and proud: Toujours Pur. Always Pure. The motto was unmistakable. This was a creation tied to a family she had never imagined standing beside, much less entrusting her life to.

And yet, it was exquisite. If the old Time Turner had been pretty in its own fragile way, this was nothing short of majestic. She could not look upon it without marveling at the craftsmanship. In the centre, as always, an hourglass. Silver sand slipped and shimmered within a fragile glass orb, cradled by two settings of filigree so delicate they seemed spun from frost. Around the orb a serpent of silver coiled, each scale etched in careful detail, its head lifted at the apex, fangs bared in eternal menace.

She had studied this device for countless nights, her thumb finding the grooves as easily as a pianist might find keys. The ritual was simple in theory, terrifying in practice. One did not merely turn the dials. 

The serpent’s fangs demanded blood, the mingling of all who cast the spell. Blood to fill the orb until it glowed with their shared essence. At the base, beneath the serpent’s coiled body, four dials waited to be turned, each one selecting a digit of the chosen year.

It had taken months of bitter debate, but finally, the three of them had agreed. Harry. Draco. And her. They would send her back to the tumultuous days of their fifth year. The thought of Malfoy’s involvement almost made her laugh. The irony was too sharp. Fate had twisted in on itself, setting her and Harry side by side with the boy they had once hated with an easy certainty. Draco Malfoy, who had grown into a man with haunted eyes, a missing arm, and the mark of war seared into him. Once a rival, once an enemy, now a comrade in their last, desperate plan.

And in the midst of it all, her own feelings for the blonde had shifted, slipping into something more dangerous than she could ever admit aloud. It was foolish. One-sided and impossible. Yet her heart tightened each time her eyes lingered too long upon him. 

Reality pressed down on her shoulders. They had no choice. Voldemort had triumphed, the Ministry crumbled beneath his grasp, and the wizarding world was cloaked in terror. For two years, they had fought to survive, fugitives hunted by those they once called allies. Their friends had turned away, not out of malice but self-preservation. Still, the betrayal burned. This was their only hope. She had to go back.

"Hermione, our time is running short." 

Harry’s voice broke into her spiraling thoughts. Thank Merlin for Harry. Always steady when she was lost in her mind. She turned, gazing at him and then at Draco, standing as her unlikely pillars in the storm.

“I’m ready,” she said, though her arms trembled as if they belonged to someone else.

"Remember to breathe slowly, then puncture your thumb with the fangs," Draco instructed as Hermione confidently took hold of the Time Turner, pressing her thumb against the serpent’s teeth. The sting was sharp, the sight of her blood filling the orb sharper still. Draco’s hand flicked, closing the wound with wandless precision. 

She watched as Draco took the time turner and followed the same process. Hermione then, in turn, spelled his finger healed and squeezed it tight, knowing this may be the last time she’d touch him. 

Harry followed with the same grim resolve, then handed the device back.

Draco smirked faintly, sliding the ring from his finger. "This ring will safeguard your unruly locks, witch. A trifling present from me," He threaded it onto the chain and clasped it at her neck. His knuckles grazed her skin, cool and lingering, and her breath caught despite herself. 

"Draco, I don’t think I can face this alone." Hermione’s lips quivered as she whispered through her tears.

“You’re not on your own, Pages,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. His tone was steady, but his eyes were storming, full of words he would never allow to spill. “You carry us with you. Whether you like it or not.” He gave her a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes, then bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering longer than she expected.

Her chest ached with the force of it. Merlin, she would miss that nickname.

Harry stepped closer, his voice warm despite the tremor beneath it. “For once in his life, the ferret’s right. You’re not alone, Hermione. Even if we’re not standing next to you, we’ll still be there. Just… in a different way.” He gave a shaky grin that slipped into something softer. “I love you, you impossible witch.”

Her tears spilled over. “I love you too, Harry. I’ll miss you both so much.”

He pulled her into his arms, his body too thin, too worn, but still the same old Harry she trusted with her life. She clung to him, inhaling the familiar scent of smoke and rain, wishing she could burn it into her memory forever.

Two years they had wandered, hiding in shadows, branded Undesirable No. 1 and No. 2. They had survived on scraps, hunted, betrayed by those who once vowed loyalty. Yet here they stood. Alive because Draco Malfoy, of all people, had made a choice in the last battle that had changed everything. Without him, they might not have survived at all.

When Harry released her, the three of them lingered in silence. The air quivered with nerves. They had planned this night after night, memorising every step. Still, their bodies betrayed them with trembling hands and shallow breaths. No one could know the outcome, only that they must try.

Hermione’s hand tightened around the Time Turner, her breath measured. She counted them like prayers, steeling herself for the moment that would tear her life apart and remake it all at once.

“Meus tempus tuus.” She closed her eyes and started chanting. She felt the time-turner grow hot in her palm.

Breathe in …1…2…3…

She remembered her friends being forced to fight a battle as children like herself.

Breathe out …4…5…6…

She remembered her classmates, both from the light and dark side, being buried under dead bodies.

Breathe in…7…8…9…

She remembered her parents, despite being hidden in Australia, abducted and killed by the Death Eaters in front of the Dark Ministry to set an example to all Muggleborns who didn’t submit to their will.

Breathe out…10…11..12

She remembered Ron… oh dear, Ron… who was murdered by Yaxley for refusing to give up the location of their headquarters.

“Meus tempus tuus” She heard Harry bellow. The device was growing hotter in her palm now.

Breathe in…13…14…15

She remembered Harry… her best friend and brother… who always thought of others’ lives before his own. It should have been him going back in time, but he chose to stay because he believed she would be a better fit for the mission and that he was just so, so tired of fighting. She knew that her brother by bond deserved to rest…

Breath out…16…

She remembered Draco…

“Meus tempus tuus,” She heard her favorite baritone voice. 

"Domus Black, antiquissima et nobilissima, te protegat in itinere tuo." As she felt the Time Turner pulsate steadily in her palm, she opened her eyes and found that he was looking directly into hers.

16…

Draco…and his piercing silver eyes… his soft platinum blond hair… his irritatingly brilliant brain…his voice… Merlin, she loved his deep voice. Her unexpected feelings for this boy… man… This man who threw everything away, his life, his ideals, his past, to aid them… 

16…

This man, who used to hate her for her blood… 

16…

This man whom she fell so deeply… truly… madly in love with… despite everything…

16…

And she’ll never see him again… her Draco…

“You won’t be alone…I promise,” She heard him say.

With her next inhale, she took hold of the Blood Time Turner and twisted the dials. 

1-9-9-5. Her fingers shook as each number was set into place.

She gazed up at Draco, and her heart ached. She couldn’t breathe. She started to mouth the three words she knew were only for him, but Draco gave her a sad smile and shook his head, silently telling her to stop.

"Shh, love. Those words aren’t meant for me. I don't deserve them," he said softly. He’s rejected her twice now. She gave him a soft smile.

With tears streaming down her face, Hermione felt herself being pulled back through time with increasing intensity. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the sensation.

Chapter Text

Hermione jolted awake, her nightclothes clinging damply to her skin, her chest heaving as if she had run a race she could never win. The nightmare clung to her like cobwebs, whispering reminders of all she had lost and all she still carried.

For a week now, since she had woken in her childhood bedroom in August 1995, the dream had come again and again, dragging her back to the war and the faces she had left behind. Every morning, it left her hollow, her heart leaden, as though the dream had torn away what was left of her belonging to them.

The shower’s hiss filled the bathroom, steam rising to fog the mirror as she pressed her forehead against the cool tiles. Tears mingled with the water rushing over her skin, impossible to tell apart, though she knew where they came from. 

Sadness pressed against her ribs until she thought they might crack. She had promised herself she wouldn’t keep breaking down like this, not if she wanted to keep suspicions at bay, but grief had a way of ignoring promises.

She caught sight of her reflection, of the body she had carried through the war. Not the softer curves of the girl she had been at sixteen in another timeline, but sharper lines, muscle where once there had been none. Posture honed by battle rather than books. She was thinner than she liked, her frame still marked by hunger and stress, but there was a confidence etched in her stance now, a survivor’s defiance.

Her hand drifted across her skin, pausing at scars that mapped out her history, each one a reminder of nights when she thought she would not live to see morning. She closed her eyes and heard Draco’s voice echoing from the last conditioning session before the spell.

Remember, Pages. You're creating a new universe. A universe where we would win. Embrace who you are now and take it with you there. Build a world where we win.

His words wrapped around her like a tether, keeping her upright when she felt she might collapse.

Taming her hair with a flick of her wand, she coaxed the wild mass into soft ringlets. Ginny’s laughter echoed in her mind — how many evenings had the girl sat behind her, weaving and twisting strands as they both waited for word from the boys? Hermione smiled faintly, surprised by the witch looking back at her in the mirror. Older, steadier, more put-together, even if her heart was a storm.

Her gaze fell to the scar carved into her forearm, the ugly raised letters spelling out cruelty she could never forget. The memory of Bellatrix’s cackle burned, but Hermione lifted her chin. She had refused Draco’s offer to brew her a potion for it, refused to let him carry guilt for what was not his fault. The scar would stay. A reminder.

I won’t let it define me. I’ll wear it as armour. I’ll show them what I’ve survived. I am Hermione Granger. I will not bow.

Her whispered mantra steadied her. She glamoured the worst shadows from under her eyes, softened the scars on her arms, and forced herself to breathe. There was no room for weakness now. 

----

London greeted her with its usual grey skies and restless noise. The train station hummed with movement, voices overlapping with the shrill call of whistles. Hermione clung to her parents longer than she ever had before, squeezing them as though she could anchor them in place.

“Darling, let your old man breathe,” Richard chuckled, pressing a kiss into her curls.

She managed a watery laugh. “I’ll just miss you both too much.” She turned to her mother, holding her just as fiercely. “And you had better take that trip you keep talking about. Stop finding excuses and go. Have the sort of holiday that makes me blush when you tell me about it.”

Grace swayed her daughter gently, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Since when did you become the decision maker in this family?”

“Since you started leaving those travel brochures under the cookbooks,” Hermione teased, catching the way her mother flushed.

The shrill whistle of the Hogwarts Express cut through their laughter. Her father ruffled her hair with a grin. “Off you go, chipper. We’ll see you before you know it.”

“Dad!” She laughed again, batting his hand away, though her heart was twisting painfully.

Grace tucked one last curl behind her daughter’s ear. “You’ll fix it in seconds with that wand of yours.”

Hermione forced herself to let go. She climbed aboard, waving back until they were only shadows in the crowd. She hoped, with a fierceness that ached, that they would find some safe corner of the world when the storm finally came. She had hidden extra brochures in the kitchen drawers, praying they would take the hint.

The train’s familiar scent of leather and smoke wrapped around her as she walked down the corridor. For a moment, it was almost easy to forget the weight pressing against her ribs. She had never thought she would set foot on the Hogwarts Express again.

Then she saw him.

Draco Malfoy. Hair not slicked down as it had been in their earlier years, his posture still effortlessly aristocratic as he leaned against the compartment door. He looked maddeningly unchanged and yet different in the smallest ways. Her hand rose unconsciously to the chain beneath her blouse, where a ring lay hidden. Memories of teasing him years later about abandoning that dreadful gel flooded back. He looked at her just then, his silver eyes catching hers. An eyebrow lifted, the faintest sneer pulling at his mouth.

It stung, though she had expected no less. It made her take a step back, and she felt a sudden thud behind her.

“Fuck. Granger, did that big brain of yours finally stop working, and you somehow forgot how to walk?” a tall, dark-haired boy grunted. Theo Nott rubbed his chin where Hermione’s head had apparently hit him.

“Nott. I’m sorry, I… I was just moving…” she stammered, moving sideways to let him pass as she quickly tried to search for an empty cabin.

In the corner of her eye, Hermione could see Theodore Nott's stare as he watched her walk away, perhaps finding the exchange peculiar. Then he finally joined his Slytherin friends.

"Talking to mudbloods now, Theo?" Blaise Zabini moved aside to make room for Theo to sit.

"Did you notice anything different about Granger?" Theo asked, glancing around the cabin.

"Bushy hair, know-it-all mouth, walks like she deserves to be among us," Draco Malfoy replied with a bored tone, leaning against the train window sill. "Sounds like the same old Granger to me."

“No, it’s not just that… she just seemed, err… more feminine?” Theo shrugged.

“More feminine,” Draco jested.” Are you down with a fever, Theo? I thought you were into blokes?”

“Fuck off… I am into blokes, bloody wanker. Doesn’t mean I don’t have eyes.”

 “Pretty or not, a mudblood’s still a mudblood,” Blaise laughed.

---

Hermione slid the cabin door shut behind her and pressed her back to it, chest rising and falling too quickly. Privacy at last. Her palms were damp, her pulse still racing as if Theo’s careless words had scraped against a wound she thought she had stitched shut. 

She closed her eyes, berating herself. How ridiculous to let something so trivial unsettle her when she had faced curses, Cruciatus, and death itself. But there it was, the fragile edge of being back at Hogwarts once again tugging at her composure, even if her mind was older, heavier, scarred.

Pull yourself together, Hermione, she scolded silently. You survived worse than this. You didn’t fight a war just to come undone at a smirk or a sneer.

She couldn't believe that she let Nott's words get to her. She had promised herself that she wouldn't let anyone bring her down this year, but she was already faltering in the first few minutes of riding the Hogwarts Express.

The cabin was the same as it had always been. The scuffed seats, worn maroon upholstery that smelled faintly of smoke, the little table between them scratched with initials. She sank down into the corner seat and exhaled, bone-deep tired though the year had barely begun. For a fleeting moment, she let the weight of it press her down, then forced herself upright again.

No. Not this year. You’re not the girl they remember. You’re more. And you need to be strong enough to bring him with you…

Her hand brushed the chain at her throat, fingers curling protectively over the ring hidden beneath her blouse.

A small, humourless laugh escaped her. “Merlin. They’re right, though. I am a know-it-all being from another timeline.”

She rubbed her forehead and shook her head. “Get a grip, Hermione.”

The door slid open with a sharp rattle.

“Hermione!” Harry’s voice cut through her thoughts like sunlight breaking storm clouds. She leapt to her feet before she could stop herself and threw her arms around him.

“Harry! Oh, I’ve missed you so much.” The words came out choked, thick with emotion.

He wheezed against her shoulder.

“He missed you too, but you’ll miss him more if you strangle him to death.” Her heart warmed at the familiar voice.

“Ron!” She let go of Harry only to fling herself at the redhead, holding on tightly. Tears stung her eyes again, unbidden. She could see it — his mangled body, the hole he had left behind — and the ache was unbearable.

Ron blinked at her, baffled but grinning. “Blimey, did something happen at home? You’re acting like you haven’t seen us in years.”

Hermione swiped quickly at her cheeks, forcing a smile. “No, nothing’s wrong. I just… I’ve really missed you two. That’s all. Now, come on, tell me everything about your holidays before I start crying like a ninny again.”

Harry dropped onto the seat by the window, Ron flopping beside him, lanky legs stretching across the floor. Hermione took the opposite seat, her chest tight but warming. The sight of them together, the three of them crammed into a train cabin, was a memory she thought she had lost forever. It felt like coming home and reopening an old wound all at once.

Harry’s expression shifted, serious now. “There’s something I need to tell you both. Something happened this summer.” Hermione leaned forward, already knowing but schooling her face into concern.

“It was Dudley and me. We’d just picked up groceries, walking back, when out of nowhere...Dementors. Not like the ones at school before. These were worse. Colder. I thought I was going to drown in it.” His voice faltered, and Hermione’s throat tightened.

“Dementors,” she whispered, feigning shock even as her stomach sank.

“They went for Dudley too. He felt it and saw them.”

Ron gaped. “Bloody hell. What did you do?”

“I froze at first. Couldn’t think. Then I remembered Remus’s lessons. I tried the Patronus, but that failed. Tried again. It took everything I had, but eventually it worked.”

Hermione’s eyes stung. She could still remember his Patronus blazing against the dark, stag antlers scattering shadows. How many times had that silver creature saved their lives? She forced her voice to sound surprised. “A Patronus? You managed a corporeal one already?”

Harry gave a crooked nod. “Somehow. I thought of my mum, and there it was. A stag.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “A stag! That’s brilliant, mate.”

Hermione smiled, steady though her heart ached. “It is brilliant, Harry. But it also means Voldemort is stirring. If the Dementors are coming for you, then he’s already moving pieces.”

“I know.” Harry’s jaw tightened. “But I’m not going to let him win. I’ll learn to do it again, make it stronger. I won’t let him take me down.”

Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll help. Whatever it takes.”

“Of course we will,” Hermione added, her voice low but firm.

---

Hermione stepped down from the train, her shoes crunching against the gravel, and for a heartbeat she felt as though she were eleven again. The sight of Hogwarts rising in the distance, the stone walls catching the fading light, towers cutting sharp lines against a blushing sky, stole the breath from her lungs. It looked unchanged, and yet to her eyes, it shimmered with the weight of memory. The castle’s ancient silhouette was no longer only a school. It was a battlefield, a refuge, a tomb.

“I’m going to protect this… everyone…” she whispered under her breath, the words a vow pressed into the late afternoon air. Resolve kindled hot in her chest.

She crossed the grounds, slipping into the familiar stream of students. The Great Hall glowed with hundreds of floating candles, their light bouncing off plates of polished silver. Her gaze darted toward the Gryffindor table, and there sat her favorite Weasley.

“Hermione!” A pair of arms wrapped her from behind, and warmth surged through her before she could brace herself.

“Ginny!” Hermione spun, her voice breaking into laughter. “I missed you so much.”

Ginny’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Look at you! You look gorgeous and…Morgana’s tits! Your boobs look great!”

Hermione flushed scarlet, clutching her book bag to her chest as if it might shield her from the entire Hall. “Ginevra! Stop staring, it’s mortifying.”

But Ginny only grinned wider. “It’s true! You’ve got to flaunt it. Honestly, you must tell me more about those Muggle salons. Your skin, your hair. You look unreal.”

Hermione faltered, her face burning hotter. “My mum took me to one a few weeks ago. I’ll… I’ll bring you next time.” The lie slipped out, fragile and hasty, but Ginny looked delighted, tugging her bag away with a playful flick.

They sank onto the bench together, the air charged with excitement as the first-years filed in. Hermione clapped politely while the Sorting Hat thundered its choices, her eyes lingering on a nervous little girl whose posture reminded her of herself: bookish, cautious, clutching the stool as if it might save her from drowning.
“RAVENCLAW,” the hat bellowed. Applause erupted from the blue-clad table.

How absurd it was that a frayed hat’s judgment at eleven could seal one’s fate for seven years. A childhood impression, frozen forever. She could not help but think of Draco Malfoy, who had barely touched the stool before the hat declared him Slytherin. Ambitious. Cunning. Self-preserving. 

The hat had not glimpsed the loyalty simmering beneath his skin, nor the reckless courage he buried under his drawl, nor the inconvenient tenderness he hid like contraband.

“I mean, imagine if we were all stuck with how people saw us at eleven,” Hermione muttered, irritation crackling in her voice. “No chance to grow, no chance to change. It’s unjust.”

Ginny hummed, but her gaze was already fixed on the line of first years. Hermione exhaled sharply, forcing her temper back down. Hogwarts adored its traditions, but it was precisely those traditions that had hardened into the bones of the war.

The Sorting ended. Dumbledore rose, his smile benevolent as he gave his annual reminders. Forbidden Forest off-limits. Quidditch tryouts in two weeks. Filch’s endless rules. His voice carried like balm until he paused and gestured toward the dais.

“Our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Dolores Umbridge.”

A ripple of unease swept the hall.

“Good evening, students,” Umbridge simpered, stepping forward in frills of pink. Her voice rang high-pitched, sticky with artificial sweetness. Hermione’s stomach clenched. The woman’s presence was enough to set her teeth on edge, memory whispering of detentions carved into flesh.

Umbridge prattled about the Ministry’s concerns, about tradition and safety, about “returning to the basics.” Every syllable dripped with condescension. Hermione’s nails dug crescents into her palm. The words were a performance, a mask for the cruelty beneath, and she despised hearing them echo again.

“Fear not,” Umbridge trilled, “my methods will be most enjoyable.”

Hermione nearly scoffed aloud. Enjoyable? More like a year of suffocation. She braced herself.

Dumbledore reclaimed the podium with grace, drawing the speech to a close. With a flick of his wand, platters of food appeared. Conversation and laughter rose, the Hall bursting back to life. Hermione picked at her dinner, her appetite dulled by the sight of a pink cardigan and sugary smiles. 

-----

The next morning, she strode towards Defence Against the Dark Arts with her satchel thumping against her hip, heart already knotted in irritation. She was early, fifteen minutes by her watch, but her pulse insisted she was late. She detoured to the loo, and for a fleeting moment, vanity replaced her grim determination.

She leaned into the mirror. A swipe of gloss. A tug at her skirt. A charm to smooth her curls into something more manageable. She smiled at herself, cheeks flushing pink. For once, she looked… ordinary. Pretty, even. A teenager again. If only it could last beyond this borrowed year.

Feeling confident, she made her way to the classroom, where she noticed that random eyes were following her from fellow students. It was a weird feeling, but it was also kind of nice. Maybe she really did look too serious back in the day. But this was her now, and she was not going to apologize for it. As she looked for an empty seat in the middle of the room, she couldn't help but feel a tad disappointed that her favorite front seat was already taken.

"This is why I always come fifteen minutes early for class," she muttered to herself as she settled for the available seat beside Dean.

"Hi, Hermione. You're looking especially bright today," the dark-haired boy bumped her shoulder.

“Oh, you know me… always ready to learn something new.” The giggle that slipped out startled her as much as him. Merlin, giggling.

Dean grinned. They swapped stories. He spoke of Seamus and a trip to a Muggle theatre, Seamus’s wide-eyed awe at the cinema screen. Hermione laughed with him, a genuine sound, before a sharp giggle from across the room derailed her smile.

Her gaze snapped to the left. Pansy Parkinson leaned into Malfoy, whispering something that made him laugh. Real laughter. Hermione’s chest constricted painfully. She remembered them in fifth year — in her original timeline — smug, glued together, revoltingly besotted. The sight of them made her snap her quill in frustration.

“Hermione? You alright?” Dean followed her line of sight. “Did the ferret do something? You look like you want to strangle him.”

She vanished the ruined quill, fumbling for another. “No, nothing. It’s just… decorum. They’re being indecent in a classroom. It irritates me.”

Dean shrugged. “As long as they don’t hex anyone, I reckon it’s fine. Though judging by how relaxed Malfoy looks, they’ve probably just crawled out of a broom closet.”

"Ew, Dean. That's just gross to imagine." Hermione scrunched her nose in disgust, internally ignoring the pain she was feeling, and began pinching the hem of her scarf.

As she sat there, lost in thought, Hermione was suddenly jolted back to reality by the sound of the door opening. In walked none other than Dolores Umbridge herself, dressed in her usual pink cardigan and carrying her clipboard.

"Good afternoon, class," she said in her sickly sweet voice, looking around the room with a satisfied smile on her face. "I hope you all have read your course outline for this subject. Now bring out your Defense Against the Dark Arts books and turn to page 34."

Hermione found herself feeling incredibly bored. She knew exactly what to expect from the toad-faced professor, having already experienced this lesson before. Umbridge was teaching only book fundamentals, and not anything useful when it came to actually defending oneself against the Dark Arts.

It was then that Hermione realized she didn’t have her book with her. She must have forgotten it in her room when she was rushing this morning. Dean noticed this and slid his book into the middle of their table to share. Hermione smiled in appreciation.

Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes as Umbridge droned on about the proper way to hold a wand. It was ridiculous, really. She knew that in the future, Umbridge's methods would be widely recognized as ineffective, but right now, she couldn't do anything to change them. She would just have to go along with it in the meantime.

Umbridge's voice echoed across the silent classroom, causing Hermione to look up from her book. "You there, miss with the curly hair," the professor called out, drawing the attention of the whole class towards Hermione.

Hermione stood up and straightened her back, her heart pounding. "Me? Yes, professor?" she responded nervously.

Umbridge narrowed her eyes and scanned her clipboard. "Granger. Not prepared for class," she muttered, encircling Hermione's name with her quill. "May I know why you didn't come prepared for class today and had to inconvenience a classmate by sharing a book with him?"

Hermione's mind raced as she tried to think of a valid excuse. Before she could say anything, Dean spoke up in her defense. "It's no problem, professor. She'd do the same for me if I forgot mine."

Umbridge's lips curled into a sneer. "While your sense of chivalry is duly noted, I was not talking to you," she said icily. "It is imperative that you come to class prepared with all the materials needed. Twenty points from Gryffindor."

Hermione's eyes widened in shock. "Twenty points? For leaving my bloody book?!" she exclaimed, unable to contain her frustration.

The whole class fell silent, surprised to hear such language from Hermione. "Hermione, it's fine. Just let it go," Parvati whispered behind her, tugging on her vest to signal her to take her seat.

But Hermione refused to back down. "No! That's absurd. This is Defense Against the Dark Arts. We're supposed to be learning counterspells that we can use to DEFEND ourselves," she said, standing tall and gesturing with her hands.

Umbridge raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "There is no need for such language, Miss Granger. I understand that you were all used to the past curriculum, where you all learned counterspells. We, at the Ministry, found this all unnecessary for young minds such as yourselves. So, unless you can recite to me the whole book, then I suggest you sit down and accept the point deduction before I take more points from your house."

Hermione's face flushed with anger and frustration. She clenched her fists, feeling like she was being silenced and held back from truly learning how to protect herself against the dark arts... She couldn't believe that this was the reality of her fifth year. Again. To be stuck in a classroom with an incompetent teacher who refused to acknowledge the real dangers they were facing. She looked around the room and saw the fear and uncertainty in her classmates' eyes.

“Try me.” She muttered.

“I beg your pardon?” Umbridge asked incredulously.

Hermione took a deep breath and stood up straight, staring defiantly at Umbridge. "You said that unless I can recite the whole book, I should just sit down and accept the point deduction. So, try me," she said, her voice shaking, sticking up her nose in the air.

Umbridge looked at Hermione skeptically, unsure of how to respond. The other students in the class watched in silence, unsure of what was going to happen next.

"Very well," Umbridge finally replied, pulling out a copy of the Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook. "Recite the first three counter spells in Chapter Six." 

Hermione didn't even hesitate. "Riddikulus, Expelliarmus, and Stupefy," she recited confidently, knowing the book by heart.

Umbridge looked taken aback but quickly regained her composure. "That's not enough, Miss Granger. I want you to recite the entire chapter from memory."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She knew that Umbridge was just trying to humiliate her in front of the class. But she was not going to back down. "Very well," she said, opening her mouth to recite the entire chapter.

“...So, In the centuries that followed, counter-spells continued to evolve and became more sophisticated. One of the most significant advances in the field of counter-spells occurred in the 16th century when the famous wizard, Gideon Flatworthy, discovered the power of the Patronus Charm.
 
The Patronus Charm is a powerful counter-spell that conjures a guardian to protect the caster from dark creatures. It requires a deep and pure concentration of positive thoughts and memories to summon a fully corporeal Patronus. The charm has proven to be incredibly effective against Dementors, soul-sucking beings that prey on human emotions.”

Umbridge checked the pages of the book as Hermione continued the recitation. She listened intently, waiting for Hermione to make a mistake. But Hermione recited the whole chapter flawlessly.

Impressed, Umbridge nodded her head. "Very good, Miss Granger. You have indeed memorized the entire chapter. However, you seemed to have forgotten the anecdote written by Armando Dippet."

“I’m surprised you wanted me to recite the anecdote, knowing that the ministry removed it from this year’s textbooks.” Hermione crossed her arms. 

“According to last year’s edition, Armando Dippet, who was the Headmaster of Hogwarts before Albus Dumbledore, once said that during his time at Hogwarts, they used to teach a wide range of defensive spells and techniques, including counter-curses. He recalled an instance where a young wizard successfully used a little-known spell called "Peskipiksi Pesternomi" to ward off a band of attacking pixies. The spell was not widely known and was not found in any of the standard textbooks. Dippet used this anecdote to illustrate the importance of teaching students a variety of defensive spells and not just relying on the ones in the textbooks.”

The classroom erupted in applause, even from the Slytherins.

Umbridge flustered, lips twitching. “Well. Impressive. But you were still unprepared.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “I’ll remember my book next time, Professor. For now, I’ll excuse myself. If you schedule detention, make it after my classes. You wouldn’t want me missing actual lessons.”

Gasps fluttered. Her palms were clammy, her pulse deafening in her ears. She gathered her things and walked out before anyone could stop her.
Only when the heavy door shut behind her did she let herself run. Her legs carried her to the library, to the corner where shadows pooled thick and silent. She collapsed at her usual table, forehead pressed to cool wood.

What had she done? She had snapped — again. Just as she had once with Trelawney.

Her chest ached with both pride and regret. This was supposed to be her second chance. Yet here she was, already losing it.

Shit.

---

Hermione stirred at the faint sound of wood clashing against wood, followed by a tiny clatter. A piece had been struck from the board and was toddling back to its starting place with a sulky stomp. She blinked groggily and found herself wedged against the corner of the seat, neck stiff and aching. Harry and Ron sat across from her, hunched over a wizard’s chessboard, whispering conspiratorially while their pieces moved with sharp impatience.

The ache in her neck throbbed as she sat up. She rubbed the sore muscle with a grimace. “How long was I asleep?” Her voice was hoarse from the nap.
Harry looked up with a small smile. “Oh, hi Mione. You’re finally awake. Err… about two hours. Half-past four now.” Ron, without glancing up, added in a mutter,
“Pawn to e5.”

Two hours. No wonder her neck felt like it had been twisted into knots. She must have been crumpled in that ridiculous position the entire time. Still, warmth bloomed inside her chest at the sight of them keeping watch.

“You didn’t have to stay here. You could’ve gone back to the common room.” She tried to scold, but ended up softening it with a smile.

Harry shifted uneasily, scratching the back of his neck. “We thought it best to stick around. After what happened with Umbridge… we didn’t want you left on your own.”

Hermione’s face heated. So it had not been a dream after all. She muffled a groan into the sleeves of her jumper. “Brilliant. Just brilliant,” she muttered, though truthfully, their loyalty soothed something deep in her.

Ron, of course, had to blurt it out. “I mean, blimey, Mione, you served her good! Thought it was a bit much at first, but after what happened to Trelawney—”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “Trelawny? What happened to Trelawny?”

Ron exchanged a glance with Harry, who sighed.

“Earlier today,” Harry explained, “when Umbridge observed Divination. She hated the entire thing, the incense, the trances, everything. Trelawny went into one of her episodes, predicting You-Know-Who’s return, doom, and ashes and all of that. She even singled me out again. But Umbridge...well, she decided to humiliate her. Said she was a fraud, then expelled her in front of everyone.”

Ron gave a shrug, though there was unease in his tone. “The pink toad practically dragged her out. Said she’d bring doom to education instead of prophecy.”

Hermione’s breath caught. She remembered this moment all too well from her past life, though in that version she had been standing beside them, not snoring through it. She had always disliked Divination, but the image of Professor Trelawny being forced from her classroom by that dreadful woman struck a guilty chord. However ridiculous the subject was, it had been her home.

Her thoughts circled back to her own outburst earlier, and she felt another pang. Perhaps Ron was right. Perhaps her fury had been justified after all, because in the end, Umbridge had only proved her point to the entire school. 

---

Draco Malfoy bit into a green apple with deliberate slowness, letting the crisp crunch fill the silence he wanted so desperately. It did little to drown out Pansy's incessant prattle about a handbag from Twilfitt and Tatting’s. Daphne, ever poised, nodded along as though it were the most riveting subject in the world.

To Draco’s left, Theo and Blaise bickered with boyish enthusiasm about the House Cup. Blaise was confident Slytherin would triumph, Theo swore Ravenclaw had it this year, and Draco could not be bothered. They all knew the truth: Dumbledore would conjure points out of thin air for Gryffindor when it mattered. Even the Hufflepuffs whispered about it in hushed irritation.

He leaned back, stretching his long legs, and let the noise wash over him. His thoughts wandered. The summer had been suffocating. His father’s dueling drills had grown more severe, each spell hurled at him with the cold precision of a man sharpening a weapon. His mother had turned just as relentless, forcing him to practice Occlumency until his head throbbed.

“Your walls are as weak as sandcastles,” she had hissed one evening, shattering his defences in an instant. The sound of her voice still echoed in his skull. When she used both his names, Draco Lucius, it was like being branded a failure. Yet it was not disappointment that unnerved him most. It was the way her urgency bled into desperation.

“You’ll need it very soon, my dragon,” she had whispered later, when he was half-asleep. He still did not know whether that was meant to be comfort or a warning.

“Oi, look. It’s the Gryffindor trio,” Theo’s elbow nudged him sharply, yanking him back to the present. “Seems like they’ve found Granger.”

Draco turned his head just enough to catch sight of the three of them striding down the corridor. Blaise smirked. “Can you believe her outburst earlier? That sharp tongue suits her. I’d say Granger’s grown into herself over the summer. You’re right, Theo. She’s rather attractive when she’s furious.”

Draco rolled his eyes at Blaise’s usual nonsense. Still, his gaze lingered. Granger walked between Potter and Weasley, cloak swishing, eyes forward. Almost as if she felt the weight of his stare, she glanced his way. For a moment, their eyes locked, the world shrinking into a taut silence.

Then, in the most Granger-like fashion, she stumbled over Weasley’s foot. He caught her, she flushed, mouthed an apology, and hurried on, breaking whatever staring spell had stretched between them.

Draco looked away, annoyed with himself for even noticing. Yet the truth gnawed at him as he sank his teeth into the apple once more. There was something different about her this year. Something he could not name, but something he could not ignore either.

Chapter Text

“I think we should start with defensive spells,” Hermione mumbled as she tried to cut her bacon into bite-sized pieces, pushing it aside as she noticed that the bacon was a tad undercooked.  

“Yeah. I agree with Mione.” Ron nodded before shoving a whole sausage into his mouth.

Hermione was trying her best to listen, but she had a difficult time concentrating on their discussion. She remembered how excited she was in her past doing this with Harry and Ron. She even took the mantle of organizing their lesson plans — being the brains of the trio, but something else was nagging her thoughts now.  

Her more rational thoughts spoke out. Shouldn’t they include the Slytherins as well? Surely her two friends would disagree, but maybe if she told Harry the truth maybe he’d understand.  

Her inner critic would then answer back in a shrill voice, Of course not, you stupid girl. It’s too early. None of them is in their right mind to join you.  

She then remembered the screams of the innocent Slytherin first years who suffocated from the remnant gases from Fiendfyre during the battle because none of them knew how to create bubble head charms.  

“But, when do we schedule offensive spells, like Expelliarmus, Diffindo?” She heard Harry in the background. 

“Yeah, mate! And Bombarda!” Ron brandished his fork in the air like a wand. 

“Harry…I...Ithinkweshouldincludetheslytherins” Hermione blurted out, cutting the pair's train of thought. 

Ron and Harry stopped to look at her. “Mione, come again?” 

Here it goes. She took deep breath. “I think we should invite some Slytherins to the DA. The willing ones, anyway. I’m sure some would want to learn.” 

“Are you off your rockers, ‘Mione? SLYTHERINS?” Ron coughed, trying to clear his throat with a few gulps of pumpkin juice. 

Hermione sighed, patting his back roughly as he coughed, already anticipating Ron's instinctive reaction. "I know… I know it sounds mental. It's difficult to trust them, Ron, but Dumbledore's Army is about unity, and not all Slytherins are evil. Some are just misguided. We can show them a different path." 

Now quite sobered, Ron's expression was still a mix of disbelief and skepticism. "Barmy is what it is! We've spent years battling against them, and now you want to welcome them with open arms?" 

Harry, ever the mediator, listened intently to both sides. His voice carried a touch of contemplation. "Ron has a point, Mione. I know you want to give everyone a chance, but I don’t think adding in the Slytherins is a priority. I mean, Malfoy and his friends are part of the inquisitorial squad." 

Ron shook his head, his fiery hair reflecting his stubbornness. "Right. We can't take any chances.  They've never shown us any support. They could rat us out, Hermione. I don't — I can’t trust them." 

The disappointment in Hermione's eyes was evident. It truly was risky getting caught by Umbridge and her Inquisitorial Squad. If only she could get Draco’s support. 

Harry looked between his two friends, torn between their conflicting views. “Mione, we need to consider what's best for Dumbledore's Army and for Hogwarts as a whole for now." 

“Alright, alright. Let’s agree to disagree for now. I still want the conversation open in the future though.” Not used to losing an argument but knowing she won’t win this one, Hermione drank her remaining pumpkin juice and carried her book back. “I’ll be going to the library to finish my potions homework. I’ll see you two in the common room tonight.”

"Don't look behind you, Mione. Ron's staring at you." Ginny nudged Hermione, who was quietly reading on their common room chaise. 

Hermione's eyebrows met at the center. "What?" She tried to face the red-headed boy, but Ginny pulled Hermione's attention back to her. 

"I just said don't look behind you." She rolled her eyes, grinning.  

"Why is he staring, then? Is there something on my hair?" She finger-combed the back of her voluminous curls. 

"No. No. Your hair's perfect, Hermione." Ginny giggled. "It's been obvious for a while, really. My idiot brother fancies you." 

Fancied her. Ron.  If this were the fifth year in her previous life, she would be thrilled, but she didn't feel the same way anymore — Not this time around anyway. They had tried to stay in a relationship during the war, but it had never felt right.  

It wasn’t a bad relationship. Ron was there for her when she received news about her parents' death, and she was there for him when Fred died in the battle. Their coupling was more of a lifeline — physically, mentally, and emotionally — a convenient setup because it’s better to have experienced love in a world where they could both die the next day. To Hermione, this was enough, but that all changed when a certain blonde wizard joined their group. 

Slowly, but surely, she found that she had already fallen in love with one Draco sodding Malfoy. She had thought about it almost every night before she went to bed. Comparing what she felt for Draco and what she felt for Ron, it was obvious, really. She loved Ron, but she wasn't in love with him. Ron was just like a brother to her — like Harry.  

She had broken up with Ron the next day.  

What was bothering her right now was that in her previous life, Ron told her that he began to care for her starting fourth year, but was only sure they were romantic feelings after he deserted them while they were on the run from snatchers. 

Was the timeline moving faster than normal? Hermione swallowed. 

“Oh, Ginny.” She rolled her eyes, trying to play it cool. “Maybe he’s just thinking of some nefarious way to get me to help him with his potions essay.” 

“I don’t think so, Mione,” The redhead insisted, “ I think —” 

“If you let this go, I will let you charm my hair any way you want for the Yule ball, Ginny.” She grabbed Ginny's wrists, laughing. 

“Really? Deal!”

Hermione nodded, and Ginny freed her right hand, zipping her lips with her fingers. 

Hermione missed moments like this with Ginny, reminiscing about their conversations filled with laughter and secrets. Hermione’s glad she was given another chance to experience this with her best girl friend.  

With more enthusiasm than usual, they delved into discussions about the romantic escapades of boys Ginny encountered in the past month. How Hermione tried to stay up-to-date on the latest trends in the Muggle world, and they chuckled over the ingenious undetectable pocket enchantment Ginny had cast on their Yule ball gowns during her fourth year. 

"Oh my God, Ginny! I honestly believe that's one of the most impressive charms you've done." Hermione exclaimed, her laughter filling the air. "You should give it a name, patent it. You could be rich." 

Curiosity piqued, Harry's familiar voice broke into the conversation as he entered the bustling common room. "What needs a name?" he inquired, his eyes scanning the room until they met Ginny's. 

"Hey, Harry!" Ginny greeted him, a subtle blush warming her cheeks. "Maybe I don't want to give it a name. Maybe I’ll keep it as a Weasley family secret", she teased, playfully winking at him. 

Seeing Ginny's blushing face from being in Harry's presence brought a smile to Hermione's lips. In her previous life, Harry and Ginny had formed a truly lovely couple. She cherished the memory of being the maid of honor at their wedding, a heartfelt affair that took place at Grimmauld Place. It was a rushed event, but it was the best they could do in the midst of the war. With the help of everyone present, the darkened home was transformed into a beautiful venue, adorned with soft hues of yellow and vibrant accents of orange.  

Kingsley officiated the couple. Hermione, as the maid of honor, had the pleasure of standing by Ginny's side, while Ron took on the dual role of Harry's best man and the one who guided Ginny down the aisle — more specifically, the home staircase. The event unfolded beautifully, and even Draco, entrusted with the task of guarding the proceedings, was spotted discreetly observing from the sidelines, ever watchful for any potential enemies. 

Merlin, she’s been reminiscing so much these past few days. This might be a form of time-travel withdrawal. It hurt so much that her eyes began to well up with tears. She wanted to give Ginny and Harry a happy ending, one that they truly deserve.  

Hermione observed the pair's interactions. Harry teasingly downplayed the usefulness of Ginny’s pocket invention, while Ginny playfully shoved him, passionately explaining how ingenious the idea was because no gowns, witch or muggle, had freaking pockets — let alone undetectable ones.  

Harry, in his own mischievous way, understood the brilliance but also enjoyed teasing Ginny. They both deserved these moments of joy. They were all merely children, innocent souls thrust into the role of soldiers in a war that should never have burdened their young lives. 

Hermione knew what needed to be done. Harry needed to know the truth, and he needed to know it now. 

“Harry, I almost forgot. I received a note from Professor McGonagall earlier today.” Hermione pulled out a random blank piece of parchment from her satchel, then handed it to Harry. “She says we need to meet her at 8 pm today.” 

Harry took the parchment and read it, catching Harry’s eyes on the parchment, Hermione wandlessly added a spell. 

“Ms. Granger and Mr. Potter, kindly meet me at the Head’s office at 8 pm. Please do not be late.” Ginny read over Harry’s arm. 

“What do you think this is about, Mione?” Ginny asked. 

Before Harry was about to ask the same thing, he saw the parchment glimmer and the words written changed, “We need to talk, Harry. Just the two of us. Please.” 

Confused, the spectacled boy rubbed his eyes and gave Hermione a concerned look. A look that the two of them perfected in her past life while on the run. She just hoped her stare would work on him now. 

“Well, if it’s this late in the evening, it might be important. Let’s go then, Mione.” 

Harry then crumpled the parchment and pocketed it. 

Hermione let out a sigh of relief and nodded. Just as she was about to leave with Harry, her gaze met Ron's, noticing a hint of hurt and concern in his eyes. She decided to unpack that expression later on. 

Hermione led Harry to the seventh-floor corridor when they stopped in front of the Room of Requirement. She concentrated on the place where she was most comfortable and passed the door three times until an old oak door appeared. 

“The sunroom at Grimmauld Place?” Harry looked around, sitting on a replica of the blue armchair at his new home with Sirius. 

Hermione smiled as she observed the likeness of the same room where she, Harry, Ron, and Draco had fleshed out their plans during the war. Large windows encased the room, allowing abundant natural light to flood the area. A wide skylight amplified the sense of spaciousness. The walls were adorned with light, neutral colors — a stark contrast to the rest of the house,

Hermione settled into the armchair across from Harry. "Thank you for keeping this to yourself, for not telling Ginny and Ron." 

Harry's eyes, always sincere, showed his concern. It was one of the many qualities she liked about him. "Of course. You seem... troubled. Did something happen?" 

She hesitated for a moment, searching his eyes, before speaking. "No, well, yes. But Harry, before I tell you, can you promise me something?" Her plea hung in the air, and Harry leaned forward, his attention fully focused on her. 

"That anything I tell you will remain between us. No one else can know," she emphasized. 

Harry was taken aback by the gravity of her request. "Is it that serious? If it's really that important, then are you sure this should be kept between just us?" He gestured at both of them. 

"I'm serious, Harry. This must remain strictly between us, at least until we find it necessary to involve certain individuals," she insisted. 

"Certain individuals?" Harry repeated, seeking clarification. 

Hermione nodded, her resolve unwavering. 

"Alright then," Harry acquiesced. 

Her hand rested on her chest, feeling the cool touch of the time turner pendant. "Do you remember our Third Year?" 

A grin tugged at the corner of Harry's lips as he recalled the events. "Ah, that was the year you punched Malfoy," he chuckled. 

Hermione playfully rolled her eyes. "Yes, and it was also the year we saved Sirius and Buckbeak." 

Harry nodded, reminiscing about the whirlwind of that time. "Yeah, it was a wild ride. I'll always be grateful for it, but I'm glad it's all in the past. Time travel is definitely not my cup of tea," he confessed, shaking his head and scrunching his nose at the memories. 

As silence settled between them, Hermione bit her lip, contemplating how to reveal her secret. Sensing her unease, Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Hermione, what are you trying to tell me?" 

Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the time turner hanging around her neck.  

Harry watched as she slowly handed him the time turner. He instinctively took hold of it, his eyes widening with surprise and recognition. It was entirely a different design than the one she once had in their third year, but seeing the hourglass and the dials, there was no mistaking what kind of device he was holding. The implications settled upon him, rendering him momentarily speechless. 

"Hermione... I..." Harry struggled to find the right words, "Is this what I think it is?" 

She smiled gently and nodded, encouraging him to ask the question that lingered between them. "Go ahead, Harry. Ask me."

"When?" His voice trembled.

"1999," she revealed, her smile growing bittersweet, as memories of her past life — Harry’s future — flooded her mind.

August 1998

‘ Expelliarmus!’

‘Avada Kedavra!’

As chaos reigned around her, the deafening clashes of spells and the cries of anguish filled the battlefield. Hermione's heart raced in her chest, a mix of anticipation and fear. They had come so far, fought tirelessly against the Death Eaters and snatchers, and just when it seemed that victory was within their grasp, Bellatrix Lestrange, the epitome of cruelty and loyalty to Voldemort, intervened. 

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she witnessed Bellatrix casting a Protego, shielding Voldemort from Harry's powerful Expelliarmus spell. It was a moment of utter despair, a moment when hope threatened to crumble.

But Hermione couldn't afford to succumb to doubt. Not now, not when the fate of Hogwarts, of her friends, and of the wizarding world itself hung in the balance. She could hear her heartbeat through the ringing in her ears.

Mustering up whatever Gryffindor courage she had left, she tightened her grip on her wand, her knuckles turning white. She had studied tirelessly and absorbed every ounce of knowledge she could to prepare for this very moment. And she wasn't about to let it slip away.

Her thoughts raced in a whirlwind of calculations and analysis, always one step ahead of those around her. Hermione knew her mind worked differently from others, processing information at lightning speed, but fear and stress had been clouding her thoughts in recent days. Yet, thank Merlin, in this critical moment, her mind sharpened with a clarity she hadn't experienced in what felt like an eternity.

The clash of spells between Harry and Bellatrix sent shockwaves through Hermione's being. The canceled Expelliarmus and the telltale pinkish hue surrounding Bellatrix's Protego set off alarm bells in Hermione's mind. It wasn't just a defensive shield; it was a rebounding spell. 

A shiver ran down her spine as she realized the imminent danger they faced. If Bellatrix and Voldemort unleashed their combined powers, Harry would be instantly killed, and the Elder Wand would fall into their hands.

Analyzing the distance between herself and Harry, Hermione swiftly calculated the time required to cast a similar Protego beside him. Just a few seconds. She had to act swiftly; every second counted. Bolting her body to sprint towards her best friend, her legs tried to carry her as fast as they could. But her body betrayed her, weakened from the arduous Horcrux hunt and the unrelenting battles they had endured for hours. Fatigue seeped into her muscles, threatening to slow her down.

Tears welled up in Hermione's eyes, a mixture of frustration and desperation. She had to save him, protect him from the impending doom. With every fiber of her being, she pleaded, though her words were more of a desperate whisper, directed to the invisible forces that seemed to control their fate.

"No. No... please," she implored, her voice filled with vulnerability. At that moment, Hermione felt the weight of the world resting on her shoulders. She had always been the one with answers, the problem-solver, but now she was faced with her own physical constraints.

As if the universe heard her plea, Draco Malfoy, the boy who almost killed their headmaster and let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, emerged unexpectedly. Hermione's eyes widened in surprise as she watched Draco reach out towards Harry.

In a moment that would forever be etched in her memory, Draco's grip tightened around Harry's waist, pulling him away from the clutches of danger. Hermione stood frozen, her heart racing in her chest, as she observed the exchange between the platinum-haired boy and her shocked best friend. She strained to hear their words, to catch a glimpse of their unspoken agreement.

As Draco's voice reached Harry's ears, Hermione saw a profound transformation in her best friend's demeanor. His eyes, once filled with uncertainty, now held a newfound resolve. 

She didn’t really understand how and why, but in that fleeting moment, Hermione's belief in redemption and the power of choice was reaffirmed. This was war, and they were not alone in this fight. Even in the darkest of times, unexpected allies emerged.

But hope flickered and threatened to fade entirely, as Voldemort, heavily injured and weakened, attempted to escape with Bellatrix. 

“Harry! Malfoy! They have a portkey!” Hermione shouted. A surprised Draco and Harry looked at the evil couple in front of them. Bellatrix grabbed hold of a pale and weak Voldemort on her right arm and clutched her brooch with her left.

Hermione's breath caught as she saw Harry running as he desperately gripped Bellatrix's robe, and Draco clinging onto him unyielding. Time seemed to slow down, every heartbeat echoing in Hermione's ears louder than before. Fear clawed at her insides, threatening to consume her.

In an instant, they were gone. Disapparated. Hermione was left standing amidst the chaos, her mind swirling with a mix of emotions. She clutched her wand tighter, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. Hermione's eyes scanned the battlefield, taking in the resilience of those who remained.

As the battle raged on, Hermione's thoughts echoed within her mind. She couldn't afford to dwell on the uncertainty, the fear that threatened to paralyze her. She had to believe in the strength of her friends, and in Harry.

The battlefield had fallen into an eerie silence as if holding its breath in the aftermath of the fierce clash. Hermione surveyed the scene before her, her heart heavy with a mixture of relief and concern. The retreat of most Death Eaters hinted at the departure of Voldemort and Bellatrix, yet the absence only deepened her worries.

Her eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the sight of familiar faces, some tending to the wounded while others solemnly carried the fallen back into the sanctuary of the school. Hermione knew she had a choice to make, a decision on where to lend her assistance. Carrying the lifeless bodies would be emotionally overwhelming, a weight she wasn't sure she could bear. Instead, she sought to offer help where lives could still be saved.

Her wobbling steps led her to a dying Pansy Parkinson, her pale face streaked with blood from a grievous wound on her jugular. 

“Gran..ger” Hermione's heart raced as she heard the strained gurgle of words escaping Pansy's lips, a desperate plea for help. Without hesitation, Hermione whispered soothingly, urging Pansy to remain silent as she swiftly cast a Tergeo spell, banishing the dried blood that marred the girl's neck. But the bleeding persisted, crimson rivulets staining Pansy's dark hair.

A flicker of memory sparked within Hermione's mind, Snape's spells resurfacing. Vulnera Sanentur. It was the spell he had used to save Draco after Harry’s Sectumsempra curse. Hermione chanted the incantation repeatedly, each repetition slowly closing the wound, but the spell was too slow to prevent it from reopening. She persisted. She was not going to lose another classmate in this war.

"Vulnera Sanentur. Vulnera Sanentur. Vulnera Sanentur." She repeated, as clearly as she could, until the wound finally closed completely, leaving only the pale scar of a near-fatal injury behind. But Hermione knew there was more to be done. Parkinson needed her strength restored and her blood replenished. Searching her pockets, she found the blood-replenishing pastilles she had carried as a precaution.

Hermione chewed several pastilles, their metallic taste making her want to vomit, but she continued to chew, making sure they had the consistency appropriate for ingestion, before gently feeding them to Pansy. 

She carefully massaged the girl's throat, ensuring the pastilles reached her digestive tract, whispering Expurgare to facilitate their absorption. It took precious minutes, but eventually, Hermione saw relief wash over Pansy as she breathed easier, her vitality returning.

With a flick of her wand, Hermione levitated Pansy's form, carrying her gently into the hall where the injured were being tended to. It was a small victory amidst the chaos, at the same time, a distraction from worrying about Harry. 

Hermione took a deep breath, steeling herself for Harry's reaction. She knew the gravity of the truth she had just revealed. She watched as Harry struggled to comprehend the information, his brows furrowing in a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

"Then, you and Draco apparated back in the evening, both injured," Hermione continued, her voice steady as she recounted the events. "Neither of you wanted to seek treatment, insisting that Ron and I apparate with you to Draco's cottage in France."

"France?" Harry repeated his voice, barely a whisper, as he tried to process the unexpected location. His mind spun with questions, unable to grasp the reality his best friend was telling him.

Hermione nodded, her gaze steady as she met Harry's bewildered eyes. "It's where we established the New Order. It’s become our Headquarters." She observed the struggle within Harry and his attempts to find the right words. "I can see you want to say something. Just... just say it," she encouraged, her voice laced with understanding.

"Mione, I... I don't know how to react to this," Harry admitted, frustration evident in his voice. He ran a hand through his already unruly hair, a gesture of anxiety and confusion. "The war... this Bellatrix witch... Voldemort... then Malfoy?"

Hermione's heart ached at the weight of Harry's words, the immense burden he carried. She reached out a comforting hand, gently squeezing his shoulder. "Oh, Harry," she whispered, her voice filled with empathy.

"There is still so much to tell you. But please understand, everything has been hanging in the balance. We planned to complete the New Order and reveal everything to everyone simultaneously. I wanted to tell you first, bit by bit. You deserved to know the truth early on. This world has been cruel enough to you, and I won't add to that by withholding the truth from you."

Harry's eyes searched hers, still skeptical, and yet he knew she wasn't lying. He had so many questions that needed answers, as the pieces of the puzzle weren't coming together.

"Draco... Malfoy," she corrected herself, observing the unpleasant shift in Harry's expression upon hearing the Slytherin’s first name. She could see the conflicting emotions playing across his face, the remnants of their shared history.

"He and his mother played a crucial role in the New Order. This time turner belonged to his mother. They helped me travel back here."

“Okay. But if you’re the Hermione from 1999. Where’s the Hermione from this time?” 

A gentle smile played upon Hermione's lips as she met Harry's serious gaze. She always appreciated his keen perception, his ability to delve deeper into the implications of their extraordinary situation. 

"Harry," she began, her voice soft yet resolute, "the time turner I possess is unlike any other. It is an artifact that uses ancient blood magick. Rather than merely traveling back in time, it allows the traveler to assume their former place in that specific timeline." Hermione took a deep breath, then continued. "In simpler terms, I won't be able to return to 1999."

Her words hung in the air as she waited for Harry's response. Hermione's heart ached with sorrow. She knew the sacrifices that were made to get her here, the path she had chosen that would diverge from the life she once knew.

"But," she continued, her voice steady, "this is the timeline where we believe I can make the greatest impact, where I can help shape a better future. The world needs us, Harry, and I'm committed to fighting alongside you until the end."

A flicker of concern danced in Harry's eyes, his brows furrowing slightly. Hermione reached out, gently resting her hand on his, offering a comforting touch. "I understand it's a lot to take in, Harry. The time travel, the possibilities, and the consequences. But, please… You were going to find out sooner or later."

Harry nodded, then looked up at Hermione, remembering one huge detail that was missed from her story. “Ron. Why isn’t he here with us? I know we need to tell Malfoy soon, and I understand that’s a different conversation altogether. But why didn’t you include Ron here?”

Hermione's heart clenched with anguish. This was the moment she had been dreading, the task of ripping off the proverbial bandaid.

"Ron... Ron is part of the New Order," she began, her voice trembling with raw emotion. She took a shaky breath, her tears flowing freely as she struggled to find the words. "But he's..." Hermione's voice cracked, tears streaming down her face uncontrollably. "He was tortured and killed during the war."

Harry rose from the chaise, his own eyes welling up with tears, and immediately enveloped Hermione in a tight embrace. She accepted his embrace, finding solace in their shared grief, but she knew she had to continue explaining the painful truth about their best friend.

"He was captured by the Snatchers, Voldemort's civilian soldiers, while he was on a recon mission," Hermione explained, her voice quivering with sorrow. "They were relentless in their pursuit of your whereabouts, but we knew Ron. We knew he would never betray you." A bitter taste filled her mouth as she recalled the heart-wrenching broadcasts through the Wizarding Wireless, revealing the torturous fate that befell their best friend.

Tears continued to stream down Hermione's face, mirroring the devastation etched across Harry's features. She met his tearful gaze, their unspoken connection conveying volumes. 

"Shit," Harry whispered, “Ron,” his voice filled with sorrow and disbelief. He removed his glasses, then wiped away his own tears as he tried to process this future.

"He can't know, Harry," Hermione pleaded, "We made this decision in the future, to keep him safe, to ensure his survival. We promised each other. We'll find a way to save him."

"Mione... I need to think about this. Ron, I won't tell him. I won't tell anyone. But, give me some time to think."

Hermione listened attentively as Harry spoke, his voice tinged with confusion. She could sense his need for space, for time to process the weight of the revelations she had shared with him. 

"Yes… Of course," she whispered, her voice filled with compassion. Hermione then embraced her best friend, her arms encircling his neck in a tender hug. "Take all the time you need, come back to me when you're ready to talk about this again," she reassured him and left the room of requirement, leaving Harry to internalize everything he learned that night.

Chapter Text

It’s been three weeks since that night, three weeks since she told Harry about time traveling, and he still hasn’t reached out to talk about it. She knows she promised to give him time, but she thought it would only take a few days, maybe a week at most. Doesn’t he understand how crucial every passing day is? Well, to be fair, he doesn’t.

A few times, she felt Harry watching her closely. The first time was during their Herbology class a few days after their talk in the Room of Requirement. Professor Sprout asked them to pick a partner. Usually, Ron and Harry would race to pair up with her, but today, only Ron approached her. To their mild surprise, Harry chose Seamus as his partner. As she and Ron were almost done repotting their Fanged Geranium, she caught Harry staring at them. At first, she thought he might need help with his flowers, but just as she was about to approach him, he instantly looked away.

This happened a few more times in different classes. He was clearly avoiding her. He wasn’t outright mean—they still talked when they were with their group of friends—but he made sure they were never alone. Even Ron noticed.

“Anything up with you and Harry?” Ron asked when they were on prefect patrols.

“No. Not at all. Why’d you ask?” Her tone was a bit higher than usual. Shit. She hoped Ron wouldn’t notice. 

“You’re both acting weird. Just, if there’s anything you want to talk about, Mione, you can tell me, alright?” He hooked his arm over Hermione. 

“Of course, Ron.”

Hermione was beginning to spiral. Doubts clouded her mind, replaying every possible scenario. Maybe it was the wrong decision. Maybe she shouldn’t have rushed into telling Harry. Maybe she should have approached Draco first. Future Harry and Draco had warned her about this. She should have just waited it out.

“Shit,” Hermione whispered as her quill broke. The snap echoed through her fraying nerves. She took a shaky breath, trying to relax as she searched for a new quill in her satchel, her hands trembling slightly. She took a few more deep breaths and reminded herself to stop overthinking. There wasn’t much she could do now. She had told Harry, and whether there was a better way to do it or not, it was done. The quaffle was in his hands now. She glanced around the quiet library, the dim light casting long shadows over the rows of books. She came here to calm down, but today it felt like a cage, amplifying her anxiety.

Maybe she should obliviate Harry and try again. She shook her head, remembering the disastrous consequences of using such a spell on her parents. ‘Right. Remember how that went with your parents, Hermione?’ She snorted.

Defeated, she let her head fall onto the table with a thud.

--

Later that afternoon, Hermione found herself at the Quidditch pitch, the crisp air filled with the sound of whistling winds and the distant roar of the crowd. Gryffindor was in the midst of a scrimmage with Slytherin, and she watched from the stands as Harry zoomed across the field. But something was off. Harry’s usual finesse and sharp maneuvers were replaced with erratic flying and missed catches.

“Merlin’s tits, Harry!” Ron shouted from the goalposts, his voice tinged with frustration.

Hermione's eyes narrowed in concern. Harry was playing horribly. He barely avoided a Bludger, swerving at the last second, and then missed a simple pass from Ginny. Her stomach churned as she saw the Slytherins, their faces smug and predatory, zeroing in on Harry’s vulnerability.
The inevitable happened. Goyle sent a Bludger hurtling towards Harry with a vicious swing. Distracted, Harry didn't see it coming until it was too late. The impact was brutal, knocking him off his broom. He plummeted to the ground, hitting the turf hard.

Gasps and shouts filled the air as the Gryffindor team rushed to his side. Hermione’s heart pounded as she scrambled down the stands and onto the field, fear gripping her.

“Harry!” she called out, her voice barely audible over the chaos. She reached him just as Madame Pomfrey arrived, her face set in a deep frown.
“This way, quickly,” Madame Pomfrey directed, her wand already at work assessing Harry’s injuries. With the help of some of the team members, she levitated him onto a stretcher and hurried towards the castle, Hermione following closely behind.

In the infirmary, Madame Pomfrey worked swiftly, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. Hermione stood by the door, her anxiety mounting as she watched Harry’s pale face.

“He’s had it worse,” Madame Pomfrey muttered, more to herself than anyone else, as she administered a potion to Harry. “But this brooding nonsense needs to stop.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “You’ve noticed it too?”

Madame Pomfrey shot her a sharp look. “Of course I’ve noticed. The boy's been brooding for weeks. It’s affecting his health and his performance. It’s also the 3rd time this week an injured teammate complained about Potter being out of it during practice.”

Hermione bit her lip, feeling a pang of guilt. She knew her revelation had thrown Harry off balance, but seeing the physical consequences made her feel worse.
After ensuring Harry was stable, Madame Pomfrey turned to Hermione. “He’ll need rest and plenty of it. But more than that, he needs to clear his mind of whatever is weighing him down.”

Hermione nodded. “It... it may be just something with his family.” She lied. “I’ll talk to him. As soon as he wakes up.”
Madame Pomfrey sighed, her stern expression softening slightly. “Good. He’ll need his friends more than ever then. Don’t let him push you away.”

“I won’t.” Hermione smiled.

--

Hermione sat by Harry’s bedside in the infirmary, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. She had been there for two hours, her mind racing with what she would say when he woke up. Madame Pomfrey had checked on him periodically, reassuring her that he was healing, but the tension in Hermione’s heart remained.

As dusk settled, Harry began to stir. His eyes fluttered open, and he winced slightly, the pain still evident.

“Harry,” Hermione said softly, leaning forward. “How are you feeling?”

Harry blinked, focusing on her face. “Been better,” he murmured, attempting a weak smile.

Hermione couldn’t hold back any longer. “Harry, we need to talk,” she said, her voice trembling with the effort to stay calm. “I know you still feel terrible, but I really need to get this out. You’ve been avoiding me, and I know it’s because of what we talked about. I told you about it because I trusted you. I thought you trusted me too. But your avoiding me has been driving me crazy. If you don’t believe me, if you don’t trust me enough, then fine! But you need to tell me what’s going on.”

Harry tried to reach for her to calm from her outburst. “Hermione, I—”

“No, let me finish,” she interrupted, her voice rising. “I’ve been agonizing over this for weeks. I told you because it’s crucial, and every day that passes without us working together feels like a lost opportunity. I don’t know what more I can do to make you understand how serious this is.”

Harry sat up slightly, grimacing from the pain, and held up a hand to stop her. “Hermione, I believe you.”

Her rant halted mid-sentence, and she stared at him, shocked. “You… you do?”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yes, I believe you. It’s just… It’s a lot to take in. Time traveling, the future, everything you told me. I needed time to process it. And I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

Hermione felt a mixture of relief and frustration. “Then why have you been avoiding me?”

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” Harry said, scratching the back of his head, a habit he never grew out of even in the future. “Well, maybe I was, but not because I didn’t trust you. I just didn’t know how to handle it. I’m still not sure I do, but I want to understand. I need to ask you some questions, and I need you to be honest with me.”

Hermione nodded, her heart pounding. “Of course, Harry. Ask me anything.”

Harry took a deep breath, his expression serious. “Okay. So we’re doing this now?” He grabbed his wand from the side table and cast a Muffliato. “First, why did you tell me and not someone else? Why not Dumbledore or someone who could actually do something about it?”

Hermione considered her response carefully. “Because, Harry, it’s what we decided in the future.” She sighed. “Dumbledore has his role, but we can’t let him know. I’ll explain once we’ve looped Draco in.”

Harry’s eyebrows met in the middle, processing her words. “That’s another thing—Draco.” He emphasized every syllable of his rival’s name with disdain. “Why does it have to be him? Merlin, please don’t say we’re friends in the future.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and laughed. “You’re not enemies, but not friends either. You tolerate each other at best. He’s different in the future, Harry. He’s on our side, I promise. The Time Turner was from his mother. I promise to tell you everything soon once we get his trust too.”

Harry was silent for a moment, then sighed. “There’s another thing that I’ve been wondering about.”

Hermione waited for him to continue.

“Why was it you who traveled back here?” Harry breathed in. “Why wasn’t it me?”

Hermione reached out, taking his hand. She wanted to tell him it was partly because he didn’t want to leave Ginny and was so tired of the war, but decided on a half-truth. 

“This particular Time Turner needed blood from the Black Family. Draco has blood from the Black Family, and you do too—a story for another time. It also made sense that I would be the one to come back since I was the bridge between you and Draco in the future. I might be able to make our group work in this time as well.”

Harry squeezed her hand, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I feel like you’re still hiding something from me, but I trust you. Okay. I’m in. But you have to promise me something too.”

“Anything,” Hermione said, her voice filled with determination, hoping that Harry didn't ask more about how he was connected with the Blacks. Not yet.

“Promise me you’ll be honest with me once we get Malfoy into the mix.”

“I promise,” she replied, her eyes locking with his. “No more secrets—within reason.”

With that, they sat in silence for a moment. “Ugh… I can’t believe we need to be friends with the Slytherins.”

They both let out an awkward chuckle, the tension between them somewhat easing as they shared a moment of levity amidst the chaos.

Chapter Text

"It would be a privilege," the old toad had said.

"It would be fun," his mates had said.

Fucking fun, his arse.

Draco sat slouched in the Slytherin common room, flicking the silver Inquisitorial Squad badge between his fingers. The fire snapped and hissed in front of him, casting shadows across the stone walls. At first, he’d been smug about it. The badge had felt like power in his palm, like proof that he was finally getting what he deserved. Authority. Recognition. A new kind of control. The list of names—his and Pansy’s, Blaise’s, Crabbe and Goyle, even bloody Millicent—had looked impressive enough.

His father had been pleased, of course. Said it was smart to align himself with power, even if it came in the shape of a Ministry stooge in a pink cardigan. “Alliances over friendships,” Lucius always said. That had made sense at the time. And fine, there had been perks like all those late patrols with Pansy. A small smirk on his lips grew as he remembered them taking full advantage of the privacy. Then there’s the occasional excuse to dock points from students of different house who looked at him wrong.

But the shine had worn off quickly. The rules piled up like dungbombs in a cupboard, and Umbridge’s presence began to choke the life out of the school. Draco didn’t care much about Dumbledore, but Hogwarts had always felt like his kingdom in a way—his turf. Now it felt like a prison wrapped in pink lace. And the extra patrols weren’t helping either. Chasing whispers about Potter’s so-called “army” was tedious at best, and mostly a waste of his time.

If that ragtag group of Gryffindors were real, and if they somehow managed to boot Umbridge out of the castle, Draco might be tempted to applaud.

He glanced across the room at Crabbe and Goyle, both snoring like overfed trolls. Typical. They wore the badge but didn’t carry any of the weight. The real burden was the one Draco couldn’t talk about—the expectations. The lessons. The pressure. Heir to the Malfoy name and the Black family legacy. That wasn't just about bloodlines, it was about performance, and the margin for error was nonexistent.

Snape, ever faithful to his mother’s quiet demands, had taken over his training. Occlumency, three nights a week. Dueling, twice more. The pain potions had become part of his daily routine. Headaches like nails behind his eyes. His professors thought he was just tired or moody. No one suspected how close he was to burning out. And to top it all off, he still came second to Granger in class rankings. That fact alone kept him in a near-perpetual state of irritation.

He was still glaring at the fire when the door creaked open. Theo stepped in, quiet as always. He had that usual unbothered look about him, collar slightly askew, dark curls a little messy, like nothing in the world could rattle him. He walked over with a sealed envelope in hand.

“Got something for you,” he said, offering it up.

Draco took it, recognizing the Malfoy seal at once. “Thanks.”

Theo sat beside him and pulled out his own letter. “Looks like our parents are in a letter-writing mood.”

“From your father?” Draco asked.

Theo nodded, eyes unreadable. “Yeah. Probably another reminder to stay in line and act like a proper heir.”

Draco cracked a small smile. “Let me guess...avoid scandal, don’t embarrass the family, and maintain your alliances at all costs?”

“You know the script,” Theo muttered, though there was a trace of amusement in his voice.

Draco scanned the letter in silence. His mother’s handwriting was precise, elegant, and sharp enough to draw blood. Advice disguised as affection. Caution disguised as care. Keep studying. Keep learning. Keep pretending everything’s normal. She didn’t say the words outright, but the message was there: Stay useful. Stay on the right side.

Theo finished reading his and leaned back, staring into the flames. “So what does yours say?”

Draco folded the parchment and shoved it into his pocket. “Same as always. Keep up with Snape. Keep our name polished. Play the game.”

Theo didn’t respond for a moment. Then: “It’s all a bloody game, isn’t it?”

Draco nodded, eyes on the fire. “And the rules aren’t ours to change.”

They stood up together, as if choreographed, walked to the hearth, and tossed the letters into the flames. The parchment curled and blackened, burning faster than either of them expected.

Draco watched the ashes swirl into nothing. Somewhere inside, under all the layers of training and pride and pressure, he felt a flicker of something he couldn’t name—something restless. Something else.

And for a split second, he wondered what it might be like to stop playing the game entirely.

--

Draco was midway through explaining his formula for Professor Vector’s Arithmancy exercise, gesturing toward his notes with a quill while Blaise leaned in, interested but mostly trying to copy his work. Daphne was asking a pointed question when he noticed movement across the classroom. Hermione Granger, punctual and painfully proper as ever, was walking toward Theo’s desk.

At first, Draco thought she’d gotten turned around. No way Granger—Gryffindor’s favorite swot—would willingly speak to a Slytherin, let alone Theo Nott. But then she said something to him, quiet and direct, and Theo just… nodded. Calm as ever. No protest, no raised eyebrow, just a brief glance at Potter—who gave her a short nod and dragged Weasley off to a different table without a word.

Draco’s brow furrowed. Something was off. Hermione Granger didn’t make casual decisions. Everything she did was calculated. She’d asked Theo—his friend—for help. And Potter had agreed without blinking. It was too coordinated to be nothing. Draco felt his stomach twist.

Did she like Theo? The idea hit him like cold water. He almost laughed at how absurd it sounded—Hermione Granger, the Muggleborn know-it-all, and Theo Nott, the most enigmatic pureblood in their year? Preposterous. And yet… there had been something strange about the way she looked at Theo, as if she knew more than she should. And Theo hadn’t even looked surprised.

By lunchtime, he was wound tight with irritation. He tried to ignore it, stabbing his roast potatoes with unnecessary force, but then Granger approached their table. She didn’t flinch at the glares from other Slytherins. She stood next to Theo, asking about obscure books on pureblood magical theory, and Draco finally snapped.

He stormed into the common room hours later, jaw tight, fists clenched. Theo was curled up on the leather armchair by the fire, as always, reading like nothing in the world had happened. Draco didn’t wait. “What the hell are you doing with Granger?” he spat.

Theo looked up slowly, like he hadn’t expected a fight but wasn’t surprised either. “What are you on about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Draco hissed. “Arithmancy, today. Letting her talk to you like you're friends. Lending her books? She doesn’t belong here.”

Theo set his book down, carefully, deliberately. “It’s for class. She asked. I said yes. That’s all.”

“Bollocks,” Draco snapped. “It’s Granger. You know how it looks. You know what she is. You think people aren’t watching. If this gets back to our parents? I thought YOU of all people understand the risks?"

Theo stood, calm but cold now, the way he got when he was tired of someone’s crap. “I think it’s you who doesn’t understand. It’s just schoolwork. Or are you just pissed off she talked to me and not you?”

Draco’s anger surged again, hot and irrational. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

But Theo didn’t flinch. “You always get like this. Possessive. Like people are things you get to claim. Scared that Granger might take me away?”

Draco shoved him. Not hard, more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything else, but Theo stumbled slightly and winced like it hurt. The rage drained from Draco’s face in an instant, replaced by confusion.

“Why did you flinch?” Draco asked, voice quieter now. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing,” Theo muttered, pulling away, but Draco could see it...something was wrong. That wasn’t just a bruise. That wasn’t just a bad landing from a broom.

“Don’t lie to me,” Draco said, stepping forward. “Did your fa—. Did he—”

“I said drop it,” Theo snapped, louder than before. “I’ll stay away from Granger, alright? Just stop acting like you own me.”

He turned to go, but Draco grabbed his arm again, gentler this time. “Theo, wait. I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” Theo said, yanking free. He didn’t even look back as he walked out, leaving Draco standing by the fire, breath shallow, pulse racing.

Draco stood there long after the common room emptied, replaying the conversation in his head. He didn’t know which part he regretted more, what he’d said… or what he hadn’t.

---

Draco and Theo didn’t speak for three days. It wasn’t unusual. They had fights every now and then, and each time it ended in quiet avoidance that didn’t raise eyebrows. Their friendship wasn’t loud. It wasn’t marked by public shows of loyalty or grand gestures. It was steady in its own way—too old and too deep to need constant affirmations. Most people didn’t notice the silence between them. Not when Draco still made his usual rounds with Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy. And not when Theo was always a bit distant anyway, often found reading by the fire in the common room or disappearing into the library for hours.
But Blaise noticed. And so did Daphne. The two of them had a habit of worming their way into things they weren’t supposed to care about, and today was no different. “You’re being thick,” Blaise said, shoving a flask into Draco’s hand. “Just go talk to him. He’s probably at the docks.” Draco rolled his eyes, muttered something about being ganged up on, but he took the flask anyway and left without another word.

The docks hadn’t been dismantled yet—not that anyone used them anymore, not since the Triwizard Tournament. But they were still there, half-forgotten and worn, stretching out over the lake like old bones. It had become their usual place to hang out, away from everyone else. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but no one else really went there, which made it feel like one.

Draco flew in on his broom, spotting Theo sitting at the edge with his legs dangling over the water. He landed softly and walked over, holding out the flask without saying anything.

Theo took it, eyed the silver runes along the side. “Ogdens 25? And bottomless?”

“Obviously,” Draco said, sitting down beside him.

Theo snorted. “Blaise’s?”

“Of course. He and Daphne told me to shove my pride up my arse and sort it out.”

Theo took a long drink, passed the flask back. “They’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Draco agreed. “But they’re not wrong.”

They sat in silence for a while, passing the flask back and forth, listening to the creak of the dock and the gentle slap of water beneath them. The wind off the lake was cold, but the firewhisky helped.

Draco glanced sideways. “When did it happen?” he asked quietly, eyes flicking to the shadowed bruise just beneath Theo’s collar.

“Last weekend,” Theo said, not looking at him.

Draco frowned. “That’s why you didn’t show up to practice.”

“Yeah. I can usually take it, but he was worse this time. Added another round. Glamours don’t work on this kind of shit.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “Fuck. I know it’s been days, but… do you need anything? I can get something from Mum. Or—”

“I’m fine,” Theo said, lifting the flask in salute. “Still have some balm from Narcissa. This helps more right now anyway.”

Draco didn’t respond at first. He watched the lake instead, the way the wind played across the surface like something alive. There were things he couldn’t fix. Things no one could. Theo never asked for help. He never even said his father's name when he talked about it. But Draco knew. He knew how bad it got.
Sometimes, he caught himself thinking how lucky he was. The Malfoy name came with expectations, with coldness, maybe even cruelty, but never that kind of violence. His mother had her quiet ways, and his father was strict in other ways, but nothing like Theodore Nott Sr.. Draco had his flaws, plenty of them, but family had never made him bleed.

He didn’t know when it happened exactly, this odd closeness between them. They weren’t the same kind of Slytherin. Draco was sharp edges and loud confidence, the heir who everyone knew would lead. Theo was quiet like a shadow, slipping through places unnoticed, carrying secrets like second skin. But they’d found each other anyway—two boys from dark houses with too much weight on their shoulders.

The others had folded into that bond over time. Pansy with her sharp tongue, always pretending she didn’t care as much as she did. Crabbe and Goyle, blunt and loyal in their own way. Daphne, who had a colder mask than any of them but still showed up with healing salves when needed. Blaise, the one who saw everything and said very little until it actually mattered. Somehow, they’d made a family out of scraps and broken pieces, and for better or worse, it held.

Theo took another drink. “So… are we done being pissed at each other?”

Draco smirked, nudging his shoulder. “You were the one being dramatic.”

Theo rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. They didn’t need to say anything else. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. Just familiar. Safe.

--

The pitch was still echoing with laughter and the soft clunk of brooms being put away when Draco stepped off the grass, hair damp with sweat, his uniform sticking to him in all the worst places. Pansy latched onto his arm the moment his boots touched stone.

“I am absolutely thirsting for a butterbeer,” she whined, pulling at his sleeve. “You said twenty minutes, Draco. Twenty.”

“Sorry, Pans,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Didn’t notice the time. This is the only break I get all week.”

And it was true. With O.W.L.s closing in, Snape—uncharacteristically generous, or maybe just practical—had pressed pause on Draco’s extra lessons. Still, he was cramming six nights out of seven. His planner was a battlefield. Dueling drills, Occlumency, essays, group projects, squad patrols. It was endless. This hour on his broom had felt like actual freedom. The wind slicing across his face, the stomach-drop of a plummet, the wild rush of pulling out of a dive at the last second. It reminded him what it felt like to breathe.

He was just starting to relax, just beginning to feel like maybe he could enjoy the rest of the evening without the universe knocking on his door, when the universe, predictably, knocked.

Granger was running toward them panting, wild-haired, and looking like she'd sprinted the length of the castle twice. A flush had risen in her cheeks, and she had that sharp, desperate glint in her eye that usually meant trouble for someone.

“Malfoy,” she said, breathless. “I need to talk to you. I need your help.”

Draco blinked, then barked a laugh. “And in what version of reality do you honestly think I’d help you, Granger?”

“Draco,” Pansy said sharply, eyeing Granger like she was something disgusting tracked in from the forest. “Are we seriously doing this?”

Granger ignored her, gaze locked on his. “This isn’t about me. It’s about Theo.”

That stopped him. The grin dropped off his face, and the air seemed to shift, like someone had opened a window he hadn’t noticed.

“What about Theo?” he asked, voice lower now, careful.

Hermione hesitated. Just for a second. But it was enough to see the weight behind her words—something thick and private she was still deciding whether to hand over. Her hands fidgeted at her sides, fingers curled tight into the edges of her sleeves.

“I… I just need you to listen,” she said finally. “Please.”

Draco didn’t move. He could feel the rest of the team behind him, silent now. Pansy still had a grip on his sleeve, but her hold had gone slack.

He didn’t know why but in that moment, something in her voice… it made his stomach twist. Like he'd missed something important. Like he’d missed it for a while.

Granger opened her mouth again, but whatever she was about to say was lost in the rush of wind as a second-year zipped past on a broom, shouting after a friend.

The moment passed.

“Fine,” Draco said. “Five minutes.”

But something in him already knew. This wasn’t going to be just five minutes.

And whatever it was she was about to say...

It wasn’t going to leave him the same.

Chapter Text

Hermione crossed out her calculations for what felt like the twentieth time.

Her parchment was a mess of half-finished equations, scratched-out numbers, and ink smudges. She’d tried three different approaches to the Arithmancy exercise, and each one gave her a different outcome. Maddening.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, resisting the urge to crumple the entire scroll. Theo was supposed to be here by now. They had agreed to study this evening, a part of their growing routine to finish this project. And while yes, this arrangement had started as a clever excuse to build trust with Draco through his closest friend, she hadn’t expected to enjoy Theo’s company as much as she did. He was sharp. Strange, but sharp. Quiet in a way that made her want to fill the silence.

And he was late.

Very late.

Theo was never careless with time. Never left her waiting without an owl. The last time they’d met, she was supposed to return a few of the rare books she’d borrowed, but he declined, and his usual dry sarcasm had felt... thinner. Off. He was pale. Unsteady. There was a dark bruise just under his collar that she hadn’t noticed at first. When she gently brought it up, he’d stiffened and shut down fast, muttering something about how “nothing would matter anyway soon.” Then, without waiting for her response, he told her to keep the books and walked away.

She’d stared after him in confusion. First editions. Priceless. No one just gave those away.

And now, this.

Hermione stared blankly at the mess of parchment in front of her, quill poised in her hand but unmoving. The silence of the library pressed in around her. She remembered how she and Draco— her Draco, the future one—used to sit side by side working through the same Arithmancy methods she was using now. The two of them would lay out the rune paths and calculate magical outcomes from different starting points, building webs of possibility.

They used the same system during the war. How he and Harry would endlessly argue over tactical patterns while Ron translated them into moves for field work. It saved lives.

She blinked. A memory came rushing back—clear and awful. Draco, years older, voice low and cracked, telling her how Theo had never made it past their sixth year. How the official story said he’d left school after that term... But in truth, Theo had died by his own hands, broken under the weight of what his father had done to him after losing favor from Voldemort.

It had haunted Draco. Haunted all of them.

Her stomach twisted.

The bruise. The books. That strange, empty look in Theo’s eyes. The way he said nothing would matter.

She sat up straighter, heart thudding.

No. It couldn’t be now. Not yet. That wasn’t supposed to happen until the following year. There was still time. There was supposed to be time.

But what if they were wrong?

What if things were already shifting?

Hermione glanced around the room, suddenly restless. The candlelight flickered. Her ink was still wet.

She stood up quickly, knocking her chair back with a loud scrape against the stone floor.

She had to find him.

Now.

She needed to find Draco. She tried everywhere he might have been. They currently have similar classes together, but the day just ended, and the next time she might see him was the next day. He isn’t in the library or the Great Hall. She even tried checking along the Slytherin corridors, trying to ignore the looks she got from multiple students.

Finally, it hit her—the Quidditch pitch. It’s Quidditch season after all.

--

“Fine,” Draco said. “Five minutes.”

Pansy made a noise of protest, some wounded mix of disbelief and disdain, but he didn’t bother looking at her. Instead, he handed her his gloves without ceremony. “I’ll catch up.”

She huffed something about “mudbloods and their dramatics,” but stomped off toward the castle with Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind, grunting with the lazy loyalty of trolls.

Once they were gone and the pitch had mostly cleared, Draco turned to face Hermione properly.

“You look like you ran the length of the bloody forest,” he said, arms crossed, unimpressed. “So, spill it, Granger. What’s this about Theo?”

Hermione hesitated. She looked pale beneath the flush of wind and exertion. Her hands fidgeted at her sides. “I think something’s wrong.”

Draco let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “He’s always brooding about something, Granger. He’s got a flair for the dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said coolly. “But unless you’ve got proof he’s turned himself into a cauldron or walked into the Forbidden Forest, I really don’t see why—”

“He gave me his first editions,” she blurted.

He blinked. “His what?”

“Books. Rare ones. And he looked… off. Last time we talked, he had a bruise on his neck—looked like a belt or a whip, I couldn’t tell. And when I tried to bring it up, he brushed me off. Said nothing would matter anyway, soon.”

Something in Draco’s chest pulled tight. He tried to mask it with a scoff, but it didn’t quite land.

“He gets like that sometimes,” he muttered. “He gets hurt at Quidditch, he drinks, he sulks, he disappears for a day—”

“No. This is different. He was... done. Like he was saying goodbye.”

Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. His mind reeled through the past few weeks after their talk on the docks. Theo had been quiet. Skipping meals. Dodging patrols. Training with less effort than usual. And he had mentioned something about his father sending another Howler…

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and started walking.

Hermione jogged to keep up. “Where are you going?”

“To check the common room first. If he’s in there sulking with a bottle, you’ll owe me an apology.”

They made their way across the lawn, past students heading back inside. Once in the dungeons, they approached the stone wall that sealed off the Slytherin common room. Draco muttered the password under his breath. The entrance slid open with a groan.

Empty. Mostly.

Blaise was lounging on the green velvet couch, lazily flipping through a magazine. He looked up, mildly surprised.

“Where’s Theo?” Draco asked.

Blaise shrugged. “Haven’t seen him since Charms.”

Draco swore. “Did he say anything weird? Seem off?”

“Define weird,” Blaise said with a smirk. Then, seeing Draco’s face, the smile dropped. “He said he had a headache. Skipped dinner. Probably asleep.”

“He’s not in the dorms,” Draco said, already heading that way.

Hermione lingered behind. Blaise stared after her, bemused. “Did we adopt a Gryffindor puppy or something?”

Hermione just rolled her eyes and followed Draco as he walked out of the Slytherin common room.

There was no sign of Theo in the dorms.

Not in the library.

Not in the Potions lab, or by the lake, or in the Clock Tower Courtyard.

The sun had fully dipped by now. Lamps flickered to life in the corridors. Hermione was beginning to look visibly shaken. Draco didn’t say much, but the stiffness in his shoulders and the pace of his steps said enough.

Finally, he stopped mid-step.

“What?” Hermione asked.

Draco’s eyes narrowed, staring at nothing. Then he turned sharply on his heel.

“The Astronomy Tower,” he muttered.

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“It’s one of our spots,” he said shortly, already moving. “When things get too loud, too much… he likes it up there.”

“And you didn’t think of it sooner?”

“I didn’t think he needed saving,” Draco snapped.

They didn’t speak again as they took the stairs two at a time, the silence between them heavy, charged. A shared dread unspoken.

As they climbed higher, the corridors emptied. The light from the torches grew dimmer, and the air cooler.

They both froze at the threshold. The tower was nearly empty, but not silent. The wind howled softly through the stone arches, and at the very edge of the platform stood Theo, balanced like a statue on the brass railing. The bottle in his hand caught the moonlight, its contents half-drunk, sloshing with the breeze. His robe billowed behind him like wings. For a second, he looked ethereal, otherworldly, and terribly small.

“Theo!” Draco barked, voice cracking on the name.

Theo turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder with a strange calm in his eyes. He smiled faintly at Draco, something far too final flickering in the expression. “Sorry, mate,” he said, so quietly it was nearly lost in the wind, and then he faced forward again, leaned into the night air, and let go.

“No—no—NO!” Hermione’s breath hitched, her wand already raised before she even registered it— a skill she was forced to learn being a child soldier in the war. A thousand calculations fired off in her mind, all collapsing into instinct. “Arresto Momentum!” she cried, and the magic surged like lightning from her fingers.

Time seemed to lurch. Draco lunged, legs barely catching their own weight as he dove toward the ledge. For one terrible second, he thought he’d be too late, but his hand found Theo’s ankle, and with a guttural shout he yanked his best friend back over the edge. They crashed onto the stone floor of the tower in a heap, Theo’s body limp against his. The bottle clattered away, spinning and spilling.

Draco was breathing hard, holding Theo’s collar in a death grip. He looked down at him, furious and shaken and utterly terrified. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he rasped, voice low and trembling. Theo didn’t answer. He just lay there, blinking up at the night sky, a single tear slipping from the corner of his eye.

Draco still hadn’t let go. His grip on Theo’s robes was tight enough to wrinkle the fabric, as if letting go would somehow undo the last thirty seconds and make it all real again. Theo didn’t fight it. He didn’t move at all, really—just blinked slowly and stared past Draco, like the stars above held more weight than the friend who had just pulled him from the brink.

Hermione stood a few feet away, heart hammering, hands trembling slightly. She scanned the room in quick, methodical movements just like how Professor Lupin had trained them during the war…because if she stopped moving, she was going to cry. And she couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not now.

Her eyes found a lone wand near the base of a telescope stand… Theo’s. It must’ve been thrown before he climbed up, and that thought made her throat tighten. She picked it up, fingers brushing over the smooth wood like it might offer answers. Then her gaze landed on the bottle, rolled into a shadowy corner. She walked over and crouched beside it, lifting it to her nose. Lavender. Peppermint. A sharp bite of blood. Not poison, thankfully. It was more of a calming draught mixed with alcohol, probably an attempt to heighten the potency.

Hermione stood and turned toward the boys. Draco hadn’t said anything more. He was just sitting there, arm still around Theo, jaw clenched like he was swallowing glass. She crossed the space between them silently, offered the wand out to Draco, who took it without meeting her eyes.

Then she turned and left, not because she didn’t care, but because they needed a moment she didn’t belong in.

---

Hermione couldn't remember how she got out of the Astronomy Tower.

One moment, she was pressing Theo’s wand into Draco’s shaking hands, and the next she was halfway down the corridor, walking too fast, then running. She could feel her legs moving beneath her but everything else was a blur. Voices around her were muffled, colors were too bright, corners were too sharp. She couldn’t go back to Gryffindor Tower. Harry or Ron might see her face and ask questions she couldn’t answer, not without unraveling. She didn’t want to lie. She couldn’t tell the truth.

She needed a place where no one would look for her. Somewhere she could breathe.

Prefects’ bathroom. Thursday night. No Quidditch captains, no patrol rotations. She veered right at the tapestry near the fourth-floor corridor, taking the hidden staircase two steps at a time. Her fingers trembled as she whispered the password and slipped inside.

The door clicked shut behind her, and Hermione collapsed against it, heart thundering in her chest. She barely had time to cast a Muffliato before her knees gave out, sliding down onto the cold marble. The silence hit her like a wave. Her hands clenched the fabric of her robes. She could still feel the echo of the spell in her throat. Arresto Momentum . It had come out too fast, too familiar.

Just like last time.

Her mind flung her backward without her consent to that night at Brocburrow. To Luna’s pale limbs tumbling through the sky from one of the Death Eater tower windows, her scream cut short by Greyback’s teeth. Hermione had moved on instinct then, too. It was the same wand motion, the same shout—but they’d caught a corpse. She remembered the warm weight of her dear friend in her arms. The silence that had followed.

Now Theo’s face had replaced Luna’s.

A sob tore through her chest, raw and guttural. She pressed her forehead to the tile, trying to remember where she was—when she was. Theo was alive. They had pulled him back. Luna was alive too, probably in Ravenclaw Tower right now, working on an essay about wrackspurts. Everything was fine. Everything was broken. She couldn’t tell anymore.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered to no one. “I shouldn’t be here.”

But she was. And if this was what it took to keep them all alive this time—then she would endure every memory, every echo of the war they hadn’t yet fought.

Even if it cracked her open.

Chapter Text

Draco told Theo to take Occlumency with him.

Of course he did.

What else was he supposed to do? Pat him on the back and say “cheer up” like a bloody Gryffindor?

It was the only reasonable suggestion left. Given how the past week had spiraled into a montage of silent stares, too-long shadows, and Nott looking like he’d lost a fight with his own mind, Draco figured mental shielding was less of an option and more of a necessity.

Theo walked like a shell of a wizard whose emotions have been accio’d out. He still went to class, probably so none of their Slytherin peers could report anything suspect to their oh-so-charming families, but he moved like Zonko’s model dragons low on magic. He didn’t talk unless prompted. He didn’t eat unless reminded. The only time he really reacted was when Draco mentioned Occlumency. Then, his face twisted like he’d bitten into something sour and cursed.

Typical. Theo hated anyone poking around in his head, even if it was Snape. Especially if it was Snape.

But Draco had insisted. Occlumency wasn’t just for secrets—it was armor. A filter. A way to set your body to work when your mind is too noisy. It was the best mask.

Draco had been throwing himself into training, too. Snape was still tutoring him privately, not that Hogwarts knew, not really. Their sessions bordered on the illegal, just enough to skirt around wizarding laws for a wizard his age. Duels that left him bruised and limping. Memory drills that made his head throb every after session. Lessons designed to keep him one hex ahead of everyone else.

He didn’t hate it.

Actually, he preferred it to, well… sitting.

Sitting meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering, and that just meant more time spent chewing on the one thing he didn’t want to admit out loud: Granger had gotten to Theo faster.

He’d seen it play out in his mind a hundred times since. Theo falling. Granger, shouting “Arresto Momentum” before he jumped out to Theo.

He could admit it now—barely. She was quick. And maybe not all of Potter’s Army was just a bunch of attention-hungry rebels with a flair for dramatics.

Fine.

She was decent.

She saved his best mate’s life.

Still. He wasn’t going to thank her. Not properly. Not unless he was planning to owe her something for the rest of his magical life—and he wasn’t that emotionally reckless.

Instead, he started planning.

A gift. A gesture. Something big enough that they could both pretend the whole thing had never happened.

Books, maybe. The swot obviously liked books.

He thought about it. First editions, probably. Leather-bound. Signed. Something rare enough to shut her up for good. Five should do it. That seemed like the right number for a life-saving situation plus the added annoyance of her being right about anything.

He was still debating if he should have them gift-wrapped when he realized he’d been staring at her from the Great Hall for Merlin-knew-how-long.

She was two tables away, scribbling furiously into a notebook, curls tied up in one of those too-tight knots that still somehow exploded like a lion’s mane. She looked intense, annoyed, probably scribbling a letter to the Minister about how House Elf liberation wasn’t moving fast enough.

Then she looked up.

Their eyes met.

Bloody hell.

He snapped his gaze back to his plate, where his untouched pumpkin pasty now seemed to mock him silently. Look at you. Caught staring at Granger. Pathetic.

“Mate,” Blaise drawled from beside him, “her hair’s going to straighten if you keep glaring at it that hard.”

Draco didn’t answer, reaching for a napkin to blot the apple juice Blaise had so elegantly spilled on his sleeve.

“What’s she done now? Hexed your chair to squeak again?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re not denying it. Don’t tell me you were actually staring.”

“I was looking at the wall.”

Blaise grinned. “Well, it looks like the wall’s walking toward our table.”

Draco looked up.

And there she was.

“Hello, Malfoy. Zabini.” Granger greeted them with a formal nod, already setting off alarm bells in his head.

“Hello again, Granger,” Blaise said smoothly, leaning back with an easy grin. “It’s refreshing seeing you under much better lighting. Our dorms are so dismal.”

Granger blinked. Blushed.

Blushed.

Draco’s jaw twitched. The audacity. One compliment from Blaise and suddenly she was shy?

She cleared her throat, clearly trying to recover. “Um. Malfoy. Can I speak with you? Privately. It’s about… Potions.”

“Potions,” Draco repeated, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, the ones we talked about a few days ago.”

“Was that when you were looking for Theo?” Blaise interjected.

The swot froze. Amateur.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know what you’re referring to, Granger,” he said, loud enough for the rest of the Slytherin table to overhear. “Didn’t we agree I’d give you my notes after the next lesson?”

She opened her mouth.

“But of course, you’d want to get ahead. How very Granger of you. Fine. Follow me.”

“I… okay.” She hesitated, then trailed after him.

Draco walked faster than necessary, half for drama, half because her shorter legs would have to hustle twice as much to keep up. He’d had a growth spurt over the summer. He was a tower now, thank Merlin, and he fully intended to use it as a form of psychological warfare.

“Malfoy,” she whisper-shouted. “MALFOY!”

He stopped at the viaduct bridge, leaning on one of the stone columns like he hadn’t just been stomping through the castle like a grumpy hippogriff.

The breeze kicked up around them, tugging at their sleeves. She finally caught up, pink-cheeked and puffing.

“What the HELL was that, MALFOY?” she demanded, stomping to a halt behind him.

He didn’t turn. Just muttered over his shoulder, “Oh no, you’re not pinning that on me. Potions? That was your best excuse? Have you ever lied in your life?”

She caught up to him, breath hot from the brisk pace and annoyance. “Well, I don’t see why I’d say it was any other subject—one I’m clearly better at than you. So it had to be Potions.”

That stopped him.

He pivoted slowly, one eyebrow lifting. “Are you… admitting I’m better than you at Potions?”

She faltered. “No. I—”

But he was already grinning like a cat who’d backed a crow into a corner.

“Stop that,” she snapped. “Ugh! Why do you have to be so—so smug? I only said Potions because—” She broke off, visibly flustered, her words starting to bunch up in her throat.

Because?

“I meant, your… your essay last week. On bubotuber pus as a base for anti-bruising cream instead of ingesting pain potions?” Her voice sped up like she’d yanked the words straight from wherever she’d buried them. “That was… well, it was brilliant.”

Draco blinked.

“Imagine the impact,” she went on. “Fewer overdoses, more accessible options for low-income patients who can’t afford high-grade brews, easier application—”

She was rambling. Her hands had started to move, gesturing like she was giving a bloody talk to the Wizengamot. Her eyes were bright in that annoying, earnest way she got when something mattered.

And worse…she meant it.

He coughed into his sleeve to hide the slow crawl of heat up his neck. He’d spent weeks researching that paper. The bruises he got from his training sessions with Snape prompted the idea. At first, he took pain potions regularly but noticed that he was getting too dependent on it, and brewing a few doses took so much of his very limited time weekly. He created the first sample of the cream and tested it on himself. He also tested the paste on Theo’s ribs, trying different concentrations every night like some amateur apothecary. He knew it was good work, but to hear her praise it…

“How did you even read my essay?” he interrupted, sharper than he meant.

She blinked. “I, um… saw the title poking out of Snape’s stack while I was—er—arguing with him about losing points. My parchment was half an inch too long.” She rolled her eyes. “Ridiculous, honestly. But your title caught my eye.”

He just stared, then looked away, jaw clenched tight.

This was not how this conversation was supposed to go. He’d braced himself for it all week—her cornering him about Theo. He was supposed to get through it with minimal emotion and offer her something polite and functional in return. Transaction over. No follow-up.

Instead, here she was. Talking. Freely. Earnestly. With compliments.

And the worst part?

He didn’t hate it.

“So.” He cleared his throat. “Potions, huh?”

She gave a sheepish little shrug. “Not really.”

“I figured.” He sighed, long and theatrical. “Alright, out with it.”

The breeze tugged at their sleeves, snapping the edge of her cloak and fluttering parchment inside her bag. The courtyard stretched quiet around them, all stone and sky, the air between them unusually still.

“About my Arithmancy project,” she said, pulling out three tightly rolled scrolls. “With Theo. I finished it.”

He took them, unrolling the top. Runes. Calculations. Diagrams. All neat. All seemingly complete. His gaze swept the margins. There were notes in her handwriting, notations added where Theo’s would’ve gone. It was subtle. Clever. She hadn’t just done the work—she’d made it look like collaboration.

His first instinct was defensiveness. What, she thought they couldn’t handle it? That she had to swoop in and fix things?

But then… his eyes drifted over Theo’s sections, careful to match his handwriting, but not quite right, and the tension in his shoulders slackened. Between Occlumency, dueling drills, prefect patrols, and his ever-growing list of lies to keep Theo’s absence unnoticed, he had no bandwidth. And the swot had… helped. Efficiently. Quietly. Where was the gloating?

“Theo wanted to write his parts,” she said quickly, chewing the inside of her cheek. The gesture struck him. It was oddly familiar. It reminded him of himself whenever he tried to defend a boundary with his father. The memory made him uncomfortable. “I tried using a handwriting spell to match his, but I don’t have enough samples. I thought maybe you could spell it before submission?”

He didn’t respond right away.

She fidgeted. “I just thought… if you wanted the project to still count.”

Was it pity? Guilt? Or just a reflexive compulsion to fix broken things?

He wasn’t sure.

But for once, he wasn’t inclined to argue.

“…Thank you,” he said, voice lower than he meant it to be.

She blinked. “Wha—?”

“I said,” he repeated, scowling at the ground, “thank you. For calling me that afternoon. For… Theo.”

Her shoulders dropped a little. Not out of defensiveness, just relief.

“I’m just glad we were there on time,” she said softly.

He nodded, once.

She hesitated. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

He looked up.

“No one else knows,” she added, quieter this time. “Just thought you should know. In case you were wondering.”

His gaze lingered on her, unreadable.

“…Good,” he said shortly.

He tucked the scrolls into his satchel with a flick of his wand, fastening the flap. Then he pushed himself off the stone column and nodded to her with something almost resembling formality.

“Granger.”

He turned on his heel, offering a quick flick of his fingers in a mock-salute.

She watched him disappear down the path, the wind catching his cloak just before the archway swallowed him whole.

----

The library was quiet in that particular late-afternoon way. It was filled with soft shadows, hushed footsteps, and the occasional turn of parchment that sounded loud in the stillness. Draco found Blaise at their usual table, flipping through a Defense text with his usual lazy precision. Nothing about him ever looked rushed.

Someone was hunched over the end of their row, motionless except for the slow, steady rise and fall of breath under a dark robe.

Draco didn’t need to look closely.

Theo.

The idiot had his hood pulled forward like a curtain, his head resting on one crooked arm, snoring lightly.

Draco dropped his satchel on the table with a soft thud and let himself collapse into the chair like the weight of the last hour had caught up all at once.

Blaise didn’t even look up. “So how was your little Potions date with the Gryffindor swot?” he asked, lips curling around the word date like it tasted particularly sweet.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not now, Blaise.”

“That bad, huh?” Blaise finally glanced at him. “Someone catch you in a broom closet again? Did she slap you? Curse you? Use her Gryffindor glare?”

“There was no Potions,” Draco muttered. “And no bloody broom closet, you absolute wanker.” He caught himself, glanced sideways toward Theo. “It was about Th—”

He didn’t finish. Blaise followed his gaze and immediately dropped the grin. The shift was immediate, something only Blaise could do. He was all sharp lines and effortless charm in public, but when it came to serious matters involving his friends, he shifted his demeanor immediately.

He was the only other person who knew what happened that night.

Draco didn’t want to tell anybody else what happened, but he needed Blaise’s help. He hated that, but it was true. He couldn’t be in three places at once—Snape’s office, the Great Hall, Theo’s side—and Blaise… well, Blaise had always had a way of making people listen, even when he wasn’t trying. Theo responded to him. Trusted him.

That was worth more than pride right now.

“So,” Blaise said more carefully this time, “what did the swot want?”

Draco exhaled, not sure where to begin. He pulled out the scrolls she’d given him and rolled them across the table. Blaise leaned in, brows lifting as he scanned the neat runes and equations.

“Their Arithmancy project. She wants me to spell Theo’s parts,” Draco said flatly. “Make it look like he worked on it. Like they collaborated.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, impressed with the spell, but unimpressed with his friend. “And you’re mad about this because…?”

Draco scowled. “Because it’s irritating. She’s irritating. I don’t want to owe her anything.”

His voice dropped at the end, but the bitterness lingered.

“She highlighted the sections I had to work on too,” he added after a pause, like that made it worse. “Temporarily. They vanish after the spell. Efficient little menace.”

Blaise gave him a sideways look. “Your face is doing that twitchy sneer again.”

“Brilliant observation,” Draco muttered. He rubbed his jaw and sat back. “I just… I don’t know what she wants.”

“She doesn’t strike me as the type you can bribe with shiny things, mate.” Blaise tilted his head. “How’d the conversation go?”

Draco stared at the ceiling. “Weird. Unnervingly fine. Awkward. She was… sincere.”

He said the last word like it was a foreign substance he didn’t quite trust not to burn him.

Blaise smirked. “You say that like sincerity is a crime.”

“It is, when it’s coming from her.” Draco sat up, annoyed with himself more than anything. “We’ve hated each other for years. Four straight years of arguments, insults, detentions. And now—what, she wants to do us favors? Out of nowhere?”

Blaise gave him a slow blink, like he was the one being ridiculous. “I think you’re overthinking this, Draco.”

“Am I?” Draco gestured broadly. “You’re telling me a Gryffindor—Granger, of all people—doesn’t have some agenda? You don’t think it’s strange we had our longest conversation ever and she didn’t even try to be sanctimonious? She just… helped. That doesn’t bother you?”

“No,” Blaise said easily. “What bothers me is you. The way you’re spiraling like a rejected courter. Merlin’s sake, man, she gave you scrolls, not a love letter.”

Draco glared.

“And,” Blaise added casually, “you’ve been brooding about it. Just like this morning. In the Great Hall. You were practically staring—”

“Shut it.” Draco snapped, too fast.

Blaise leaned back, smug.

Draco huffed out a breath and glanced toward Theo again. Still sleeping. Still breathing. That was enough.

He turned back to the scrolls, pulling his wand and starting on the handwriting charm. Granger’s temporary highlights shimmered faintly, then vanished the moment the spell hit—like she’d planned for him to pick it up without even asking.

Infuriating. Efficient… but infuriating.

He frowned deeper with every flick of his wand. He didn’t want to owe her. Didn’t want to need her help. And yet here he was, using it. Relying on it.

No demands. No lectures. No strings.

That was the worst part.

It was easier when he could dismiss her. When she was all rules and righteousness and overachieving noise.

But now… now he didn’t know what to make of her.

And he hated not knowing.

---

Hermione supposed, if she had to measure it, this counted as a win.

Not academically, of course. Not in the traditional sense of house points or exam scores. But in terms of… progress. Personal milestones. This was, after all, the longest conversation she’d ever had with Draco Malfoy as a student.

That last part mattered— as a student . Before the world went to hell. Before the war shattered everything, scraped them raw, and forced them to cooperate out of sheer necessity. Before they both bled, and burned, and bent around the terrible truths they had once used to define each other.

So yes. As students, this was the longest. And somehow, the quietest it had ever been between them.

She should feel triumphant. Instead, she just felt tired.

And maybe a little haunted.

Draco had been right about one thing: she was a terrible liar. Always had been. Especially to him.

It was true that she’d seen his essay poking out of Snape’s marking pile a few days ago. It was also true that she’d seen that exact essay before, in the same context, just in another timeline. Another life. And in that life, she’d also seen it used and watched it work when it had saved Harry’s leg.

She remembered that night in unflinching detail. The burn of cold wind against her cheeks. The silence that followed the shouting in Hogsmeade. Harry splinched badly, half-limping, half-dragged between them. Blood soaking his trouser leg. And Draco—foul-tempered, furious Draco—had pulled a battered tin from his coat and slapped a thick, acrid-smelling salve onto the wound with practiced efficiency.

No words. No ceremony. Just action.

And when she saw it work…really work, knitting skin and clotting deep tissue faster than any standard healing potion, she’d been astonished. She’d begged him to teach her. Pleaded, even. But he’d refused. Flat-out ignored her. Scoffed. Walked away.

He always did, at first.

She tried to recreate it herself, but it never worked quite right. So she schemed—Just a little.

She tried again. She fumbled with ingredients, flubbed ratios with deliberate sloppiness. Made sure he saw her fail. She dropped the wrong quantities in plain view, left her notes half-unrolled on shared tables during strategy sessions, and even spelled the scent of crushed bubotuber into the air until he snapped.

It was ridiculous. Transparent. She knew he knew exactly what she was doing. Theatrics had never been her style, but she needed that formula. She needed to learn it.

And Draco Malfoy, the prideful exacting arse that he was, couldn’t take her theatrics and the smell of raw bubotuber pus in his quarters any longer. He mocked her technique, sneered at her proportions… and finally, finally, caved.

That was how their truce began. Not with forgiveness. Not with some tearful, noble reckoning. Just a bruise balm and mutual stubbornness. He taught her the formula. She refined the process. Together, they managed to mass-produce it without sacrificing potency: just in time to supply the underground infirmaries that desperately needed an alternative to standard potions that were too rare, too slow, or too volatile to brew on the move.

It had been their first real collaboration. The first of many, eventually.

But now, in this timeline, that hasn't happened yet.

Now she stood in the awkward present, where he still didn’t trust her and she couldn’t blame him. Where they still operated on opposite ends of house tables and instinctively bristled when the other walked too close.

And yet—

And yet…

There had been something different in his eyes today. Fleeting, but there. A flicker of suspicion, yes, but behind it, something quieter.

Not gratitude. Draco Malfoy didn’t do gratitude.

But maybe, just maybe—respect.

That was new.

And she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Hermione pulled her robes tighter and leaned back against the cool stone wall, letting the moment settle. She could still hear the tail end of their conversation echoing in her head: his clipped “thank you,” the way he said it like it scraped his throat raw. The way he’d paused before walking away, like he wanted to say something else but didn’t quite trust himself to try.

She hadn’t told anyone. Not about Theo. Not about that night in the tower.

There might be a time she might need to tell Harry due to their circumstances. But now was not the time.

Some things weren’t hers to share.

Still, a thread of guilt pulled taut in her chest. She had used Theo to reach Draco; Had seized the moment to open a door that might otherwise have stayed shut in this timeline. It was part of their initial plan with Harry in this timeline—to get close to Draco by befriending Theo. She didn’t expect the events to turn out the way it had.

She told herself it was for the war. Because she needed both Harry and Draco if they were going to stand a chance this time. Maybe 

And it was true.

But that didn’t make it sit any easier.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke with a stiff neck and the faint imprint of parchment on her cheek. She’d fallen asleep at her study table again, poring over her Arithmancy scrolls. Draco had returned the project a few days ago via his eagle owl. He altered the sections she highlighted into Theo’s handwriting flawlessly, as if she and Theo had worked on it together from the start. After their conversation on the viaduct bridge, she half expected him to return it in person. But of course, that would’ve been asking too much.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stretched, wincing as her spine cracked back into place. Fifteen minutes behind schedule. That would throw everything else off: her morning routine, her breakfast slot, the reading she planned before class. She dressed quickly and all but ran to the Great Hall, hair barely tamed and eyes still heavy from the night before.

She slid into a seat beside Ron and Ginny, trying to act casual, only to feel a sudden drop in temperature around her. Conversations dipped as she passed. Forks paused mid-air. Students turned to stare. Not just subtle glances, but full-on, blatant looks.

Hermione blinked. “Um… is everything alright?”

Ginny and Ron exchanged a look.

“Did I miss something?” she asked again, glancing between them.

Ginny gave her a hesitant smile. “You just look a bit… tired, is all. Are you okay?”

Hermione grabbed a scone and poured herself a coffee. “Didn’t sleep much. I was up late finishing my Arithmancy project.”

She winced and rubbed at her sore neck. Ron cleared his throat.

“So, uh… you met with Nott last night, then?”

Hermione paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “What? No. He turned in his half ages ago. I just stayed up tidying the format.”

“Oh.” Ron exhaled, clearly relieved. “Right. That makes sense.”

Her brows furrowed. “Why would you even ask that?”

Ron suddenly found his sausage incredibly interesting. He shoved the whole thing into his mouth and looked helplessly at Ginny.

Before she could answer, Harry arrived with his usual morning chaos: windswept hair, crumpled robes, and an expression caught somewhere between late and lost.

“Ginny, I swear to Morgana,” Hermione hissed, grabbing the redhead’s arm. “What is going on?”

Ginny sighed and stood. “Not here. Come on. Walk with me. You two—” she nodded to the boys—“you’re coming too.”

Hermione snagged another scone and tossed a pointed look at Harry until he grabbed one as well. They walked into one of the quieter corridors off the Great Hall, where the early morning light pooled against the stone in soft gold streaks.

Ginny didn’t waste time.

“There’ve been rumors,” she said.

“Rumors?” Hermione echoed. “About what?”

Ginny hesitated. “About you. And… Malfoy. And Nott having a sort of love triangle going on”

Hermione blinked. “What?! That’s—no. That’s preposterous.”

“Well,” Ginny said carefully, “some Ravenclaws apparently saw you and Malfoy leaving an empty classroom last week. At night. And they said you both looked…”

“Looked what?” Hermione snapped.

“Freshly snogged.”

Hermione gaped. “There was no snogging!”

“It was so farfetched, I didn’t know what to say, Mione.” Ginny raised her hands in surrender. “And the Nott part? People think you’ve been secretly dating him because you asked him to be your Arithmancy partner, and then he looked all mopey for days after your classroom rendezvous with Malfoy.”

Ron nodded. “We kind of noticed it too. He looked completely gutted.”

Hermione stared at them, stunned. It reminded her of fourth year, of Rita Skeeter and the whole Krum-Harry debacle, the triangle that never was.

She glanced at Harry. He was listening quietly, chewing on his scone and avoiding eye contact.

“So that’s why everyone’s staring at me like I’m some kind of—what? A slag?”

Silence. Too much of it.

“Well… not everyone,” Ginny offered. “Some think you’re kind of a legend for catching the attention of the two most eligible Slytherins.”

Ron and Harry made identical gagging noises.

Hermione groaned. “There is no catching. There’s no dating. It’s all ridiculous. Well—” she faltered. “Most of it.”

Ginny raised a brow. “So tell us what actually happened.”

Hermione froze. Her brain scrambled for the right words. She didn’t want to tell them about the Astronomy Tower. That wasn’t her story to share.

“I… I can’t,” she said softly. “It’s not mine to tell.”

That set off alarm bells immediately.

Harry’s expression darkened. “Did someone do something to you? And you can’t talk about it?”

“What? No! Nothing like that,” she said quickly. “It’s just…” Her voice faltered as she looked at him, guilt twisting low in her stomach.

Ginny gently squeezed her hand. “You can trust us, Mione.”

Harry nodded. “But if you’re not ready, that’s okay too.”

Ginny elbowed him sharply. “Ow!”

Hermione rolled her eyes, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “I’m serious. It’s really not my story to tell. But please, please believe me when I say there was no snogging.”

“Which one?” Ginny asked. “Nott? Or Malfoy?”

“ Both ! There was no snogging either of them!” Hermione huffed. “Something happened, but it’s not what you’re all imagining.”

“Alright,” Ginny relented with a sigh. “I trust you. But I am getting the full story out of you eventually.” She shot Harry a look, who raised his hands in surrender. “This is all your fault.”

Sweet, cautious Harry. He probably thought it had something to do with the Time Turner. Maybe it was time to let Harry in—at least partway. She made a mental note to talk to him later and silently apologized to Draco in her mind.

She took a slow breath. “Thanks. For understanding.”

They stood there for a few seconds, wrapped in the hush of morning and unsaid words. Then a group of girls passed by, glaring at Hermione with open disdain before leaning into one another and whispering behind their hands.

Ginny narrowed her eyes. “We’ll just have to do something about that.”

Ron slung an arm around Hermione’s shoulder. “Let them talk. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. The rumors’ll die down.”

Hermione didn’t answer, but as the echo of gossip followed the retreating girls down the corridor, she felt it…just a little less alone.

---

There were whispers everywhere today.

Draco scowled as he walked down the corridor toward the Great Hall, catching the way a pair of Hufflepuff girls giggled behind their hands as he passed. One continuously ogled at him over breakfast. Like he was some sort of prize hippogriff at the Magical Creatures fair.

He picked up his pace.

“What is wrong with people?” he muttered under his breath.

“Jealous, probably,” Blaise drawled beside him, looking entirely too pleased for someone who wasn’t the subject of a schoolwide rumor storm. “You’ve always liked attention, mate. What’s a bit of scandal to spice things up?”

Draco gave him a flat look. “I’m being accused of snogging Granger.”

“Allegedly snogging,” Blaise corrected with a grin. “And it’s not just that. Word is, she’s juggling you and Theo. A full triangle. Very tragic. Quite poetic.”

Draco sneered. “Don’t say ‘poetic.’ It’s revolting coming from you.”

“And yet you haven’t denied it publicly,” Blaise said innocently, clearly enjoying the conversation.

Draco clenched his jaw. “Because that would be dignifying it. If I respond, it makes it real. Like I care. Which I don’t.”

“You’re ranting, Draco.”

“I’m not—!”

Blaise raised a brow.

Draco took a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Fine. I’m mildly annoyed .”

“You’re obsessed,” Blaise said cheerfully.

He wasn’t. Not even close. Granger was irritating. She was loud and bossy and always had ink on her fingers. She quoted rules like scripture and got this maddening spark in her eyes whenever she thought she was right—which was bloody often . And now, thanks to one night of chasing Theo through the castle, people thought they’d done things in a classroom?

Preposterous!

And some people actually seemed into it .

He overheard two fourth-year Slytherins in the common room the other night whispering about how scandalously forbidden it all was. One even called it “hot.” He almost hexed a cushion out of pure rage.

He turned the corner and instantly halted because there was Pansy, looking like she was ready to launch herself at him.

“Oh for—Blaise, she’s spotted me.”

Blaise didn’t even pretend to help. “Good luck,” he said, clapping Draco on the shoulder and veering off like the absolute traitor he was.

Pansy stormed up to him with a look that could petrify trolls.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” she hissed. “Are you seriously not going to explain yourself?”

“Explain what ?” he groaned.

She crossed her arms. “You. Granger. Nott. People are talking, and you look like you’re hiding something. Are you?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Since when do I have to explain anything to you ?”

She stepped closer. “Since you’re mine , remember?”

There it was again. That murky grey area between what they were and what Pansy decided they were. He didn't have the energy to deal with it.

“I didn’t snog Granger,” he said sharply. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”

She sniffed. “So you’re just running around in the dark with her for fun?”

Before he could answer, a quiet voice cut through the hallway.

“Sounds like a blast,” Theo said as he slid into view from a side corridor, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.

Draco blinked. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to hear you not snogging Granger,” Theo replied. He leaned against the wall, casual in the way that only people who’d gone through hell and didn’t care anymore could manage.

Draco studied him, wary. Theo had been a ghost all week: pale, silent, more withdrawn than usual. He barely ate, didn’t go to classes unless forced, and had spent most of his time avoiding conversation.

And now? He was cracking jokes?

“Wait,” Blaise reappeared from the other end of the hallway with a look of mock astonishment. “Was that... humor, Theodore?”

Theo shrugged. “Sort of funny. The whole school thinks I’m romantically involved with Granger. That Draco is.”

There was a pause.

Then Blaise started laughing. “Merlin’s balls. You’re alive.”

Draco chuckled under his breath, a flicker of something loosening in his chest. It was the first proper reaction Theo had given since that night. He was still hollow-eyed and grey around the edges, but it was something. A crack in the fog.

Pansy didn’t find it amusing, of course. She huffed and stormed off in a flurry of black robes and indignation murmuring something about boys thinking with their cocks.

Theo watched her go. “She thinks you’re hers.”

Draco made a face. “She thinks a lot of things.”

They stood there a moment longer, leaning on the cool stones of the corridor, listening to the distant chatter of students still too invested in nonsense.

“Well, she did save me, both of you did. ” Theo said quietly.

Draco glanced at him.

Theo didn’t meet his eyes. “Granger. She acted fast. You did too.”

Draco didn’t say anything. He just nodded once and looked away.

He still didn’t like her. Not really. She was infuriating. She asked too many questions and had too many answers. She was nosy and self-righteous and all Gryffindor.

But the know-it-all mud-- muggleborn pulled Theo back.

And that was… something.

Just not something he was ready to admit meant anything. Not yet.

------

The silvery otter danced above her wand with hardly any effort. It spiraled once around the Room of Requirement before landing in a soft shimmer at her feet, drawing a few gasps from the younger students.

Hermione didn’t look particularly proud of herself. In fact, she was trying not to look smug. She hadn’t even attended the last few D.A. meetings, but conjuring a Patronus was second nature to her. Of course it was. She’d cast it nearly every day for a year in the future that hadn’t happened yet. Over fires. Over frostbitten fingers. Over Harry’s sleeping form, when he wouldn’t let himself cry.

She swallowed the memory and tried to focus on now.

“You’d think she invented the spell,” one of the Ravenclaw girls whispered a little too loudly.

“Maybe she practiced it in a broom closet with Malfoy,” another giggled. “Bet he likes her Patronus as much as hers likes him.”

Hermione’s grip on her wand tightened. The otter blinked out of existence as her magic sputtered, caught in the flare of fury rising in her chest.

She turned sharply. “Do you honestly think your gossip is clever?”

The girls shrank back slightly, but not before one muttered, “Takes one to snog two.”

Before Hermione could hex something, and she very much wanted to, Ginny stepped between them.

“That’s enough,” she said coolly. “Unless you’d like to duel about it.”

That shut them up. Ginny had a reputation.

Hermione didn’t wait to be placated. Her lungs were tight, her hands shaking in that dangerous, furious way they did when she’d had enough. Enough whispers. Enough looks. Enough of the rumors they know nothing about.

She stormed out of the Room of Requirement and down the corridor, ignoring Harry’s concerned glance. He could ask her in the morning, but for now, she didn’t want comfort. She wanted silence.

The courtyard was cold and open, a wash of grey light falling over the stone. She crossed the lawn, ignoring the way the wind bit at her cheeks, and made her way to the low stone wall overlooking the hills just beyond the mountain line.

Hermione sat, pulling her knees to her chest. The air felt better out here. It felt cleaner, less noise and opinions.

She didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in days. But something inside her was pressed thin, like the skin of a soap bubble.

She closed her eyes.

Then—

ZAP.

A sharp sting hit her shoulder.

She whipped around. No one in sight. Just the faintest sizzle of a stinging hex still humming off the stone.

Hermione stood slowly, her heartbeat quickening, a dull ache blooming across her back. Her wand was already in her hand.

Her jaw clenched. No one was in sight, but a residual shimmer of magic caught her eye. It was something subtle, hanging in the air near the Clocktower.

A ward. Weak. Barely a whisper of concealment.

She pushed through it easily.

And found chaos. Hermione hadn’t even meant to be there.

Inside the Clocktower, a group of students had surrounded a dueling platform. Four students were mid duel—Fred was paired with a Ravenclaw sixth-year, facing off against George and a stocky Hufflepuff. Students from every house lined the balconies and hallways above, some cheering, others passing coins and betting slips. At the edge of the makeshift arena stood a healer squad, and—was that Blaise Zabini with a silver whistle?

What the hell was this? No wonder the twins were absent from the D.A. today.

Fred blasted George back with a Depulso; both opponents fell in a heap. The whistle shrieked. Students roared. A group of students with white arm bands— probably the assigned student healers— rushed in. 

Hermione could only gape.

This was some sort of secret duelling club. Just looking at the number of students around, it wasn’t just a secret club. It looked like it had been organized for some time now.

She felt a complicated swirl of betrayal and admiration. Fred and George were part of the D.A. They never said anything. Hadn’t even hinted.

Her confusion froze into alarm as a boy in front of her turned and shouted, “INTRUDER!”

Before she could react, a binding hex snapped around her limbs. Her wand flew from her grip. Someone silenced her, dragging her forward into the middle of the chaos.

“Hermione!” Fred’s voice rang out. He was sprinting toward her, wand drawn. “Let her go!”

A wand pressed to her shoulder. “You know the rules, Weasley,” Zacharias Smith sneered, holding her in place.

Hermione tried to yell, but the spell held. She mouthed his name in desperation.

Fred’s jaw clenched. Slowly, he lowered his wand. “Hermione. Just…listen to me. Trust me. No one’s going to hurt you. Just follow the rules, yeah?”

Then, louder, “I’ll be her witness.”

Smith scoffed. “That’s if she even passes.”

George limped into view, looking half-singed and delighted. “I’m the second witness,” he said, grinning at her. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

They released her enough to stand unaided, and Zabini stepped into the spotlight, voice echoing through the chamber.

“Everyone, silence! We’ve got ourselves an intruder,” he said dramatically, waving his arms like a showman. “What shall we do with her?”

Hermione rolled her eyes as the crowd quieted. She glared at Zabini.

“How did you find us, Granger?” he asked, lifting the silencing spell with a flick.

“First and foremost, I was in the courtyard by the fountain when one of your stray hexes hit me,” she snapped. “Second—whoever was assigned to make your wards? It was absolute rubbish.”

“Oi!” Anthony Goldstein shouted, but a friend yanked him back. Hermione narrowed her eyes in his direction. He told Ron earlier he wasn’t feeling too well to attend the D.A. meeting today. The absolute git was here instead!

“I’m just being honest,” Hermione huffed. “And binding me for ‘interrogation’ is a bit much, don’t you think?”

“Rules are rules,” Zabini said with an unapologetic shrug. “Only members allowed.”

“So now I’ve found you. What are you gonna do?”

“You’ll be obliviated.” The Slytherin suddenly went serious.

The word hit her like a punch to the ribs.

Her breath caught. Obliviation—she had done it before. To her parents. To protect them. She still remembered the feeling. The cold precision in her wand. The silence after.

And now someone else wanted to do that to her?

Absolutely not. Especially not now that she had memories of the future to safeguard. 

“You can’t touch my memories just because your security is a joke!”

There was a ripple in the crowd. Uneasy murmurs. Even some nods.

George, noticing her rising panic, cut in. “Let’s stop playing games, Zabini. Fred and I will witness for her. You know what that means.”

Hermione turned. “What does that mean?”

Zabini held up a finger, clearly considering. Then: “Fine. No Obliviation… if you become a member.”

She crossed her arms. “I assume that requires something ridiculous.”

“A duel,” he confirmed cheerfully. “Two versus two. Partner chosen at random. All spells up to fifth-year Defense allowed. Victory is either incapacitation or forfeit. We’ve got medics on standby.”

“And if someone cheats?”

Zabini grinned and enlarged a scroll with a tap of his wand. “Binding contract. Your wand won’t let you cast outside the sanctioned spell list. Also, it waives liability for permanent damage.”

“Lovely,” she muttered, scanning the scroll. It was clean. Efficient. Fair.

Impressive, honestly.

“So if I win, I join. If I lose, you Obliviate me?”

“Precisely.”

“Fine. Quill?”

Zabini wiggled his eyebrows. “You’re still in a body bind.”

“Oh…right. Fix that.”

He released her. She signed. Her name glowed gold.

“Brilliant!” Zabini turned to the crowd. “We have a challenge for membership! And none other than—psst, Granger, what’s your middle name?”

“Hermione Jean Granger,” she replied flatly.

“Adorable,” Zabini said, then roared, “GRYFFINDOR’S HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER, everyone!”

Cheers. Whistles. Stomping.

“Now then—who shall our contenders be?” Zabini summoned a floating box with a flick. “Temere Nomen Eius!”

A name floated out. “Ravenclaw's Anthony Goldstein!” 

Hermione raised an eyebrow. Of course.

He strutted into the ring, Roger Davies name was pulled out next and stood at Goldstein’s side. “Think you can just walk in and insult a centuries-old club, Granger?” he sneered.

“I didn’t insult your club. Just Goldstein’s wards,” she said calmly, arms crossed.

She looked around and noticed that there were more students from the D.A. dotted the crowd. There weren’t any triggers to the D.A. contract she created, so no one had gone against the rules. This club might have a similar contract of its own— an old one, if Davies’ comment about it being “centuries-old” was true.

Fred and George likely joined before Dumbledore’s Army even existed. It certainly explains why a lot weren’t in attendance earlier today.

Then the next name floated out. She listened intently, hoping her partner would be someone she knew she could work with.

Zabini looked at it. His eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

But just before that—

The clock tower doors creaked open.

Draco Malfoy strolled in, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, still in their Quidditch kits. His robes were slung over one arm, hair windblown, his face flushed slightly from practice. He wasn’t expecting an audience, clearly.

Hermione noticed the slight stumble in his step as he caught sight of her in the center of the dueling ring. She could see the thoughts flying across his face as he took everything in—Fred and George standing at the sidelines, Zabini acting like he was running the Hogwarts version of a muggle boxing ring, and her… standing in the middle of it.

His eyebrows drew together. Surprise flickered across his face, followed by a frown. He looked at Hermione like she’d grown a second head. Confusion, suspicion, irritation… then a flash of realization.

He paused at the edge of the crowd, muttering something to Crabbe, but his eyes stayed fixed on her. She held his gaze. She didn’t flinch.

Then Zabini’s voice rang out: dramatic and gleeful.

“Hermione Jean Granger will be partnered with… the crowd favorite—SLYTHERIN’S DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY!”

The room exploded.

Gasps, groans, whoops.

Hermione’s head snapped back toward Zabini, then whipped toward Malfoy again. She caught it—the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Irritation. Confusion. And then, of course, the slow burn of dawning horror.

“What in the ever-loving fuck,” he said under his breath as he stepped forward into the dueling circle, eyes narrowed.

Crabbe and Goyle looked around like they’d accidentally wandered into a soap opera. Zabini was nearly vibrating with excitement.

Hermione blinked hard. She definitely heard that right.

Malfoy stepped beside her, arms crossed. “Granger,” he said tightly. “Tired of Potter’s little Army? Decided to poke around our club now?”

She stiffened at the dig. 

Rumors of the D.A.’s existence were making rounds now too, it seemed. She tried to stay calm. She saw Fred, George, and Goldstein all glance away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said evenly. “I just happened to stumble into your club because your wards are terrible.”

He gave a dry laugh. “Still a rubbish liar.”

“I don’t care about your exclusive dueling club. But I am not losing this battle. No one touches my mind.”

He seemed to process that. His gaze flicked toward her wand hand, then back up. Something shifted. He scoffed.

“Relax, Granger. It’s not my style to throw a fight. Especially not to Goldstein.”

Relief surged through her like a wave. Thank Merlin. She’s definitely fought with Draco in the future, and they work well together on multiple assignments. But this Draco, she doesn’t know anything about. She only hopes they will be able to keep up with each other.

She nodded quickly. “Thank you. I can be your defense.”

Malfoy looked mildly surprised but didn’t interrupt, so she went on.

“We’ve never fought side by side, so it’s better to assign roles. I’ll match your pace. You can lead offense.”

He tilted his head. “Roles are good, but we’ll need to swap mid-battle or they’ll catch on. Let’s both go offense by the end.”

“Agreed. Code it with numbers. Odd means you want defense. Even means offense.”

He blinked. Then smirked faintly. “Simple, I like it.”

They both stepped forward into the ring.

The crowd buzzed. Wands were gripped tighter.

The countdown began.

---

Davies fired first at Malfoy. “ Diffindo! ”

But before the curse could land, Hermione slid beside Malfoy and cast a perfect Protego , her shield snapping to life just in time to block the slash of magic. In the same breath, she sent a smooth Stupefy back at Davies, who flew backward into the stone wall with a loud crack.

“One,” Hermione said softly, smirking.

She was going to enjoy this.

Malfoy gave her a sideways look, eyes gleaming. “Two.” A flick of his wand, and Flippendo hit Goldstein squarely in the chest. The Ravenclaw blocked, barely—but was instantly peppered by a barrage of Stinging Hexes that Malfoy followed with ruthless precision, targeting the legs.

“Witches and Wizards!” Zabini announced like a commentator at a Quidditch match. “Draco has used one of his favorite moves. Can’t believe you fell for that one, Goldstein.”

Davies, recovering fast, shouted Confringo! in their direction. The blast cracked across the floor as Hermione rolled clear, hair whipping as she landed low. She responded with a sharp Depulso, slamming Davies downward to the hard floor. Goldstein retaliated with a Stupefy , aiming for her—

“Five!” Malfoy shouted as he intercepted the purple light with a shield, then countered with a cold Glacius! that froze Goldstein's boots to the floor, ice webbing upward.

With Malfoy on defense, Hermione surged forward. “Four!” she yelled.

She darted to the right, eyes sharp, wand already slashing through the air. “Accio Goldstein’s tie!” The spell yanked him violently forward toward her, his feet scraping ice. Before he could counter, she hit him with a Flippendo, flipping him head over heels into the air.

“ Confringo! ” Davies’ voice rang out again, closer.

Hermione braced to take the hit, but instead felt the sudden weight of Draco throwing himself into a slide, casting Protego just in time. The purple shield flared, doming over both of them.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Granger,” he muttered. “Wasn’t doing it to be noble.”

“You’re literally lying on my feet, Malfoy.”

The blast impacted the shield and fizzled harmlessly. Unfortunately, the barrier covered Anthony, too, who recovered mid-air and dropped down near her. He swiped her legs.

Hermione crashed onto the hard floor with an oof. Before she could roll back, a Titillando hit her straight in the ribs. A giggle burst from her mouth, against her will.

“Finite,” Malfoy muttered, shooting a glance toward her, slightly pink in the face. He yanked her up with a jerk of his wand.

“Six,” he added.

“A great show of partnership between Granger and Draco!” Zabini crowed. “The numbers! The timing! Are they flirting or are they planning war?”

Their opponents looked visibly rattled. The numbered code had thrown them off—no clear pattern, no easy prediction. Every spell was clean, clever, and fast.

Confuse. Distract. Overwhelm.

Hermione was grinning now, caught in the rhythm of it.

Davies snarled and cast Incarcerous , ropes shooting toward Malfoy. Hermione blasted a wooden chair with Reducto and sent the splinters flying at Davies with a follow-up Oppugno! The shards attacked like angry pixies.

Malfoy, now moving in perfect tandem with her, threw a Levicorpus at Goldstein, lifting the Ravenclaw clean off the ground.

“Granger both on nine!” he shouted.

Hermione pivoted sharply. “Accio Goldstein’s shirt!”

Goldstein whipped toward her midair—arms flailing—

“ Depulso !” 

She hurled him like a cannonball into Davies just as Malfoy spun and cast Expelliarmus with a whipcrack flourish.

Davies’ wand flew across the room.

Goldstein hit the ground. Hard.

The room went dead silent.

Zabini’s jaw dropped. Even Fred and George leaned forward, stunned.

Then—roars. 

Cheers exploded across the room, echoing like Quidditch stands after a match-winning goal. Someone shouted “THAT WAS BLOODY BRILLIANT!” while another yelled “MARRY HER!” which Malfoy very pointedly ignored.

Crabbe and Goyle were clapping awkwardly. Goldstein groaned from the floor. Even Davies looked dazed as the medics ran towards them.

Hermione slowly turned to Mlafoy, chest still rising and falling. Her wand trembled slightly in her hand, not from fear, but from the sheer force of what they’d just done.

Malfoy looked… off.

His lips were pressed into a thin line, his brows drawn—but not in victory. Surprise flickered across his face, quickly chased by something colder. Confusion. Frustration.

Anger?

Before she could say a word, Zabini strode dramatically into the center, arms thrown wide like he was welcoming royalty.

“Ladies and gents—we have new blood! What a show! Give it up for Granger and Malfoy, Hogwarts’ newest terrifying duo!”

The crowd exploded into cheers.

But behind the noise, she and Malfoy stood still, shoulders tense, expressions unreadable.

Then, to her confusion, Malfoy stepped back without a glance, turned on his heel, and walked straight toward the exit. Crabbe and Goyle scrambled after him, half-jogging to keep up.

Hermione stood frozen, unsure whether to follow him with her eyes or pretend she hadn’t noticed. She blinked. What had just happened?

They’d won. Hadn’t they?

Malfoy was gone. And she didn’t understand why.

The applause still thundered. Zabini still basked in the spotlight.

But as the last sparks of magic faded, and the tightness in her chest bloomed, her thoughts were pulled away from the retreating Slytherin just as Fred and George rushed in, spinning her around with wild, breathless grins.

Chapter Text

Draco was avoiding Hermione Granger like the plague.

It wasn’t difficult. She didn’t exactly hang around the Slytherin dungeons or show up to Quidditch drills. But somehow, she still managed to infiltrate his thoughts like a stubborn stain that couldn’t be charmed away. And that was the problem.

It had been a few weeks since that bloody duel. The dueling club was one of the only places he could actually unwind—second only to Quidditch. It could’ve been the perfect night after practice. He hadn’t even planned to duel. He was going to sit back and watch someone else get hexed into next week. But fate, in all its twisted brilliance, had other plans and partnered him with the swot. In spectacular fashion, no less. She’d moved like she’d trained beside him for years, covering his blind spots—his blind spots , which only Snape ever seemed to point out in their sessions.

And they’d worked well together. Too well. It wasn’t just competent—it was seamless. Every instinct he had, she met it with an equal and opposite force. Only Theo had ever come close to matching him like that. Maybe Blaise on a good day. But Granger?

It was maddening.

She wasn’t even getting extra lessons like he was. She didn’t have Snape drilling hexes into her spine twice a week. No special access to dueling wards or performance elixirs. She just… did it. Like it was any other ordinary day. And she looked smug doing it too, even if she wasn’t trying to. Probably didn’t even realize how insufferable it was, being that bloody good.

Blaise, of course, found the entire thing hilarious.

“She signed the contract, by the way,” he said casually over breakfast last week, swirling pumpkin juice like it was a glass of Firewhisky. “Weasley twins were her witnesses. Hermione Jean Granger, fully inducted. You’ve got yourself a new clubmate, Draco.”

Draco had nearly choked on his toast.

Now, tugging on his Quidditch gloves, Draco tried to shake off the thought of her. He had a match to focus on—Gryffindor. It was the first game of the season. Stakes were high and tempers higher. They’d trained through rain, sleet, and whatever it was that storm over the Forbidden Forest had decided to cough up. There was no room for distractions.

“You ready to kick some Gryffindor arse, Malfoy?” Marcus Flint’s voice cut through the locker room like a curse.

Draco pulled on the last strap of his glove, flexing his fingers. “Let’s do this.”

The stadium was loud. Red and gold on the right side of the stands. Green and silver on the other. Draco mounted his broom, eyes narrowing as he scanned the crowd. There. Fourth row from the top, nose buried in a book even as the rest of the students chanted themselves hoarse—Hermione sodding Granger.

Of course.

His stomach twisted with something unfamiliar. Not nerves. Irritation. Probably.

The game kicked off in a flurry of movement. Bludgers flying. Flint barking orders. Potter zipping around like he owned the air.

Draco tried to focus. Really, he did. But every time he turned, it was like his eyes betrayed him, glancing to that same spot in the stands, checking if she was still there, still reading, still utterly unbothered by the chaos below.

And then Gryffindor scored. Again.

And again.

And suddenly the crowd was a roar of victory chants, and Draco’s blood was boiling. His broom dipped low, swerved, caught a gust. And there was Potter, looking smug, which was a sin in itself. The Snitch was gone, the game was over, and Gryffindor won.

By the time they touched down, it had already begun—shouting, accusations, Flint nearly going at George, and Draco—well, Draco didn’t even remember who threw the first punch. It might’ve been Potter. Might’ve been him.

Didn’t matter. Because minutes later, he, Harry, and George were standing in Professor McGonagall’s office with blood on their sleeves and matching scowls.

“One week’s detention, and fifty points from your respective houses,” McGonagall said stiffly. “Each.”

That should’ve been it. A fair punishment, clean and simple. But of course, the universe wasn’t in the mood for fairness today.

The door creaked open.

Click.

Pink heels.

Draco groaned internally.

“Madam Umbridge,” McGonagall said tightly.

“I’m afraid I must intervene,” Umbridge simpered, holding up a scroll bearing the Ministry seal. “Under Educational Decree Number Twenty-Five, all disciplinary actions must now be reviewed and approved by the High Inquisitor.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned to a dangerous line. “These are my students, my office—”

“Yes, and I am the Ministry’s representative,” Umbridge interrupted sweetly. “As such, I am officially banning Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and Mr. Weasley—both of them—from Quidditch for the rest of the year. Student witnesses reported that the Gryffindors started the fight, so the Slytherins will be punished by getting an extra hour of corridor patrols for a month.”

Fred hadn’t even been in the fight.

“Effective immediately,” she added. “The Gryffindor students’ brooms will be confiscated.”

Harry looked like he might explode.

Draco stood back, caught between smug satisfaction and a vague, hollow discomfort. He hated Potter, yes—but this felt… off. Wrong. He isn’t going to comment out loud though.

Hermione, who had come to McGonagall’s office trying to make it seem like a coincidence, stepped forward calmly.

“Actually, Madam Umbridge,” she said in her swottiest tone, “Educational Decrees require twenty-four hours to be ratified. Professor McGonagall’s detention ruling takes precedence.”

Umbridge turned, smile freezing. “Pardon me?”

“You’ll pardon me,” Hermione said, voice calm but cutting, “but it’s written in paragraph three, subsection seven of your own decree. I read it yesterday.”

There was a pause.

McGonagall blinked. Then slowly, deliberately, she nodded.

“Thank you, Miss Granger. Since that’s cleared up, we will proceed with the punishments we earlier discussed.”

----------------------

Detention with Potter, again.

Merlin, how had his life come to this?

Draco leaned against the desk in the near-empty classroom, tapping his quill absently against the untouched parchment in front of him. He remembered the first time he got detention with Potter in first year. And now here they were, again. 

Across from him sat the embodiment of everything wrong with his life at Hogwarts: messy hair, untucked shirt, Dumbledore’s favorite, the Boy-Who-Lived, the fucking Chosen One.

He scowled just thinking about it.

Potter glanced up, clearly irritated. “Got something to say, Malfoy?”

Draco sneered. “Just wondering what heroics you had planned after alphabetising these filing cabinets. Going to punch the dust mites next?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “At least I don’t need Daddy’s gold to make myself feel important.”

“Oh, original,” Draco snapped back. “I suppose next you’ll accuse me of writing your essays, too.”

“You probably pay someone to do yours.”

Before Draco could retaliate, Potter flinched.

Suddenly. Hard.

His body jolted forward in his seat like he’d been punched. He let out a gasp—a sound Draco had never heard from him before. It was guttural. Raw.

“Potter?” Draco said slowly, suspicion crawling up his spine.

Harry gripped the edge of the desk. His knuckles went white. Sweat burst across his forehead.

Then came the smell—sharp and metallic.

Blood.

“What the—” Draco stood, knocking over his chair. “Potter, are you—”

Harry groaned, face twisted in agony. He doubled over, retching, and dark red splattered the stone floor.

Draco took a step back, heart hammering.

“Shit—shit,” he muttered, panic threatening to override instinct.

What the hell was he supposed to do? Draco noticed that his scar was glowing, burning orange as if someone had lit a fire beneath the skin.

He remembered the rumors. The Prophet stories. Potter’s wild claims after Diggory’s death at the Triwizard Tournament. Back then, it had sounded like lunacy. But over the summer… there’d been guests. Strange ones. Conversations behind sealed doors in the Manor. Words like “return” and “allegiance.”

This…whatever was happening—felt like that.

The prefect—a sixth-year Ravenclaw assigned to oversee them—looked equally stunned. He made a move to step forward.

Draco didn’t think.

He raised his wand and fired. “Petrificuls Totalus.”

The prefect dropped like a sack of dung.

“Bloody hell,” Draco hissed, already sprinting for the door.

His mind raced. He needed help. Someone who actually knew what to do with a convulsing Potter leaking blood out of every orifice. And for some gods-forsaken reason, his mind leapt to her.

Granger.

Of course it was Granger.

He found her where he always expected to, in the library, hunched over a tome the size of a dinner table, muttering to herself about Arithmancy.

He didn’t even slow down.

“Granger!” he barked.

She startled, eyes narrowing. “What—”

“No time. It’s Potter. His scar. Just come.”

That was all it took. She dropped her book and was already running before he finished speaking.

They sprinted back to the classroom, Granger gasping out questions he didn’t know how to answer.

They burst through the door.

Harry was on the floor. Twitching. Pale. Vomiting more blood.

“Harry,” Hermione said, dropping to her knees beside him. “Harry, snap out of it. Please, look at me.”

Draco hovered by the door, useless and out of his depth.

“What’s happening?” he barked.

Hermione didn’t look up. “His scar. It—it connects him to Voldemort.”

Draco recoiled like she’d slapped him.

“What?”

“He gets visions of what Voldemort sees, or does.” Her hands were shaking. “But he hasn’t learned how to block it yet—he doesn’t know Occlumency.”

Another wave of blood spilled from Harry’s mouth.

“Harry, you need to listen to me. You need to come back.” She pulled his face towards her lap.

Draco cursed. “Shite—”

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting. This was Theo all over again. The same helpless panic. The same spiraling weight of inevitability. He hated this. He hated that he understood it.

“What do you usually do when this happens?”

“It wasn’t this bad before. We call him, and he usually snaps out of it,” Hermione answered.

“Go,” he barked at Granger. “Get Snape. Or McGonagall. Now.”

“But—”

“I said go! I know Legilimency. I can try to pull him back.”

She hesitated for half a heartbeat, then bolted.

Draco knelt beside Potter, sweat prickling along his spine.

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” he muttered, and pressed his wand to Harry’s temple.

“Legilimens.”

The world vanished.

Darkness. But not still.

This was the first time he’s entered someone elses mind. He’s only ever been the recipient whenever Snape tried to break his Occlumency walls. As for Legilimency, he was only able to practice on his Father’s Abraxans. He’s never had anyone/any other creature as comparison but he had a feeling whatever he was seeing right now was not normal.

Everything around him pulsed like the inside of a creature’s throat—wet, rank, alive. Draco blinked—or tried to, but his vision wasn’t his own anymore. He wasn’t seeing so much as inhabiting, shoved violently into a space that didn’t want him.

“Potter?” He called out in his head. No answer.

The air was thick and foul, crawling with magic that reeked of rot and copper. The smell of blood.

Everything moved at a disjointed pace, swaying side to side. Long, serpentine muscles contracting with every motion.

A corridor. Endless. Wide. Polished stone. Torches lit with green flame, their light reflecting on the smooth floor like mirrors. The architecture felt familiar but wrong, like the perspective was different.

He was low to the ground.

He wasn’t walking.

He was slithering.

The horror came slowly. Then all at once.

A snake. He was inside a snake.

Doors loomed ahead. Large, arched. They opened on their own. Inside, he saw scrolls. Cabinets. Glowing runes. The air buzzed with protective spells and something colder—older.

A man stood alone.

Red hair. Tattered cloak.

Arthur Weasley.

The snake tensed. So did Draco. Instinct that felt primal and ancient rose in his chest like bile.

He felt its hunger. Its urge to strike. Not for food, but for dominance. For blood.

Suddenly, laughter—dry and hissing—echoed in the chamber. But it didn’t come from the snake.

Someone else was there, behind it. Inside it. Controlling it.

Draco could feel the pressure. Like thoughts that weren’t his were being forced into his skull. Not words. Commands.

Kill.

The snake lunged.

Fangs wide. Everything blurred.

Draco screamed—inside the mind, outside the body—“POTTER! SNAP THE FUCK OUT OF IT!”

The vision trembled.

Like a mirror cracking from within.

Arthur Weasley turned. The fangs missed—barely.

And then—everything turned white.

Everything shattered.

---

Draco’s consciousness slammed back into his physical body.

He hit the floor hard, gasping like he’d just drowned. His limbs trembled. Sweat soaked his collar. Blood—Harry’s, someone’s, he didn’t really know—was in his mouth. His brain screamed.

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t breathe.

He was still there. Still hearing the fangs.

“Mr. Malfoy.”

Snape’s voice—sharp and cutting.

Draco choked on his own breath. He barely registered Hermione’s whispers, McGonagall’s barked orders, Harry’s slow recovery.

He shook. Uncontrollably.

He had been the snake. Had wanted what it wanted. Had almost enjoyed it.

He gripped the floor, forcing his lungs to obey.

“The snake,” Draco rasped. “There was a snake attacking Mr. Weasley… their father”

McGonagall paled. Snape vanished in a whirl of black robes.

It wasn’t just a vision.

It was a possession.

And Potter—Potter had been inside it.

It had almost consumed them both.

He vomited blood, and everything blurred after that.

---------

It had been a day since the incident...since he’d vomited blood onto a stone floor and felt himself become a monster with Scarhead.

Madam Pomfrey had woken him at least six times overnight, forcing blood-replenishing potions between his lips, a tasting-stronger-than-recommended dose of dreamless sleep, and something bitter that numbed his jaw. He hadn’t thanked her. He didn’t have the energy to be polite.

He’d been irritable since he came to. Not that anyone would dare say so.

He heard Blaise and Theo shuffle by his bedside sometime that afternoon. He kept his eyes shut and breathing even, pretending to sleep. Blaise didn’t push. Theo lingered a little longer before saying something under his breath and sitting down on the chair beside him. Draco hadn’t caught it, but the tone had been low. Resigned.

Later, he heard Weasley and Granger pass. The unmistakable stomp of Gryffindor boots. Granger’s voice was too loud for a place like this. And Weasley—just the sound of him made Draco scowl. Which, unfortunately, meant he was visibly awake.

So of course Weasley bumped into Theo’s chair.

“Watch where you’re going, Weasel,” Theo muttered.

The redhead inhaled sharply, clearly gearing up for a retort—but he heard Granger shush and pull him away. Smart girl.

A few moments later, Pomfrey shooed them all away, muttering about curfew and “the nerve of students treating the hospital wing like a social club.” The four of them left reluctantly.

Good.

Draco didn’t want to talk to anyone. And if the silence coming from the bed to his right was any indication, Potter didn’t either.

Not that he could blame him. He tried compartmentalizing his thoughts like Snape had taught him, but it wasn’t working, because what the actual fuck had just happened to him and Potter?

Draco stared at the semi-drawn curtain between their beds. Potter had seen through the eyes of—Merlin, of the Dark Lord? That wasn’t just some mind-reading or daydreaming. That was a possession. A tether. How often did it happen? How long had Potter lived like that?

He swallowed hard.

He hated the idea of pitying Potter. But he hated more the realization that he did.

Footsteps approached—soft, quick. Madam Pomfrey’s. But another set followed, slower. More deliberate.

Draco sighed through his nose and opened his eyes. Dumbledore.

Of course. Here we go.

Draco sat upright in the hospital wing bed, arms folded like armor. The privacy curtain between him and Potter had been pulled back sometime after Pomfrey’s fussing.

He heard Potter clear his throat. “Professor Dumbledore,” his voice filtered across the room: low, raspy, but stable.

Dumbledore stood between them like a sentinel, robes in twilight blue, beard catching lantern light.

“I need you both to understand,” Dumbledore began gently, “that what occurred tonight… was not ordinary. Nor should it be taken lightly.”

“Oh, we gathered,” Draco muttered, voice rougher than he liked.

Dumbledore turned, eyes unreadable. “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy, for alerting Miss Granger and the professors. For what you did. It was—”

“I didn’t do it for him,” Draco snapped. “Just didn’t want to be stuck in a room with a corpse.”

A pause. Harry snorted weakly.

“Well,” Harry croaked, “no corpses here.”

Draco didn’t answer. He stared hard at the curtain’s edge.

He hadn’t told them everything. Not about the pressure in his skull. The laughter. The command.

“I saw through something,” Harry said suddenly. “Like I was the snake. I saw the attack happen. I was the thing attacking.”

“You weren’t,” Draco said flatly. “You were in it. Same as me. Something else was in control.”

“And you snapped me out of it,” Harry added, quieter. “That last second… you said something. I heard you.”

Draco stiffened. “Thank Merlin, you bloody did.”

“I did.”

Dumbledore watched like he was witnessing history rewrite itself.

“I believe,” he said slowly, “that what occurred was a convergence. A thread, perhaps, between Harry’s connection to Voldemort, and Mr. Malfoy’s intervention through Legilimency—a very skilled intervention, I should say.”

“Don’t call him that,” Draco muttered. “You-Know-Who’s fine.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said kindly, “that if we cannot name our fears, they own us entirely.”

Draco looked away.

Harry shifted under the covers. “So what now? You’re going to teach me to block him out?”

Dumbledore glanced at Draco. “Occlumency, yes. Professor Snape will be giving you lessons—probably alongside or after Mr. Malfoy’s sessions. But there is more we must speak of. For now, rest. What you both did tonight saved a life.”

Draco frowned. Of course, the old bat knew about the lessons.

He muttered, “Was he—Mr. Weasley—was he really there? At the Ministry?”

The headmaster nodded. “Yes. And he is alive. Gravely wounded, but healing. He was found thanks to your warning.”

Draco didn’t know what to do with that.

He wasn’t used to saving people. Not by caring. He hadn’t meant to. And yet—

The image of the snake, the voice, the hunger—it haunted him.

He hated that it had been him who stepped in. Hated it more that it had worked. That Potter looked at him like they’d fought something together.

Like they were on the same side.

They weren’t. They couldn’t be.

“I’m leaving,” Draco said abruptly, swinging his legs over the bed.

“You should stay overnight,” Pomfrey called.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

He didn’t wait for permission. Just grabbed his cloak and stormed out before Dumbledore or Potter could say anything else.

He needed air. He needed silence.

And he needed to forget the feeling of something ancient watching him through borrowed eyes.

--------

Harry found the bed too white even under the moonlight.

Too sterile, too clean, too quiet—especially after what just happened. Harry sat propped up against the pillows in the Hospital Wing, arms crossed, jaw tight. His entire body ached. His head throbbed in pulsing waves, like someone had driven nails through his temples and was rhythmically hammering them deeper.

Malfoy was gone. Dumbledore too. Madam Pomfrey had forced some thick potion down his throat that made his vision blur and his tongue go numb. The moment she left, he’d spat most of it into a handkerchief and stuffed it under the mattress.

He needed clarity. Not sedation.

He remembered the pain—blistering, blinding pain—then blood, thick and coppery in his mouth. The floor beneath him. And then… a voice. Malfoy’s voice.

That alone should have sent him into another spiral.

But instead of sneering or standing off to the side looking smug and useless, Malfoy had moved. He’d gone for help. Then he’d come back. And somehow, unbelievably, he’d done something.

Harry tried to organize his thoughts. The vision. The snake.

Dark corridors. Glass windows. A massive serpent, hissing, coiling, ready to strike. He’d been in the serpent. Seeing through its eyes. Feeling its hunger. He’d tasted blood and fury and Voldemort’s laugh.

And then there was Malfoy.

Shouting. Pushing into his head. Yanking him back.

Harry flinched at the memory and scrubbed a hand over his face. No matter how many times he tried to reframe it, the truth was the same. Malfoy had saved him. And that made everything harder to make sense of. Hermione had been adamant that they were sort of allies in the future. He believed her, but it seemed so impossible until today.

The door creaked open, and Hermione slipped in. She looked like she hadn’t slept—her hair was even frizzier than usual, and her jumper was inside out.

“You’re awake,” she breathed, coming to his side.

“I am.” His voice sounded rough.

Hermione reached out to take his hand, whispering, “How are you feeling?”

“Like I swallowed acid and then got trampled by a troll, how’d you get past Madam Pomfrey?” he muttered.

She winced, taking out a half-empty vial from her pocket. “Slipped a few drops of some Dreamless sleep in her tea when she shoo’ed us away earlier.”

Harry snickered, “Gods, Mione. Sometimes I’m scared of you.”

Hermione smiled at that, but it instantly turned into a frown “I’m sorry Harry, I wasn’t fast enough—”

“You were,” he cut in. “You always are.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Harry exhaled and asked, “What the hell happened back there? I mean. Malfoy.”

Hermione hesitated, then perched at the edge of the bed. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap.

“I was surprised too. I was so worried, Harry. If it weren’t for Draco—” the brunette looked at the empty beds beside Harry, “Why isn’t he here in the hospital wing, by the way?”

“He walked out after Dumbledore talked to us. Sneered. Pissed that he saved me.” He laughed.

Hermione sighed. “Definitely sounds like him. I… I think it’s time I told you what happened with Malfoy and Nott.”

She recounted it all—rushed but careful. The missing study session. Theo’s strange behavior. The bruises. Her fear. Running to Malfoy. The tower. She explained that Draco in the future mentioned what had happened to Nott in that timeline, which had led her to feel that something was wrong with Nott in this timeline.

Harry could read the weight in her voice. He was surprised, suddenly feeling sympathy for Nott being also a child who was abused by family. And he understood.

“I didn’t tell you before because it wasn’t my secret to tell,” Hermione added, voice quiet. “But I think it may have influenced how he reacted.”

Harry rubbed his face. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just paying a debt.”

“A debt?” Hermione frowned.

Harry shrugged. “Maybe this was his way of… balancing the scale.”

Hermione didn’t argue, but her eyes narrowed a bit.

“Anyway,” Harry continued, “Dumbledore wants me to start Occlumency. With Snape.”

Hermione grimaced. “I figured he would. And I also figured you’d hate it. You hated it in the future too.”

“Oh, I do.” Harry leaned back against the pillows. “But if it stops Voldemort from using me like some sort of living telescope, then fine.”

She bit her lip. “You know… Draco’s good at it.”

He turned sharply. “So?”

“Occlumency. Legilimency too. He’s a natural. He might be able to help you.”

Harry looked at her like she’d sprouted an extra head.

“No thanks, Malfoy’s been in my head enough,” he said flatly. “I’ll take Snape. I already hate him. No reason to ruin my tolerance levels further.”

Hermione sighed but didn’t argue. Smart move, really.

Later that day, Harry was taken to Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Molly wrapped him in a bone-crushing hug the second he stepped through the fireplace.

“You brave boy—oh, Harry, thank Merlin you’re alright!” she sobbed into his hair.

Harry tried to respond but was too busy suffocating.

“I didn’t really do anything,” he managed eventually. “Malfoy was the one who alerted the professors.”

The room went still. Fred and George, mid-step, froze. Ron looked vaguely nauseous. Ginny blinked, then recovered quickly. Arthur cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, Dumbledore did mention that. It’s definitely… unexpected, ” he said finally.

“He’s still a Malfoy,” Ron muttered.

“Looks like my cousin has balls after all.” Tonks entered the room with her bright purple hair, followed by Moody who dusted his shoulders from floo powder. “Glad you’re alright, Arthur.”

Harry didn’t press the subject.

Later, he sat in the drawing room with Sirius, the only person he felt might understand the mess spiraling in his head.

“I was the snake,” he whispered. “I felt it. I saw what it saw. I wanted to bite.”

Sirius listened quietly.

“What if I’m being possessed? What if he can control me?”

“You’re not him, Harry,” Sirius said. “You’ve got something he never had.” 

“A nose?”

Sirius snickered. “No. A heart.”

That wasn’t terribly comforting, but Harry appreciated the effort.

“Dumbledore’s right,” Sirius added more seriously. “Start your training. Learn to close your mind. We’ll figure out the rest.”

“Malfoy, he used Legilimency to call me back. Dumbledore mentioned that he was very skilled at it and that he was taking lessons with Snape on Occlumency too.”

“He must have gotten the skill from Cissa. You see, the Blacks are known to have skills in arcane arts. Just like how Tonks is a Metamorphagus, Cissa is a natural Occlumens. They must have found out that Draco had natural skills for both Legilimency and Occlumency, they trained him early for it probably to protect his mind from Voldemort. As much as I hate that family, I feel bad for him being forced to master something that early.”

Before Harry could comment on that, Hermione poked her head into the room.

“Sorry to interrupt—can I borrow Harry for a minute?”

Sirius waved them off.

Hermione pulled him into the hallway. Her face was pale, tight with anxiety.

“Something’s wrong,” she said. “This isn’t how it happened before… Everything is out of place”

“What do you mean?”

“I tried mapping the dates and events just now. In the past—the last time. You didn’t have this vision until much later in the year. And it wasn’t this bad. You didn’t—” she paused, then whispered, “You didn’t bleed.”

Harry stared. “So the timeline’s changing?”

She nodded. “Rapidly. And that’s not the only difference. Draco wasn’t there last time.”

Harry blinked.

Hermione ran a hand through her curls. “I’m scared, Harry. I’m changing too much. And I think… I think it’s time we pull Malfoy in. Properly.”

He didn’t say no. Which, coming from Harry, was as close to agreement as she was going to get.

Before they could speak further, voices erupted downstairs. Loud. Urgent.

“He’s being possessed, Alastor! That’s not normal!”

That was Tonks.

“It could have been intentional. Next thing you know he could be planting visions.” Moody snapped.

“We should’ve never let the boy out of sight,” Molly cut in. “And what about that Malfoy child? He was there. He’ll report it to Lucius!”

Hermione stiffened beside Harry.

He grabbed her hand. Tight.

“We really do need to rope him in,” he muttered.

Hermione nodded. “Before someone else does.”

Chapter Text

“Can anyone tell me anything about thestrals?” Professor Plank’s voice cut through the chill of the forest clearing.

Draco leaned on one foot, arms crossed, trying not to sigh. It was another Care of Magical Creatures class with Slytherins and Gryffindors combined, as always, for maximum irritation.

Plank was new. Substituting for Hagrid, who’d apparently taken an indefinite leave due to some family emergency. Draco hadn’t decided if that was better or worse yet. Plank certainly had a more coherent lesson plan than the half-giant, and she didn’t play favorites, which was already a point in her favor. Her eyes swept over the class with equal scrutiny, not just orbiting around Potter, Granger, and the Weasel like Hagrid's always had.

“They’re a breed of winged horse with a skeletal body, a face with reptilian features, and wide, leathery wings that resemble a bat’s,” Granger answered from across him.

Of course.

She paused. “They… they’re only visible to those who’ve seen death.”

The words fell into a brief silence. A few students muttered to each other uneasily. Then came the sound—slow, deliberate hoofbeats approaching through the bushes. Draco turned toward the noise but saw nothing.

Invisible creatures. Wonderful.

“Can anyone here see them?” Professor Plank asked.

After a pause, Theo raised his hand. Barely.

Potter followed, looking grim.

Draco blinked. That tracked. Theo’s mother had died when they were younger, and Potter had watched Diggory die in the Triwizard Tournament last year.

Then, slowly, as if against her better judgment, Granger raised her hand too. Hesitant. Almost guilty.

His brow furrowed. Whose death had she seen?

Before he could stew on it, Professor Plank handed her a basket of raw meat. Draco watched as Granger tossed a piece forward and it vanished midair. A moment later, a faint wet snapping sound echoed, as if the meat had been caught mid-toss. Plank nodded, instructing her to pass the basket down.

Granger handed it to Theo, who fed his unseen beast without flinching, then Potter, who seemed less fazed than he ought to be, given the bloodbath they’d apparently witnessed together.

Draco’s attention drifted as the professor launched into a brief history lecture about thestrals in magical warfare. He didn’t catch much of it as his thoughts were elsewhere.

It had been two weeks since that night in detention. Since Potter convulsed on the floor, vomiting blood like something out of a curse-drenched nightmare. Since Draco had knelt beside him and cast Legilimens on instinct. Since he’d been inside Potter’s mind.

He hadn’t spoken to Scarhead or Granger since. Didn’t plan to. Avoidance was easier. Necessary, even. Just looking at Potter now reminded him of the copper tang of blood in his mouth and the echo of fangs in his skull.

His Occlumency sessions with Snape had continued, of course. Intensified, actually. Draco had recounted everything—what he saw, what he felt, what he became. The snake. The corridor. The laughter that didn’t belong to any creature.

“Could he have seen me?” Draco had asked Snape, voice hoarse.

Snape had paused longer than was comfortable. “It’s possible.”

The words haunted him.

Snape told him not to speak of it to his parents. Not yet. Until Dumbledore uncovered more, secrecy was paramount. His instructions were clear: keep practicing, strengthen his defenses. They’d begin Legilimency training next.

Normally, that would’ve thrilled him. He’d always wanted mastery over that branch of magic. But these days? Everything felt heavier. Grittier. Like the world had tilted and no one had noticed but him. Just as he was leaving his session with Snape last week, he came across Potter in the corridor on the way to Snape’s office. Then he remembered that Dumbledore had subjected Potter to occlumency lessons too.

The class ended with Professor Plank assigning a short essay on thestral visibility. Draco barely registered it.

He fell in step with the rest of the students as they left the clearing and headed toward the castle. He was walking beside Potter, Granger, and Weasley—which, under normal circumstances, would have warranted at least three snide remarks and an insult—but he couldn’t summon the energy.

He said nothing.

To his left, Blaise and Theo flanked him silently. He could feel their eyes on him—Blaise, ever curious, and Theo, ever calculating—but they didn’t speak either.

Surprisingly, neither did Potter, nor Granger.

Just the quiet crunch of boots on dried leaves. The shared weight of something none of them had quite named yet. Draco didn’t know what bothered him more: that they weren’t bickering… or that, for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to.

---

He wasn’t doing patrols tonight.

Prefect duty could sod off for a few hours, he had more important things to do. Namely, crafting the most meticulous, bulletproof, soul-crushing OWL study schedule known to wizardkind. Everything was so stressful recently that he clutched the only thing he could take control of—his studies. He liked having a plan. He excelled with a plan. And tonight was Ancient Runes.

Normally, he would’ve just pulled one of the rarer rune theory texts from his collection back at the Manor, but his mother had sent word via owl that the house was “in flux” again. He was afraid of what that had meant but he didn’t want to dwell on it. He didn’t ask. When the Manor was busy, it was best to stay out of it.

Which left the Hogwarts library.

He ducked inside and immediately grimaced. The place was packed. Students were crammed into every corner, flipping frantically through flashcards and arguing over spell pronunciations like it would save them from academic ruin.

He strode past a cluster of fifth-years whispering about transfiguration theory and found Madam Pince glaring down at some poor Hufflepuff who dared to dog-ear a page. Draco cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, Madam Pince. Is the library copy of Runic Transitions Between Dialectical Eras available?”

She didn’t even look up. “Checked out.” She lifted a bony finger and pointed toward the far left of the library. “Ms. Granger has it.”

Of course she did.

Draco didn’t even sigh, he just pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to calculate how badly rearranging his entire study plan would throw off the rest of his week. Swapping Runes with Arithmancy would push Astronomy too close to Potions, which meant less sleep before his practice exams on Sunday…

No. He needed that book.

He approached her table. The candlelight flickered softly over parchment, ink bottles, and color-coded notes that only someone with Granger’s brand of obsessive compulsion could maintain.

“Granger,” he said curtly.

She looked up in surprise. “Dr—Malfoy.”

His brows twitched. Had she just—? He ignored it.

“I need that text. Runic Transitions. You’re hogging the only decent copy. The only copy”

Hermione blinked. “I’m using it.”

“Obviously. I’m not asking you to hand it over and leave. Just let me use it for a few hours.”

She hesitated. “I’m halfway through annotating chapter four.”

“Brilliant,” he said, sliding into the seat opposite her. “Then you won’t mind sharing.”

Hermione looked like she was weighing the pros and cons of hexing him under the table.

Eventually, she sighed. “Fine. But no commentary.”

“What, me? Offer unsolicited brilliance? Never.”

They worked in mostly tense silence. She kept the book slightly angled toward herself, and he kept nudging it back to center. Every time she turned a page, she did it with more force than necessary.

Draco glanced over as she scribbled a translation down in the margins of her notes.

“‘Feigr var maðr fyrir sigr’…” he read aloud under his breath. Then frowned. “You translated that as ‘The man was doomed before victory’?”

Hermione didn’t look up. “It’s accurate. Temporal clause, past tense, standard structure.”

Draco leaned in, smirking. “It’s quaint . And wrong.”

She finally looked up. “Excuse me?” 

“ The doomed man achieved victory . Classic fatalism motif. Everyone knows that. Well…everyone who actually reads the literary interpretations instead of just the language structure footnotes.”

“Funny critique from someone who still confuses Latinic subjunctives.”

He sat back, folding his arms with a smug expression. “I prefer style over syntax. Something you wouldn’t understand—what with your obsession for footnotes and functional footwear.”

Hermione arched a brow. “You mean sensible footwear? Forgive me for not translating runes in dragonhide loafers like I’m posing for Wizards Weekly.”

“Style and substance, Granger. It’s possible to have both. Unlike that translation— which has neither.”

“And yet,” she said sweetly, “I’m still top of the class.”

“By 4 points,” he rolled his eyes, “and only because I let you stay there. It’s called mercy.”

“No, it’s called delusion.”

He let out a short laugh despite himself.

There was a pause. Not silence—parchment still shuffled, quills still scratched—but something had shifted. Subtly. Just enough to notice if you were paying attention. And Draco was…to his own quiet horror, he was enjoying himself.

Granger was still irritating. Still infuriatingly precise. But for once, the arguing wasn’t tedious—it was almost fun. She was quick, sharper than he gave her credit for. And more importantly, she didn’t yield. She gave as good as she got. This was different. She challenged him. Matched him. It was rare, having someone to spar with like this. Academically, at least.

Blaise would debate, but mostly for amusement. Theo was brilliant, but too withdrawn to bother. Granger, though—Granger pushed back for the sheer, maddening principle of it.

And Draco, somehow, found that… refreshing. Not that he’d ever say so aloud. Merlin forbid. He could respect it. Quietly. From a safe, sarcastic distance.

Draco rolled his quill between his fingers and narrowed his eyes at the page.

“So what’s your theory on the second clause of the Dagrskrift fragment then, since you’re so certain?”

Hermione’s eyes gleamed. “Which translation? Icelandic or Elder Norse?”

He smirked.

Suddenly, a flutter of parchment and perfume broke the rhythm.

A pair of Ravenclaw girls hovered at the edge of the table, one of them clutching a neat little navy box wrapped in a red ribbon. The taller one—pretty, in the way girls who practiced their hair charms five times a day always were—was batting her lashes with the subtlety of a Bludger.

“Draco,” she said sweetly. “We thought you could use a study treat.”

She placed the box gently in front of him, followed by a sealed note: scented, obviously. Her friend giggled. Hermione didn’t look up.

Draco leaned back in his chair, slipping easily into his polished-smirk persona. “How thoughtful. Truly. I’ll treasure it.”

The girls giggled again, clearly satisfied. “Don’t open it here,” the bolder one whispered. “It’s… personal. I’ll be by the Reception Hall tonight if you’re free.”

Draco raised a brow. “I’m positively quaking with anticipation.”

They scurried off with matching blushes, casting giggly glances over their shoulders.

As soon as they were out of sight, the smirk dropped from his face like a shed mask. He placed the box to the side of the table with deliberate care then ignored it entirely, quill back in hand as if the interruption never happened.

Hermione finally looked up, unimpressed. “You’re not going to open it?”

“No,” he said without looking at her. “I’m going to throw it out later.”

She blinked. “That’s—rather rude.”

“Not really,” he replied blandly. “That Ravenclaw’s infamous for sneaking lust potions into her ‘personal’ gifts. Ask Blaise. She got him last year. I think her name was Ruth or Beth.”

Hermione’s expression was a mix of horror and intrigue. “And?”

“He had a delightful three hours,” Draco said airily. “Then she got clingy. He started hiding in the Quidditch lockers every after practice. Tragic.”

Hermione stared at the box like it might explode. “And you didn’t report her?”

He gave her a dry look. “And ruin her youthful dreams of wooing a Malfoy? Cruel.”

She snorted. “So you’d rather risk being dosed with illicit potions—risk other students— than hurt her feelings?”

He shrugged. “I’m nice to my fans.”

“You intimidate them into thinking you’re charming.”

“I’m mysterious,” he corrected smoothly. “There’s a difference.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “There’s something very wrong with your definition of ‘mysterious.’”

“There’s something very wrong with your definition of fun,” he shot back, smirking again.

Her mouth twitched dangerously close to a smile.

He tapped his quill against the table. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes...your tragically flat translations.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re the worst.” She threw a balled-up scrap of parchment at his head.

He caught it midair and tossed it right back. And somehow, without noticing when it happened, the air between them no longer felt quite so sharp.

------

Hermione couldn’t quite explain what she was feeling.

She and Malfoy had just spent the last two hours talking. Debating. Arguing. Madam Pince had to shush them multiple times when their voices rose above the acceptable whisper—twice because of him, once because of her. And yet, she hadn’t felt this… light in a long time. She wasn’t sure she could call it fun, exactly but it was something close. Close enough to make her chest ache.

Of course, she’d had debates like that with him before— her Draco, the one from the future. But this wasn’t about battle plans or strategy or wartime contingency measures. This was just… Ancient Runes. Nonsense translations and footnotes. Just normal.

And it was refreshing.

She had to mentally force her heart to slow. To remind herself that the Draco who sat across from her in the library tonight wasn’t her Draco. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Still, she missed him. Desperately. Missed the rhythm of their banter, the way they challenged each other, how they kept each other sharp.

And tomorrow, she was almost certain, he’d go right back to being cold and distant again. This was a fluke, a strange crack in his armor, and she knew better than to expect consistency.

Still… she could say that things were going okay.

Harry had started his Occlumency lessons. He told her he’d bumped into Malfoy once while he was on his way to Snape’s office, but neither of them had spoken. Just passed each other in strained silence. Most likely because they were both still reeling after what happened a few weeks ago.

She and Harry had decided: they’d tell Draco about the Time Turner before the Christmas hols. They didn’t know how yet, just that it had to happen soon.

There were other things she wanted to warn Harry about too—like the prophecy they had to get from the Department of Mysteries—but she hadn’t found the right moment. She thought that maybe It would be better to tell them both at the same time. Shooting two birds with one stone and all. Maybe they could save both Sirius and Lucius.

She sat curled up in one of the Gryffindor common room armchairs, staring into the fire and chewing on her nail.

Draco. Harry. Help me.

She spoke to her friends in the future silently, like she used to in the future when things got too heavy. In one of her future mind conditioning sessions with future Draco, he had once told her to be patient with his younger self. Be patient, Pages , he’d said. He’s a closed book. Self-preservation and all. He overthinks. He needs a nudge—not a shove.

Merlin, she was trying.

She tried befriending his friends. They were amazing at the Dueling club. They saved Harry and Theo. And now tonight— they had academic banter over Ancient Runes. It felt like progress. Like she was getting closer.

And yet…

How was she supposed to tell him—

Hi Draco, I’m from the future and we lost the war. You defected to our side. Your mother gave you a time turner and we decided that I needed to go back in time and fix things. And did I mention I was hopelessly in love with you?

You never said it back. But you knew.

She let out a quiet laugh at herself. She’d never tell him the latter. What was her heartbreak in the midst of the chaos that was about to come?

Hermione then took a sip of tea and grimaced. Cold .

She stood and walked toward the sink to leave the cup, her mind still circling around time-travel and secrets, when the common room portrait hole swung open and Harry and Ron came crashing in.

“Hermione!” Harry gasped, breathless. “It’s Dumbledore.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Umbridge,” Ron said grimly. “She caught the DA and called the Bloody Ministry. Dumbledore escaped. He’s gone.

Hermione stood frozen, her blood turning to ice.

She knew this would happen eventually—had been waiting for it, in fact. Just like the other events, this one was a month early. 

------

Hermione had just finished the final subject for her OWLs when chaos exploded in the sky.

Fred and George Weasley were soaring out of the castle on their brooms, trailing fireworks and enchanted banners with a logo of a “W”: COMING SOON. Students cheered as purple, orange and gold sparks exploded into raining toffees. Peeves even saluted them mid-air with a cackling “Huzzah!”

Hermione stood frozen in the corridor, wide-eyed and breathless with a mix of awe and anxiety.

“Bloody hell,” someone muttered nearby.

Professor Umbridge stood at the foot of the grand staircase, screeching orders like a deranged harpy. But none of the professors moved. Not one. Professor Flitwick was delicately inspecting a floating quill. McGonagall picked up one of the toffees and outright smirked. And Snape didn’t even look up from the essay he was marking.

Hermione almost laughed. Almost. But the tightness in her chest didn’t go away. Not really.

The moment the last firework fizzled, and the hallway began to empty, she turned on her heel and made her way to the library.

She wasn’t there to study, not this time.

Now that OWLs were done, she finally had time to breathe. And more importantly, to plan. She needed to map the timeline—properly this time. To figure out how far events had shifted. How long she had before everything spiraled too far. Before it became irreversible.

Before Sirius dies.

She hadn’t told Harry yet. She hadn’t wrapped her head around the past events properly yet. But her stomach turned every time she thought of the incoming events of the Department of Mysteries—the way it echoed like a warning in her bones. If she could just find a way to delay it, derail it—anything.

She never made it to her usual table.

Harry came barreling into the corridor like a thunderstorm. Face pale. Eyes wild.

“Hermione,” he gasped. “Sirius. He’s in trouble—I saw it. Just now. In the vision. He’s being tortured.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

“I saw it,” he said. “He’s somewhere at the Ministry. Voldemort has him.”

Panic bloomed in her chest, but she grabbed his arm and dragged him into an empty alcove.

“Harry, wait. Listen to me.” she took a shaky breath, trying to sort the words, trying not to let her hands shake, “What you’re planning—this? You rushing off? That’s what gets Sirius killed.”

He froze. “What?”

“In the past—my past” she whispered, voice taut with urgency. “You had the same vision. We went to the Ministry to rescue him. And that’s where he died.”

Harry stared at her like she’d slapped him. “You—you knew ?”

“I was going to tell you,” she said quickly. “I am going to tell you, all of it, I just—”

“When?” he hissed. “ After it happens again?”

“Harry, I’m sorry—”

“I’m tired of this Hermione. You don’t understand what it’s like! Seeing someone you love tortured and not knowing if it’s real!”

“I do !” she snapped. “Don’t you think I know what it’s like to carry all of this and not know how to change it without breaking everything?”

He blinked, breathing hard. One hand went to his scar, fingers pressing into the pain. “I just want to talk to him. Just to make sure he’s okay.”

She hesitated. “There’s a Floo in Dumbledore’s office.”

He looked up. Hope and desperation flickered behind his eyes.

“Umbridge is still chasing fireworks,” Hermione added. “If we go now, we might have a shot.”

They ran.

The corridors blurred past them. Harry whispered the password “lemon sherbet” and the stone gargoyle slid aside. Dumbledore’s office was still, echoing with the faint ticking of magical devices. The fire crackled green as Harry knelt and thrust his head in.

“Number Twelve Grimmauld Place!”

Hermione waited behind him, heart pounding. Silence.

Then, from inside the flames, a low voice: “Master Sirius is not here.”

Harry shouted, “Where is he, Kreacher?”

But before Kreacher could answer, a wand yanked Harry backwards by the collar, dragging him from the fireplace.

“Well, well, well,” came the oily voice of Dolores Umbridge. “What do we have here?”

Hermione barely had time to reach for her wand before an “Expeliarmus” ripped it off her hand.

With a wave of Umbridge’s wand, ropes wrapped around their wrists, binding them tight. Another flick, and both their mouths were sealed shut, a stifling silence pressed into their throats.

“Trying to contact that criminal Dumbledore, were we?” Umbridge sneered. “You’ll tell me where he is. One way or another.”

Hermione squirmed, trying to shake her head, to protest, to do something.

“Let’s start with you , Mr. Potter,” Umbridge purred, releasing only his gag. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Harry spat.

Umbridge narrowed her eyes. “Wrong answer.”

She turned to Hermione.

“You filthy little—mudblood,” she hissed. “Think I don’t see what you’re up to? Whispering secrets. Undermining authority.”

With a cruel flick of her wrist, a pale light struck Hermione’s throat. It wasn’t a gag, it was worse.

Hermione choked.

She clawed at her throat as air refused to fill her lungs. Her vision blurred. Panic surged.

“Tell me where Dumbledore is!” Umbridge screeched.

“STOP!” Harry roared. “She can’t breathe!”

He thrashed in his binds. “I TOLD YOU—I don’t know where he is!”

The door slammed open.

“Madam Umbridge,” drawled a familiar voice. “We couldn’t find the—”

Malfoy stopped mid-step alongside Nott.

Their eyes locked on Hermione and Harry—tied, silenced, gagging on the floor.

“What’s going on here?” Draco asked coldly.

“No need for alarm, Mr. Malfoy,” Umbridge said sweetly. “I’m conducting an interrogation. They were attempting treason.”

Hermione met Draco’s eyes. Please , she tried to will him. Please see me.

His expression didn’t change. But his eyes— his eyes —snapped to hers, sharp and searching.

And something shifted.

“Theo,” Malfoy said quietly. Nott nodded

Malfoy’s wand raised. “Stupefy.”

Umbridge hit the floor with a thud.

Nott immediately cast Muffliato and Colloportus , sealing them in and silencing the room.

Malfoy moved, swift and smooth. He cast Finite on the ropes, and Hermione gasped, air slamming into her lungs like fire.

Harry pulled off his gag, coughing.

“What the fuck—” he began, but Umbridge stirred.

Just as Harry was about to rush toward Umbridge to retrieve their wands, the woman rose with a scream of fury and cast, “ Glacius Maxima! ”

The temperature plummeted.

A shockwave of freezing air erupted through the room. Ice spiderwebbed across the walls. Shelves crackled and snapped under the weight of sudden frost. The breath was punched from Hermione’s lungs as the blast knocked her to the floor.

Her palms hit cold stone. She could barely see. Just white. Just shards. Just cold .

And she had nothing . No wand. No spell. No plan. Just fear.

Her throat tightened, and not from magic. It was the same feeling from that night in the war—when they lost the French outpost. When Draco hadn’t come back. When Harry had almost bled out at her feet.

No no no no not again—

She forced herself up, tried to move toward Harry, toward anything, but her limbs were trembling.

She glanced at Malfoy and Nott. Both had been flung backward, but were getting up. Nott looked dazed. Malfoy had murder in his eyes.

And yet…She couldn’t move fast enough. She couldn’t do anything. What would you do, Draco? What would you say now?

She felt tears prick her eyes—not from pain. From the sick, helpless knowing that this wasn’t a duel. This wasn’t a prank. This was real . And they were seconds away from watching everything spiral.

“Cruc—”

The word cut through the room like a guillotine.

Hermione’s world narrowed to the syllables on Umbridge’s lips. She couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t even scream.

No. Please. Not Harry. Not again.

And then—

The ground lit beneath her.

She gasped.

A circular sigil flared to life at her feet, lines of glowing green magic racing outward like cracks in the stone.

“What—” she whispered.

The circle rose in the air like a dome. Symbols she didn’t recognize flickered along its edge, dancing like flame. Wind tore through the room, wild and sentient.

Her necklace burst free from beneath her jumper.

The ring. The Malfoy signet ring Draco had given her in another life.

It hovered in front of her, burning with light.

And suddenly—she remembered .

Only flashes. Fragments. Fights where she stood behind him, where the green dome erupted like a shield between them and death. Where Draco’s voice whispered the spell, quiet and protective, always just before everything went to hell.

She was in the center of his spell.

How? Why now ?

Dragons made of emerald flame roared from the circle. Not real, but not illusion either. They weren’t attacking Umbridge—they were punishing her. Sentient wrath. Magic without mercy.

Umbridge was already unconscious. Hermione watched with her heart in her throat.

She knew she should be afraid. That she should stop it. But her body refused to move. She was in it . Part of it . Like the spell had chosen her.

Or more like recognized her.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t kill her.”

The dragons hesitated. Paused mid-air. Then shimmered into smoke, like exhaling from a dragon’s lungs.

The light dimmed.

The circle shrank.

The ring fell.

Clink.

Hermione dropped to her knees, dazed. She barely heard Harry scramble for their wands. Or Theo cursing and helping her up.

Her eyes were fixed on the ring—lying there in perfect stillness.

She barely managed to reach for it before—

Draco got there first.

He picked it up. Held it between two fingers, inspecting it with a face like carved marble.

No jokes. No sarcasm.

Only fury.

“Granger,” he said slowly. Too calm. Too soft.

Her stomach plummeted.

“Why do you have a Malfoy signet ring?” he said

Her mouth opened. Closed.

“ MY signet ring.”

Theo and Harry both turned.

Think. Say something. Anything.

“I… Malfoy—I can explain—”

“Explain now .”

She could barely breathe.

In the war, she’d watched him hex Death Eaters without blinking for lesser offenses. She knew what this meant to him— family . Lineage . To wear a signet ring, especially his, was to declare something ancient. Intimate. Unforgivable, if done without consent.

She had his trust once.

But this Draco didn’t know that. This Draco was furious .

And she couldn’t tell him the truth. Not here. Not yet.

“That was fucking wild,” Theo muttered, glancing between all of them. “And I have so many questions. But maybe we deal with the literal body on the floor first?”

Umbridge groaned.

They all looked at her.

“Blaise,” Draco snapped. “We need Blaise to obliviate her. Now.”

Theo nodded and bolted out the door.

Draco’s eyes never left Hermione.

“You and I,” he said darkly, “are going to have a very long chat.”

And for the first time in a very long time, Hermione Granger didn’t have an answer.

Chapter Text

Hermione couldn’t breathe.

The panic didn’t crash over her all at once. It crept up like a rising tide, swallowing her inch by inch until she could barely feel her fingers. Her knees threatened to give out beneath her. Dumbledore’s office, which was normally filled with soft ticking clocks and the muted rustle of ancient scrolls, felt too quiet now. It was too bright. Too blurry.

She wanted to be swallowed whole by the marble tiles.

Somewhere beyond the roaring in her ears, she heard the low murmur of voices. Nott had arrived with Zabini in tow.  He was saying something, Zabini’s feet scraping against the marble, Harry’s frantic pacing. Their words made sense, technically. She could recognize syllables. But it all blended together under the sharp, shrill ringing in her ears.

Then someone brushed her shoulder—Harry, she realized dimly, stepping forward to steady Umbridge as Zabini moved in with his wand. That small nudge, that brief human contact, jarred her back into her body like a slap.

She blinked. Her voice came out hoarse but firm.

“Stop.”

Everyone in the room froze. Four sets of eyes turned toward her.

Hermione slowly got back on her feet. She was shaking, but she forced her legs to hold.

“Zabini,” she said, dragging in air like it hurt. “Other than obliviation, are you able to modify her memories?”

Zabini squinted at her, wary. “I can do an undetectable Obliviation. I can modify memories… but doing both, leaving no magical trace? That’s a hell of an ask, Granger.”

She bit her lower lip. Hermione held her temples like she was trying to rattle her brain on what to do, trying to remember her past. Bollocks, she needed to think of what to do as fast as she could. They were all looking at her.

“Granger—” Nott started, his tone rushing her.

“Give me thirty seconds,” she snapped. “Just…just shut up and give me thirty bloody seconds.”

There was a beat of stunned silence, most likely because she’d sworn, and they were not used to that. Then she closed her eyes and descended into her mind.

Her mind palace unfolded instantly.

She was walking through it now, her sanctuary of perfect memory, built brick by brick with Draco’s help in the future. The structure had grown over time: tall arches, stonework shelves that went up endlessly, lit by floating orbs of warm light. Each aisle had been categorized by emotion and necessity. She passed a hall of grief. Another of war strategies. Then turned right. Charms.

Then, another right—Memory Magic.

The hallway dimmed. Cold crept in. These were dangerous shelves. Old ones.

She found it. The red book. The first she ever placed in this section, when she’d just started learning Occlumency to help her cope with erasing her parents’ memories. She didn’t hesitate. She opened the book, flipped to the right page, and resurfaced back outside her mind. 

Her eyes snapped open. “Zabini. Erase everything from four o’clock onward. That’s when I finished my OWLs and called Harry. Make it clean.”

He nodded once, although warily, already shifting into position.

She turned to Malfoy.

“We need you to modify her memories. Make sure you’re occluding when you’re doing so.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said earlier, Granger. We can’t do it undetected,” Zabini cut in. 

“Page 32 of “A Compendium of Cognitive Charms” states Natural Occlumens and Legilimens possess the rare ability to perform memory charms—such as Obliviation and modification—without a wand. When done instinctively, these acts leave no magical signature, making detection near impossible.” 

She locked eyes with Malfoy “And you’re BOTH. You’re the safest bet.”

Hermione watched Draco’s jaw flex. Her lungs still felt like they were wrapped in chains. But she held firm.

Malfoy’s face twisted. His fury wasn’t hot. It was cold, brittle, and calculated. His fists clenched once at his sides before he growled, “What scene do I use?”

“I’ll give it to you. You’ll take it through Legilimency and siphon the mem— scene to her.” She caught herself. It would do no good to let them know she was going to use a real memory.

He didn’t laugh, but the way he looked at her said it all.

“Let me get this straight, Granger. You want to open your mind to me?” he asked. “Freely?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

And there it was, that flicker of something in his eyes. Confusion. Hesitation. Maybe even something softer. That expression was gone in a blink. The Slytherins weren’t budging. She looked towards Harry for support, for something to ground her.

Nott let out a sharp breath. “This is mental. What the actual—”

Harry cut him off. “We’re doing this. Or we’re screwed.” Hermione sighed, thankful Harry was here with her.

Hermione turned to the two boys. “Once we finish, you and Nott take Umbridge to the Forbidden Forest. The back clearing near the Monarch Garden. Leave her there, not too close to the centaur’s territory, just enough to be found. Then you come back here.”

Nott stared at her. “You want us to leave her with the bloody centaurs?”

It worked before Hermione told herself. She looked at Harry pleading. He was already looking at her like she had grown wings.

She shook her head. “Just...trust me.”

Harry nodded. “I trust her.”

Nott looked between them like they’d both grown extra heads. “You’re both lunatics.”

“Shite. No time for new ideas, she’s waking up. It’s this or we all get expelled and go to Azkaban.” Zabini said.

Nott grimaced. “I hate it here.”

Then Umbridge groaned.

Zabini was already moving toward Umbridge, wand raised. “Alright then. Obliviate.”

Her body convulsed once, her eyes glowing white as the spell took hold. Zabini was sweating. Hermione had forgotten how precise that spell had to be when targeting a specific time window. Her respect for him grew—she’d underestimated him.

She wasn’t entirely sure how skilled he really was…until now. But Malfoy had asked Nott to call him. That meant something. From how she knew Draco in the future, he didn’t trust anyone easily. She remembered the casual way Zabini had once told her she’d be obliviated if she failed the membership match in the secret duelling club. At the time, she’d thought he was bluffing...just dramatic flair. But Fred and George had confirmed it later, almost offhandedly: Zabini was the one assigned to do obliviations. And no one questioned it. No one challenged him.

That kind of role came with power and responsibility. And, apparently, real talent.

Zabini was still locked in concentration, a faint tremor running down his arm. He was close to wrapping up.

Hermione turned to Malfoy.

He was watching her already.

Her stomach twisted—not from fear, exactly, but from knowing. She knew what this would require. And in no reality did she want Draco Malfoy— this version of him—rooting around in her mind. But she didn’t have a choice. They didn’t have time for pride or fear.

She forced her breathing to steady. Just like he taught her. Or would teach her—they didn’t finish her lessons in the future. Merlin, this timeline was a mess.

She stepped toward him, lowering herself to her knees. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.

She closed her eyes.

Breathe.

Clear your thoughts.

Trust him.

She hoped he noticed. That this—her letting him in—was no small thing.

Future Draco would have. This Draco looked like he was ready to hex a hole in the wall.

“It’ll be uncomfortable, Pages,” Future Draco would say. His voice would be low and soft “But relax. Push the memory forward.”

The nickname twisted like a blade in her chest.

She nodded once. She knew the drill. They’d done this before, many times. After the raids. After the deaths. When she couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t function . Draco had helped her compartmentalize the worst of it, when her own Occlumency wasn’t enough.

The night her parents were killed, she had collapsed in the middle of their safehouse’s kitchen floor. She cried for hours. The next mission was only two days away, and they needed to prepare. Draco had knelt beside her, pressed a cool palm to her forehead, and said: “I’m here, Pages. Say the word, and I can block it if only for a few days.”

He’d blocked the memory for her. Just long enough to get through it. Just long enough to get to the next safehouse where she could mourn safely.

She owed him more than she could ever say.

This Draco wasn’t him though. Still, she knelt. And hoped it would mean something. Hoping this Draco would consider this a sign of goodwill—trust. Maybe later. For their talk. For whatever was coming.

“Alright,” Zabini said, pulling back, his breath ragged. “She’s wiped clean. Merlin, that woman’s brain is like a pit of Devil’s Snare. Drake—your turn.”

Hermione opened her eyes.

Malfoy was already watching her.

She met his gaze evenly, despite everything in her chest screaming otherwise. Her voice didn’t waver.

“I’m ready.”

He exhaled through his nose—tight, controlled—and gave a sharp, jerking nod. He hovered his left hand above her forehead.

“ Legilimens. ”

Hermione felt the tug instantly, the shift in her chest as her thoughts bent open like pages in a windstorm. Her breath caught, and the world around her darkened until it was just her and Malfoy, standing at the threshold of her mind. It’s been a while since she’s felt his magical signature here.

Her library.

Every brick, every arched window, every floating stack of books, he taught her how to build it. Or rather, the version of him from the future had. He had helped her turn the scattered wreckage of her grief into a fortress. This place had saved her sanity more times than she could count.

But this Draco hadn’t seen it before, she reminded herself for the nth time. And now he was standing inside it, tension rolling off him like smoke. She wondered what he thought.

She risked a glance at him. He looked pissed. Still. Expected.

He said nothing, but his expression was half sneer, half disbelief, like Of course your mind is a fucking library, Granger.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes. A library. Try to contain your surprise.” 

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond.

She turned and led him down one of the aisles at the east wing, where the combat memories were stored. Her feet echoed on the checkered marble floor, the same floor she always pictured when she was falling apart and needed to anchor herself. Books hovered slightly off their shelves here, like they were waiting to be summoned.

She stopped in front of a floating podium and reached out.

The pink book floated from the shelf with a familiar weight, settling softly into her palms. The cover, a soft blush pink, gleamed under the glow of the sigil pressed into its surface: a golden wand, snapped clean in two, circled by a silver thread. She’d chosen the color deliberately because of Umbridge. Because this memory, this particular triumph of strategy, was soaked in that woman’s saccharine shade of power. It deserved to be archived accordingly. The book lived on the same shelf as her memory of trapping Rita Skeeter in a Jar —another victory, bound in a slim green spine with a tiny beetle embossed in the corner. This whole corner of her mind palace was a collection of manipulations. Of necessary lies. Of the plans that worked.

She held out the pink book towards him without a word.

He took it.

The book unfolded like a Pensieve, but sharper, more vivid. Like stepping into a living, breathing memory.

Hermione didn’t need to watch it again, but she did. She stood beside him as the moment replayed.

Umbridge’s shrill voice filled the office. Her smug confession about the Dementors attacking Harry in Little Whinging. The cold flick of her wand as she aimed the Cruciatus Curse. Hermione’s scream: half instinct and half plan—about Dumbledore’s weapon. The forest. The Centaurs. And Umbridge, dragged away in a flurry of hooves and shrieks.

She studied his face.

Nothing. His features still tight as ever. Still cold and unmoving.

But she could feel it, the flicker of recognition, the way his shoulders stiffened ever so slightly. He knew this wasn’t just some conjured scene from imagination.

This was a memory. Her memory.

As the vision dimmed and the book closed on its own, she turned toward him.

“Use this scene instead. Make it so that she caught me and Harry trying to contact Dumbledore. That I told her we were building a weapon. That she demanded we take her to it. That we brought her to the Centaurs.”

She swallowed hard. Hermione continued, slower this time, her voice calm but firm.

Malfoy opened his mouth slightly, like he might argue. But then he just… closed it again. His jaw tensed.

She didn’t expect him to speak. 

“I’ll explain,” she said. “Later.”

That finally earned her a reaction. Not a word. Just the barest arch of his eyebrow. Skeptical yet furious.

But he didn’t protest. And when the connection severed and she was yanked back into her own body, she saw that he was already turning—his palm raised toward Umbridge, face pale, mouth set in a hard line.

He was still angry.

But he was going to do it anyway.

Because somehow, despite everything, Draco Malfoy had agreed to trust her mind. Even if just for today.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the tension in the air.

It was like static: charged and humming, coiling in the space between breaths. Malfoy was kneeling over Umbridge now, his left palm hovering just above her forehead, fingers splayed, steady but taut like a drawn bowstring. No wand. Just his bare hand and raw magic.

His expression was unreadable, but Hermione saw the pinch between his brows, the tight clench of his jaw, the rigid line of his spine. Every part of him was locked in focus, and yet, he was clearly struggling. Magic shimmered faintly under his fingertips, a ghost-green glow pulsing against her skin. The intensity of it made the hair on Hermione’s arms stand on end.

The magic in the room crackled like static. She felt it before she saw it—sharp pinpricks blooming across her skin. A sharp jolt flared at her palm, stinging as if someone had driven a needle through the webbing of her fingers. The air around Malfoy shimmered faintly, like heat rising off pavement. He was pulling magic from somewhere deep, deeper than he should’ve been.

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

This was too much for him.

Of course it was too much.

Future Draco had performed this kind of wandless memory charm with brutal, fluid precision. He could probably rewrite someone’s mind mid-duel if he had to. But this Draco...  he was still learning what he was capable of.

And she’d asked him to do wandless magic anyway.

Her breath caught. What if she’d miscalculated? What if the memory tether didn’t work properly? What if it overloaded his focus? Merlin, what if she—

She stepped forward instinctively, reaching toward him, worried.

But Zabini was faster. His hand gripped her wrist. Not hard, but firm and blocked her path like a brick wall.

His eyes were cold. “Don’t,” he muttered.

That one word knocked the breath from her lungs harder than a stunner. It wasn’t just a warning. It was an accusation.

She froze.

All she could do now was watch.

The minutes dragged like hours. Malfoy's breathing grew uneven, jaw locked in what looked like barely-contained agony. His posture had sagged, but his arm hadn’t dropped. Not once. She could see the tremor in his shoulder now, the slight shake in his fingers. His magic was overextending, fraying at the edges.

Then, all at once, he collapsed.

He let out a strangled breath as he crumpled backward onto the floor, landing flat on his back like a puppet with its strings severed.

“Done,” he rasped, chest heaving. His voice was hoarse, almost brittle.

Hermione flinched.

“Shit, mate… did you really—” Theo started, but didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to. The silence said the rest.

Hermione’s mind scrambled for control. She couldn’t focus on her guilt. Not now. She turned to Harry and Theo, her voice tight but steady. “Take her to the Forbidden Forest. Use the Floo to the southern anchor, just past Hogsmeade. It’ll spit you out near the Monarch Garden.”

Theo gave her a strange look, part incredulous, part impressed. Harry nodded, silent as he cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself and Nott, hauling a brainwashed Umbridge through the floo. 

Hermione turned back to Malfoy and Zabini. She took a cautious step forward, only for Zabini to move again, cutting her off without hesitation. His face was thunderous.

“Respectfully, Granger,” he hissed, his voice low and laced with venom, “stay the fuck away from Draco.”

She froze.

The heat in her throat hit like fire. She deserved that. She knew it.

Zabini bent and hauled Malfoy up by the arms, supporting his limp frame with more care than she expected. He guided him toward the red chaise by the wall, muttering something under his breath that she couldn’t catch.

Hermione turned away, throat thick. Her wand hand trembled as she began methodically repairing the wreckage in the room: the scorch marks from Umbridge’s freezing charm, shattered glass from the windows, overturned furniture.

She didn’t dare look back at them. She couldn’t.

Because if she did, they’d see her crying. And right now, she didn’t have the strength to explain herself. Her fingers clenched the back of a broken chair as the magic surged through it. Reparo.

The tears slipped anyway. She bit down hard on her lip and focused on the next spell. Just one more thing to fix. One more crack to mend. One more disaster to clean up.

But she couldn’t fix the look on Zabini’s face. Or the tremor in Malfoy’s hands. Or the ringing in her ears that wouldn’t go away.

Her chest tightened. She tried to breathe. She couldn’t. She clutched the table edge, fingernails biting into the wood. Panic. Again.

No. Don’t think. Just breathe. Not with the guilt drowning her faster than air could fill her lungs.

—

Fifteen minutes passed. Maybe sixteen. Hermione wasn’t sure. Her head was spinning, and her throat still burned from swallowing back her tears. Before Harry and Nott returned, she had glamoured her face in a panic, smoothing out her blotchy skin and vanishing the redness around her eyes. The charm wasn’t perfect, but it would hold.

The Floo flame in the office crackled as Harry and Nott came barreling back.

“Hermione!” Harry exhaled and rushed to her, pulling her into a quick, relieved hug. “It’s done.”

She didn’t hug back right away. Her arms twitched, then slowly came up around him, more habit than warmth. Her eyes darted to Malfoy. Nott had already crossed the room to check on him.

Malfoy still looked pale, but some color had returned to his lips, and his breathing was steadier. Zabini had transfigured the chaise into something sturdier. Hermione had half a mind to thank him. The other half was still spiraling with guilt.

“Now that that’s all done,” Nott said, brushing his hands together like he’d just taken out the trash, “can someone please tell me what in Merlin’s saggy left—” he glanced at Harry “—is going on?”

Hermione straightened. Her voice was calm but clipped. “I had Malfoy implant a different memory into Umbridge’s mind. One where she caught only Harry and me. We fed her a lie... that Dumbledore had asked us to build a weapon in the Forbidden Forest. She followed us in and got captured by centaurs. End of story. That way, none of you are connected.”

She tried to meet Malfoy’s eyes, to gauge if he could tell the memory had been real and not fabricated. Of course, he knew. He was already looking at her like she was several unsolved riddles stacked on top of one another. He didn’t say anything. That unnerved her more than shouting would have.

“Alright, now that we’re all criminals,” Nott drawled, thankfully not questioning the memory they think she fabricated, “what’s next? Tea with the Dark Lord?”

They all suddenly noticed Harry turning toward the fireplace again. “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!” he called into the flames.

Hermione’s stomach dropped. “Harry—wait!”

But it was too late. “Kreacher!” Harry called again.

A few heartbeats later, Sirius’s face appeared in the emerald flames, flickering like a ghost made of smoke and fire.

“Harry! Hermione! What’s going on?” Sirius looked concerned through the green flames, alert. “Kreacher said you were looking for me.”

Hermione nearly collapsed in relief. She reached out and squeezed Harry’s arm tightly.

“Sirius—Harry just wanted to ask if you’d be willing to help him with Occlumency,” she lied smoothly. “You know how terrible it’s been with Snape…”

Harry looked at her, confused, but caught on quickly. “Right. Yeah. The migraines are awful. Lessons with you would be way better.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Another headache?”

“Nothing recent,” Harry mumbled. “We didn’t mean to disturb.”

“Not at all. Take care, both of you. We can discuss it when you come to visit.” And just like that, he was gone.

Hermione exhaled. Harry’s face looked lighter, even if only slightly. But they were far from safe.

“Harry… your vision…” she whispered.

“Was that Sirius Black?” Nott asked.

“I think we’re owed a proper explanation now,” Zabini added. “Obliviation, memory modification, throwing a high-ranking Ministry official to the centaurs, chatting with fugitives... I mean—” he gestured at them. “What the fuck?”

“Sirius is innocent!” Harry snapped, voice sharp.

“Oh, good,” Zabini replied dryly. “That clears everything up.”

“Enough!” Hermione stepped between them, voice sharper than she intended. “Harry and I need to leave—actually, we all need to leave.”

Her feet were already moving toward the door, adrenaline pushing her forward, but then came the scraping of wood against marble. Malfoy.

He stood from the chaise, slow and deliberate. No dramatic flair. Just steady, icy tension coiled into every movement. The silence was heavier now, dragging the air down with it. The chair creaked one last time as he straightened to his full height, jaw clenched and shoulders rigid.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

Hermione froze. Her breath caught mid-exit. She turned slowly, meeting his eyes.

“If you think you’re walking out of here without explaining anything,” he continued, voice low, dangerously calm, “you’re making a very big mistake.”

A beat passed.

“You want to talk—now?” she asked, incredulous. She hadn’t planned for this. She was supposed to talk to Harry first. Then Malfoy. Separately. Controlled. With tea and diagrams and maybe a detailed speech.

But Malfoy just stared at her like that should’ve been an answer in itself. Like of course he wanted answers now. Like her attempt to leave was just another betrayal to stack on top of the last hour.

Hermione sighed, pressing her palm against her forehead, trying to organize the noise in her skull.

“Look, you’re right. I’m sorry.” she said slowly. “I’m really grateful for all of you. You saved us. You saved me. But I can’t—” Her throat closed around the word. “I want to tell you. I do. But I’m not at liberty to say.”

Zabini raised an eyebrow. “Right. So, we risk getting expelled, and you can’t even tell us why?”

Nott scoffed loudly. “Well, that’s bloody convenient.”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s not that…you misunderstand me.”

Her voice was quieter now, almost pleading. She could feel them slipping: Zabini’s skepticism, Nott’s rising temper, and Malfoy… unreadable, which was worse. She tried to choose her next words carefully, her mind racing. She couldn’t break the Unbreakable Vow. But she could thread around it...barely.

Unbreakable Vows were well-known enough. Dangerous and binding. Maybe if she spoke carefully, if she used the right implication, they would understand. She hoped. Merlin, she hoped.

In the future, she, Draco, and Harry made an Unbreakable Vow, which was modified by Draco himself to bind their mission to secrecy. He modified it in a way that it holds all three of them accountable regardless of what timeline they were on. That vow was a silent leash, wrapped tight around her throat.

She rubbed at her temple. The migraine was starting again. Always the right side. Always when things got messy. “I want to tell you. I just… I can’t tell everyone. Only Harry and… Malfoy.”

The words echoed louder than expected. Malfoy’s head snapped toward her, eyes sharp. There was still that flicker of fury, yes, but it was laced with something else now. Something more focused. She didn’t know what she expected—another sneer, maybe. But he didn’t say a word. He just stared. She could never read him when he got like this.

Brilliant. This is going well. Absolutely stellar.

She thought about the Draco from the future. The way he would stand in front of danger, calmly calculating. The way he would speak softly, but carry magic sharp enough to slice through dark wards like silk. The way he trusted her, without needing reasons. 

Harry shifted beside her, and she noticed his irritation. “Hermione—should we just—?”

“No.” It was Zabini who cut in.

He was looking at her now, not with anger, but something colder. Measured. “You don’t get to disappear again and leave us wondering whether we’re about to get dragged into another mess.”

“I know,” Hermione said quickly. “That’s not what this was.”

“Sure felt like it,” Zabini muttered.

Hermione rubbed her forehead. “You’re right. You’re both right. I just—there’s too much I can’t explain. Not without…” She hesitated. “Not without breaking things that shouldn’t be broken.”

Zabini raised an eyebrow. He looked like he understood what she was trying to say, “Unbreakable Vow?”

Hermione didn’t answer. Theo huffed, clearly unsatisfied, but folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

Then finally...finally...Draco moved. He didn’t look at her right away, just brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve with controlled precision. Then his eyes lifted, cool and flinty.

“Fine,” he said, tone clipped. “Then you’ll explain everything tonight.”

Hermione blinked. “Tonight?”

“Eight o’clock. Quidditch pitch.” His words were final. Non-negotiable.

Hermione stiffened. The Quidditch pitch? Outdoors, exposed. There was no way that was safe. 

“That's too open, Malfoy.” Her voice came out tighter than she meant. “It’s not safe.”

Draco tilted his head. “Then suggest somewhere better. But we’re not putting this off.”

Her mind scrambled. He was right. If she delayed this again, if she gave him another reason to doubt her, he might shut the door permanently. Harry was also getting antsy with her explanation. That last thread of patience he was holding onto might snap.

She exhaled. “There’s a corridor… two turns past the tapestry of the dancing trolls, near the seventh floor. Meet there instead.”

Draco studied her like he was weighing whether to argue. His jaw flexed once, twice.

“Fine,” he said. “Eight.”

He turned without waiting for acknowledgment and stalked off toward the far hall, his robe snapping behind him like a banner.

Hermione’s stomach twisted. She would be telling him tonight. She wasn’t ready—to be fair, she doesn’t think she’ll ever be ready. Not to look at him and answer the question, she could already feel pressing at the back of his throat: Why do you have my ring?

But she would go. She had to. 

Before she could get lost in her thoughts again, Nott stepped up beside her. He gave her a long, considering look, then smirked.

“Well, Granger,” he said, smirking. “Consider the life debt repaid. You’re officially crisis-free...until the next one, anyway… knowing you and your lot.”

Then he turned to Harry with a grin that was far too pleased with itself. “And you, Potter… try not to look so pretty when you’re panicking. It’s giving me ideas.”

Theo winked at him, turned on his heel, and strolled out after Malfoy. Harry blinked, utterly thrown.

Zabini followed close behind, muttering under his breath, “Fucking Gryffindors.”

Harry blinked. “What—”

“See you around,” Nott said, already strolling after Draco with a grin, Blaise in tow, and shaking his head.

“Did Nott wink at me?” Harry muttered, looking slightly traumatized. “Is he normally like that?”

Hermione managed a small, tired smile. “Unfortunately, yes.”  And just like that, the Slytherins were gone.

—

The Slytherins returned to their common room at precisely 6:04 p.m.

The fire was already low. Smoke curled lazily in the hearth. No one spoke. No one moved.

Draco dropped into his usual armchair near the fire, elbows on his knees, hands laced loosely. Blaise collapsed beside him, slouched back like he'd just come out of a duel. Theo sat stiffly on the edge of the chaise, bouncing his knee like it might summon sense into the world.

Two hours.

Two bloody hours until he met Granger.

Draco leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. He needed to think. But the thoughts wouldn’t organize. They just… circled.

Like vultures.

He replayed it again. The moment they’d stepped into Dumbledore’s office. He and Theo, expecting to deliver scrolls. Nothing more. Then they saw Potter gagged on the floor, Granger gasping like she’d been hexed in the throat. Umbridge standing over them, wand raised.

And Draco had moved. He didn’t hesitate. No plan, just instinct.

Stupefy. The spell had left his wand before his brain caught up.

That’s when things unraveled. Umbridge had hit them with the Glacius Maxima.

Everyone panicked. Then came the moment that changed everything: something flew off Granger's neck. The explosion of green light. The sigils. The… dragons? He wasn’t even sure what to call them. It looked like some form of Protego Diabolica.

He'd felt it. Not just the spell. Not just the magic. But the way it touched him.

Drained him.

His hand shifted toward his pocket before he even realized it.

The ring was still there. Cold against the fabric. So many questions littered his mind.

He stood suddenly, needing movement like he needed air.

“Draco?” Blaise looked up.

“I’m fine. Just—need to rest.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and left, hoping they wouldn’t follow.

He made it to their room, shut the door behind him, and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for an hour. His fingers were already loosening the top of his uniform. The collar felt tight. Like the walls had been pressing in ever since Granger said his name with that look on her face.

He crossed to his trunk, flicked it open, and rummaged until he found the green phial tucked between an old Slytherin scarf and a pack of Chocolate Frogs.

He uncorked it with a pop.

One swig of his own modified Wiggenweld potion, which was less bitter than Pomfrey’s, with a calming stabilizer mixed in. The burn was immediate, curling into his chest and loosening the static in his ribs.

Better. Not fixed. But better.

He crossed to his desk. A silver flask sat among his textbooks and ink bottles. He downed two mouthfuls. No potion, just firewhisky. Just enough to warm the edges. 

He sank into the chair again, rubbing the heel of his palm against his temple. His body felt hollowed out, like he’d bled magic straight through the floor. He remembered the wandless memory charm that had wrung him dry, but it wasn’t just the spellwork that left him raw. It was her. Granger. 

The way she’d looked at him, so certain, so irritatingly calm when she told him he could do it. As if she already knew what he was capable of, even before he did. As if she'd seen it all before. But how the fuck did she know he was a Natural Occlumens and Legilimens? That wasn't common knowledge even in Slytherin.

And that memory she’d given him to implant. He knew better than anyone what fabricated memories felt like. He’d spent the past summers studying them, tearing them apart during training at home with his mother or at Snape’s office. Most were brittle. Hazy around the edges. Hollow when you pushed. But what she gave him... it felt real. The scent, the light, the burn of adrenaline under the skin. He’d walked through it as if it were his own. That wasn’t imagination or clever spellwork. It felt like a lived experience.

So many questions… then he remembered it again.

He reached into his pocket and pulled it out.

The ring.

His ring.

No—a ring. But the exact same make. The same serpentine engraving wrapped around the crest. The same faint etching of his initials on the inside: D.L.M.

It even felt the same. The metal had the same weight. The same wrongness if worn on the left hand, since the signet ring was spelled to fit perfectly on his right middle finger.

Except… this one was worn. Scratched and scuffed around the band.

Older.

And yet...his.

How the fuck?

His first theory had been forgery. The Malfoy seal was difficult to replicate, but not impossible. Until he saw that spell. That bright green flash that had touched him. Drained magic from him. From him, not from her. That was no charm crafted in a Hogwarts library.

It felt blood-bound.

Pureblood spells had ways of proving inheritance. Of verifying magical heirlooms. They were arcane, rarely used outside old families, and taught only if you were expected to carry a name.

He’d seen it done once, when his father checked an old Lestrange bracelet bequeathed to Narcissa.

Draco pulled open his drawer and grabbed two pieces of blank parchment. His fingers moved on muscle memory now.

This wasn’t just any family ring.

The Malfoy signet ring was passed from father to son, always. It was the ring worn by the current heir, and only replaced when that heir became Lord Malfoy. Then, and only then, would he receive the Lord’s ring, which was a heavier, darker band that his father currently wore. The signet he wore now, on his right hand, meant he was next in line. He’d been given it on his thirteenth birthday with all the pomp and ceremony expected of his bloodline. 

He removed his signet ring and set it gently on the first page. Then set the mystery ring on the second.

He raised his wand. The hesitation lasted only a second.

“Sanguinem verifica.”

Both rings shimmered under his wand. Magic sparked from the metal like small static jolts.

And then the parchment began to bleed.

Red ink, slow and steady, crawling across the fibers. A family line of past heirs unspooling like a history lesson.

Armand Malfoy

Nicholas Malfoy

Lucius Malfoy I

Brutus Malfoy

Septimus Malfoy

Abraxas Malfoy

Lucius Malfoy

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Then, in sweeping, elegant script:

Sanctimonia Vincet Semper

Beneath the words, the Malfoy family crest bloomed. Dark ink forming the serpent coiled around a wand. Sharp, proud, and ancient.

He blinked.

The parchment next to it?

Exactly. The. Same.

Not one detail out of place. Not even the flow of the ink.

It was real.

The ring Granger carried—no, the ring that had responded to him—was a real Malfoy heirloom.

His heirloom. But how could it, when there should only be ONE.

He sat down, too fast, nearly missing the edge of the chair.

The weight of it hit him all at once.

Either someone was pulling the most elaborate, ancient magic-fueled prank in the history of wizardry… or…

No.

There was no “or.”

She knew. She knew something. Something big. And he was going to get answers.

At 8 p.m., wherever she thought she could hide.

He slipped the mystery ring back into his pocket, put on his ring, stood slowly, and let the desk catch his breath.

Chapter Text

They were barely two corridors away from the common room when Harry’s frustration surged again, pressing like a fist against his chest. It had been simmering beneath the surface since they’d left Dumbledore’s office. It was boiling now, slowly, steadily, like a kettle whistling somewhere behind his ribs.

Hermione walked beside him, clutching her satchel against her chest like It was the only thing holding her together. She hadn’t spoken since they left the Slytherins. Her jaw was tight and her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for impact.

Harry noticed it the moment they came back from the Monarch Garden with Nott. Hermione had glamoured her face, but he’d seen it anyway. The puffiness around her eyes and the slight tremble in her hands. She’d been crying.

And when he asked her about it, she deflected. Like always.

He knew he was supposed to understand. She was Hermione: brilliant, careful and logical. She carried more than she let on. But all the same, he was done being left behind. He was done waiting for her to decide when he deserved the truth.

She knew things. Real, dangerous things about the future. She told him Sirius would die if they followed his vision. She had knowledge that could change everything and yet she still chose to hold back.

Harry’s fists clenched at his sides. He stopped walking.

“Hermione,” he said sharply, “are you really not going to explain?”

She froze in place but didn’t turn.

“Harry, please. Not here. I told you. I’ll explain everything later…at eight, with Draco.”

There it was again. That careful, placating voice. It hit a nerve.

He stepped in front of her. “No. Not later. Not after you’ve decided how much I get to know. You don’t get to keep managing me like I’m one of your bloody assignments.”

Hermione’s expression flickered. “I’m not—”

“Really? Because it feels like you’ve got everything mapped out. Like you’re the only one allowed to play the game and the rest of us are just—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Was getting caught by Umbridge part of your plan? Was Malfoy saving us in your plans? Was that part of your timeline too or did you stage it, maybe?”

Her mouth dropped open. “Harry—No! How could you think that?!”

“Because I keep asking and you keep dodging!” His voice rose. “You keep telling me to trust you, but every time I do, you shut me out. You’re hiding things. From me.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No,” he snapped, stepping forward, “what’s not fair is being your best friend and getting treated like some child.”

It was too loud in his head. His thoughts collided, tripping over each other. Every unanswered question, every strange moment, every time she looked over his shoulder like someone else was in the room.

“You came back different,” he said. “You look at me like you already know what I’m going to say before I say it.”

Her voice trembled. “That’s not true.”

“It feels true. It feels like I’ve already been written out of the story. And you’re just going through the motions to make sure I don’t notice.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her whole frame stiff. But her eyes became glassy, filled with something close to guilt.

“I didn’t come back to make you feel small,” she whispered. “I came back to keep you alive.”

The words landed with a dull thud inside his chest. For a second, he felt winded.

He wanted to believe her. He really did. But anger still pulsed behind his eyes, heavy and hot.

“Don’t talk to me like I don’t understand what’s at stake,” he said, quieter now, but with more edge. “I’ve been fighting since I was eleven… with YOU. I’ve watched people die. And you…you just act like I wouldn’t get it. Like I wouldn’t be strong enough to help carry this with you.” 

She turned toward him slowly, like the effort cost her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was ragged. “You’re right, Harry. I’ve made mistakes. I was scared of saying too much, of breaking the timeline, of ruining things even more than I already have. But now everything’s moving faster than I expected. And I don’t know how to fix it, or if I should fix it. I’m trying to keep us all alive. I just—I don’t know where to start anymore.”

Harry’s fists unclenched slightly. She looked like she was falling apart. He hated seeing her like this, hated that it was happening because of him. But he hated even more that he’d been made to feel like a spectator in his own life.

“You say we need to work together… and with Malfoy. But how can we, when you don’t trust me?” His voice was softer now, but steadier.

Her breath hitched. “Please, Harry. I need you to forgive me. I’ll tell you everything tonight. Just… I need you with me on this. I won’t ask you to wait any longer.”

He stared at her for a long moment, heart thudding, anger still curling at the edges of his chest.

She looked so damn tired.

“Okay,” he sighed. “Just… no more secrets. I don’t think I can take any more.”

Hermione nodded. The relief on her face was immediate, like she’d been holding her breath for hours and finally let it go. Without a word, Harry stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.

She hugged him back without hesitation, burying her face in his shoulder as though it was the only place she felt steady. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was grounding. Familiar. Something safe in the middle of the chaos that happened earlier that day.

Harry rested his chin lightly on her head, one hand coming up to ruffle her curls.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered. “But no more running in circles, alright?”

She let out a small, watery laugh. “I promise.”

He sighed, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Come on, then,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Let’s go talk to Malfoy.”

—--

7:50 PM. They waited by the tapestry of the dancing trolls in silence.

Hermione stood stiffly beside the wall, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Her satchel felt heavier than usual, the strap digging into her shoulder like it was punishing her for surviving the day. Harry leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded, eyes fixed somewhere far away.

The trolls in the tapestry clapped and spun in a crooked circle, completely oblivious to her spiraling thoughts. She couldn't stop running over every possible outcome of tonight’s meeting. What if Draco refused to listen? What if he still chose to follow Lucius? What if she had broken something that couldn’t be fixed? What if she made it worse?

Next to her, Harry let out a quiet sigh. He hadn’t said anything since they left the Tower together, just walked beside her with his jaw tight and his shoulders hunched. He had forgiven her. At least for now. But that didn’t mean the air between them was light. No, it was thick and charged. He was still clearly angry at her.

Then she felt the shift in pressure. A quiet tension that crawled along her arms like static. She turned.

Draco Malfoy was walking toward them from the far end of the corridor. His white shirt was rumpled, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His collar and Slytherin tie was loose, with one button undone. His hair was a little messier than usual, like he had run a hand through it in frustration. Or maybe on purpose. Either way, it was infuriating.

Hermione felt warmth rise to her cheeks and cursed herself for it. She’d always known he was handsome. Especially so when she had spent a year beside him— the future him —in war and grief, in hard-earned trust. 

She thought coming back to this time would dull it. This Draco wasn’t him . He was colder, still too close to the boy she used to loathe. But seeing him now: sleeves rolled, collar loose, hair mussed, something fluttered in her chest that she did not appreciate.

She forced herself to look away. It was maddening how he could still do that without even trying.

“About time,” Harry muttered, pushing off the wall.

Draco didn’t respond. He walked past them without a word and stopped in front of the stone wall. Hermione stepped up beside him and closed her eyes.

She pictured the room. The same quiet sunroom from Grimmauld Place where she first told Harry the truth. She needed that again, some place safe. Familiar. A space where her heart could slow down.

The wall rippled and a door appeared. The Room of Requirement opened.

Inside, it was exactly what she imagined: a cozy sunlit room with long windows framed by gauzy white curtains. There was no true sun, but warm gold light spilled across the floor anyway. The scent of dust and lemon balm hung faintly in the air. A wooden table sat in the center with three mismatched chairs pulled close. Everything about it whispered calm, but the knot in her chest refused to loosen.

They stepped inside, and the door shut behind them with a soft thud.

Draco moved to the table without a word and set his satchel down. From it, he pulled a small silver flask and a slim vial of transparent liquid.

Hermione’s stomach turned. “What is that?”

“Veritaserum,” he said flatly. “My own brew. My strongest version to date.”

She stared. “You brought Veritaserum?”

Draco ignored her as he unscrewed the cap and began counting out drops into the flask. “Nine should do it. This one is strong so I added a minty kick to it that pairs well with Firewhiskey. It’s slow-release and reliable. Should last two hours. We can adjust the drops as we go.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’s a restricted substance.”

Draco gave him a dry look. “Yes. And? Every Slytherin carries one. In case of… situations like this.”

Hermione opened her mouth, then shut it again. Of course they did.

“I’ve never used this batch,” Draco said, swirling the flask. “Seemed like a good time to test it.”

Hermione folded her arms. “You expect us to drink that?”

Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he held the flask out toward Harry.

Harry took it without hesitation.

“Harry!” Hermione said, alarmed.

But he was already lifting it to his lips.

He took a long drink, then grimaced and coughed. “Bloody hell. That’s vile. But… oddly refreshing.”

Draco smirked.

Hermione’s heart thudded. Harry handed her the flask, his fingers brushing hers.

“I’m tired of secrets,” he said simply. “And I really, really needed the firewhiskey part. I think he will too.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, watching her now. One brow raised. Waiting.

Hermione hesitated only a moment longer. Then she took a drink. 

The sharp whiskey burn hit instantly but immediately chased by a bite of icy mint. She’s tried Veritaserum only twice in her life, and she’s never liked the feeling it gave. The world tilted for a moment, then settled, clear once more. Morgana, she hopes she doesn’t say anything embarrassing. 

Draco took the flask back, tilted it up, and drank without a pause.

Hermione tried not to think about the way his lips had touched the same rim. She felt the firewhiskey heat up her chest.

There was a pause as the air shifted again.

Then, Draco tilted his head and asked, in the most casual tone imaginable, “Potter, when’s the last time you wanked?”

Harry blinked. “This morning, before OWLs.”

He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “Fuck. That’s bloody strong.”

Draco grinned. “Good. It works.”

He set the flask down between them, leaned forward, and locked eyes with Hermione.

“Shall we begin?”

A few minutes passed and the boys both looked at her, waiting.

Hermione shifted under their gaze, pulse drumming in her throat. The firelight danced across the carved table between them, casting flickering shadows on their faces. Harry sat tense, fists curled around the flask. Draco leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable, fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the armrest. They looked like polar opposites. One simmering with frustration, the other calculating, poised to strike.

She exhaled slowly. “What?” she said at last. “I can start from the beginning, if that’s what you want. But the potion won’t work if you don’t ask me a question.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “We need to start with everything that happened earlier today,” he said, voice low but tight with restrained anger.

“You mean,” Draco cut in with a dry drawl, “you don’t know either, Potter?”

Harry’s jaw twitched. “No. I’m as clueless as you are. I know the topic of this meeting, but I’m going into it semi-blind, too.”

Hermione winced. “Harry. I said I was sorry,” she murmured, guilt rising in her throat like bile.

“I told you I forgave you,” he replied, not unkindly, but the edge in his voice didn’t soften. “I’m still fucking angry. No more secrets, remember?”

Then, without ceremony, he snatched the flask from the table and took a long drink. He coughed once, exhaled through his nose.

“This better be bottomless,” he muttered.

Draco scoffed. “Of course it is. What do you take me for?”

Hermione tried to smile, but her lips wouldn’t cooperate. She could already feel the Veritaserum working its way through her system, cool and minty, the warmth of firewhiskey masking the telltale burn. She never liked the feeling, but there was something soft, uncoiling in her chest. It might be the alcoholic properties of the Firewhiskey making the pull to be honest less painful. Alcohol lowered inhibitions after all. But she knew mixing potions with alcohol was not safe since it could double or lessen the efficacy of the potion.  

She looked at Draco. His face betrayed nothing. But she knew he tweaked the recipe to make sure the potion would remain balanced even when mixed with alcohol. Maybe when all this is over, she’ll ask him how. She felt another blush rise up her chest as she tried to analyze his ingenuity.

Hermione reached for the flask again. She took another swig, longer this time, and placed it back down harder than she meant to. The thud echoed between them.

Draco’s brow ticked up, clearly surprised.

Good, she thought grimly. She was going all in. He better be ready.

She sat up straighter, her palms pressed flat against her knees. The potion surged through her bloodstream like a rising tide.

Draco started.

“Granger,” he said, voice sharp as flint. “Explain what the fuck happened in Dumbledore’s office?”

And just like that, the truth spilled out of her like water from a broken dam.

“After OWLs,” Hermione said, her voice too steady to be natural, “Harry had another vision. He said Voldemort was torturing Sirius. I told him the vision wasn’t real. That Voldemort was just trying to lure him. That if we followed it, Sirius would die.”

The words came faster now, the serum dragging them from her throat whether she wanted them out or not.

“I… I suggested we go to Dumbledore’s office. To check on Sirius. When we got there, he wasn’t answering. Kreacher said he was gone. And then Umbridge caught us. She thought we were contacting Dumbledore. She bound us. Started questioning us and when we weren’t cooperating, she began to torture us. You and Nott came in time.”

There was silence. Until—

“How did you know it wasn’t real… the vision?” Draco asked, his eyes narrowing, voice low.

Hermione’s throat closed, but the answer still forced its way out.

“Because that’s what happened in the past.”

The moment the words left her lips, she stiffened. She hadn’t meant to say it that clearly. She hadn’t meant to feel the confession like that, scraping raw against her chest. 

Draco sat forward slightly, his eyes narrowing further.

“What does that mean?”

“She came from the future,” Harry said, voice flat but almost… gentle.

Hermione opened her mouth, the truth bursting out before she could stop it.

“I came from the future.”

They said it at the same time.

Draco froze. His hand hovered over the flask but didn’t touch it. His expression didn’t change immediately, but Hermione could feel the tension snap into the air like a trap being sprung.

“What the actual fuck,” he said slowly. His voice was low and sharp, each word crisp. “How? When?”

Hermione exhaled. The potion was coiling tightly now, tightening like thread around her ribs. She tried to center herself, but her thoughts were unraveling far too fast. It wasn’t just the Veritaserum or the firewhiskey. It was the way Draco’s eyes pinned her in place, as though his stare alone might strip the truth out of her even without the potion’s help.

“I used a Time Turner,” she said, her voice coming fast, like her mouth had decided to leap ahead of her brain. “I came from 1999.”

Draco’s brow furrowed immediately. “That’s impossible. Registered Time Turners are strictly regulated by the Department of Mysteries. They only allow five-hour jumps. Anything more causes serious harm to the traveler or to time itself. If you used one… where’s your counterpart in this timeline?”

She expected that. Of course he knew the details. He was as much a reader as she was. She remembered McGonagall explaining it to her back in third year, the same lines practically. And suddenly she had so many questions for him—but the Veritaserum yanked her back to answer.

“I didn’t use a registered Time Turner,” she said. “The one I have is… different. It’s a one-way jump. It let me choose the time and once I landed, I replaced my younger self. So… I am the Hermione Granger of this timeline now… and I can’t go back to my original timeline.”

She paused for a breath, barely able to keep her thoughts from tripping over each other. “You said the rules—how do you know the exact specifications? Did you just… read it?”

Draco opened his mouth and responded before he could stop himself. “Snape gave me one in third year. I was being stretched thin. I had Finishing classes in France on weekends. Piano on Thursdays. Duelling with Nott and Zabini every Friday. Quidditch on Mondays. Hogwarts during the week.”

Then he winced and muttered something like “shit” under his breath.

Hermione blinked. That was new.

She hadn’t known that. Not even in the future. Not even when they were—well, whatever they were. She never asked. He never told her. They both had carried that unspoken agreement: no childhood stories, no school nostalgia, no hallway memories. They never needed it. Or maybe they were both just too afraid to touch the past, even as they were fighting for a future.

“Wait,” Harry said, blinking between them. “You had one too? Like Hermione?”

Draco glanced at him, cautious.

“I mean, I had one in third year too,” Hermione added quickly, because of course Draco was confused. “McGonagall gave it to me so I could attend more classes than the schedule allowed. But I returned mine at the end of the year. Now I wonder if Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws had one too. But… sorry. That’s not the point. I’m rambling.”

Her mouth was moving too fast now. The Veritaserum left her no room for discretion and the Firewhiskey had softened the edges of her control.

She rubbed her forehead. “Right. The Time Turner. Yes. So. I’ve replaced myself in this timeline. And yes, it was my choice… but not really just mine.”

Draco leaned forward now, and when he pulled the signet ring from his pocket, her breath caught.

“I have more questions,” he said, his voice steady. “But what I want to know right now is this—” He held the mystery signet ring between his fingers. It gleamed coldly in the light. “— I’ve verified it earlier with an authenticity spell, and it’s real. So, how did you get this, Granger?”

Hermione’s stomach flipped. Of course he had verified it. Of course he ran an authenticity spell. Still, it didn’t make it easier to answer.

She took the flask from the table again. She didn’t even care how much Veritaserum she was piling on at this point. She needed the warmth of the Firewhiskey to get through this.

“That ring is from you,” she said, quieter now. “From the future.”

Draco stilled again.

“You gave it to me the day I traveled back here. I don’t know why, exactly. I didn’t ask. You said it was a gift… to keep me safe.”

Her voice faltered. She stared at her hands, now trembling in her lap.

“I thought it was symbolic. Sentimental. I didn’t know it was enchanted. But something happened in Dumbledore’s office. When Umbridge had us trapped, I remember thinking about you. I was panicking, and I wanted help. I didn’t even say your name out loud, but the ring—” she swallowed. “—it reacted. It cast a spell.”

Harry leaned forward. “What kind of spell was it? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“At first I didn’t recognize it. I was in shock. But then I saw the shape of the magic, the color, the way it expanded like a shield and consumed the cold around it. It felt… familiar.”

Her voice grew quieter, uncertain.

“I’ve seen Draco use it in the future, only once.”

She looked up at him then. Draco was watching her with that same unreadable expression, sharp and still, like a blade hovering in midair. He wasn’t sneering. But he wasn’t soft either. Just braced.

“It’s a variation of Protego Diabolica,” she said softly. “You called it Draconis Maxima. Instead of burning enemies who stepped inside the circle, it lashed out at anyone attacking from outside…anyone who tried to harm the caster or their allies within. And it was green, of course. Your signature.”

Hermione pressed her thumb into her palm, grounding herself through the pressure. Her fingers wouldn’t stop trembling, and the words felt heavier than they should have been. She kept her eyes on the table as she continued.

“I don’t know why the ring used it. Maybe it was intent. Or danger. Maybe you enchanted it somehow, tied it to me. But it wasn’t random. It knew what to do.”

She could still see the way the flame had erupted from her like a living thing. The shape of it, the heat, the way it surrounded Umbridge like a predator choosing not to strike.

“When I realized it could kill her, I panicked. I begged it not to. And it listened. The spell died. Just like that.”

Silence followed, thick and uneasy.

She glanced at Draco. He had gone still, his jaw tight. Then he swallowed hard, throat bobbing.

“And why,” he asked slowly, his voice low, “would I give my signet ring to you in the future, Granger? What’s my role in your time travel?”

There it was. The question she’d been waiting for. Dreading.

Hermione inhaled shakily. Her throat felt too dry, her heart too loud. This part wasn’t rehearsed. She wasn’t ready.

“You and I… we were close friends in the future, Draco,” she said, carefully. The name came out easier this time, too easily, like it had always belonged on her tongue. “I don’t really know why you gave me the ring. Like I said earlier, I didn’t ask. You laced it with the time turner chain and said it would keep me safe.”

Her voice caught, and she shook her head lightly.

“I thought it was a goodbye gift.”

Her heart felt differently though, she’d hoped it meant more. That for one reckless, aching second, she thought it might have been a gesture of something else. Love, maybe. But that wasn’t the version of their story she had the right to tell. It was merely wishful thinking.

They had never defined it. What they were. Just that, in a year of war and death and unbearable loss, he had become the person she trusted the most. The fine line between being her best friend and something more. The one who never made her explain her grief out loud. The one who stayed.

“As for your role,” she continued, voice hoarse, “I’ll start with Fifth Year. Do you remember the scene you implanted in Umbridge’s mind earlier?”

Her gaze shifted to him. Draco’s brows furrowed, but he nodded once, slowly.

“I know you noticed it wasn’t a fabrication,” she said. “That’s because it wasn’t. It was a memory. Mine. It really happened. That year.”

Hermione could feel both boys watching her now. She stared down at her hands, now busy fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. She decided to stop mentally fighting the Veritaserum and just let it do its job. There was no stopping it anyway.

“The difference was that, instead of you and Nott coming in, Umbridge was about to torture Harry with the Cruciatus, but then I lied. I Told her we were building a weapon. She made us lead her into the forest. The centaurs took her. Exactly how you saw it in the memory I gave you.”

Harry stiffened slightly beside her, and she glanced at him. Her throat ached. This part she remembered clearly. Every step in that forest.

“After that,” she went on, “Harry and I went to the Ministry to the Department of Mysteries. Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna came with us. We thought we were saving someone. But it was a trap.”

She could still hear Lucius Malfoy’s voice, calm and cruel, echoing off the dark walls of the Hall of Prophecies. He’d been the first Death Eater they saw. The first to speak.

“Lucius was there. So was Bellatrix. They explained that only Harry could retrieve the prophecy. That’s why Voldemort sent the vision in the first place.”

She swallowed hard, and finally looked up at Draco. He hadn’t moved, but he listened intently as he heard the name of his father mentioned.

“More Death Eaters showed up… the Lestrange brothers, Nott’s father, Crabbe’s too, Dolohov, Macnair. The rest kept their masks on. There was a fight. They came for the prophecy, and we tried to hold them off, but we were just students. Then the Order arrived: Sirius, Moody, Tonks, Professor Lupin, Kingsley…”

She drew in a sharp breath. Her hands tightened around her sleeves. The memory came crashing back with a force that almost knocked the wind from her lungs.

“Bellatrix killed Sirius,” she said. The words were like shards in her mouth. “She hit him with a stunning spell. He fell through the veil. Just like that.”

Harry’s breath caught. She could feel the air around him go taut. Hermione didn’t pause. The truth kept pouring out, dragging her memories behind it like a tide.

Hermione’s voice wavered. “After Sirius fell… Harry chased after Bellatrix. He tried to curse her with the Cruciatus, but it didn’t work. And then… Voldemort appeared.”

“Before Voldemort could strike, Dumbledore arrived. Then they fought. The spells were massive and ancient. The entire atrium shattered. But then Voldemort possessed Harry directly and he collapsed. Voldemort told Dumbledore to kill him through Harry’s lips. But Harry... Harry fought back. He told me he thought about Sirius, and it forced Voldemort out.”

She swallowed. “The Ministry officials arrived just in time to see Voldemort before he disapparated. That was the turning point. No one could deny his return after that.”

“After that night, everything changed. The war truly began.” She looked at Draco “Your father and the other Death Eaters were brought to Azkaban… but were soon broken out by Voldemort. And your family gave Voldemort sanctuary. He began staying in your manor.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. His arms folded tightly across his chest, and she could see how white his knuckles had gone.

“Since Lucius wasn’t able to get the prophecy, Voldemort punished your family by giving you the Dark Mark. You didn’t have a choice, you were protecting your parents. If you didn’t follow him, he’d kill you and your family.” she continued. “But eventually…eventually, you did have a choice. You and your mother defected. You left Lucius behind… he was too far gone.”

He looked away at that.

“You helped Harry in the final fight. You weakened Voldemort long enough to end him. But Bellatrix saved him. She disapparated with him before we could stop her.”

Her voice cracked. “You and Harry chased them. You nearly caught them. When you both came back, you were bloodied and broken and furious. Hogwarts wasn’t safe anymore. Dumbledore was dead. The Order was scattered. We had nowhere else to go, so we left for your chateau in France.”

The room had gone so quiet she could hear her own breathing. The air was thick with unspoken thoughts. Still, she kept going.

“I wanted to say we’d won. But we hadn’t. The war didn’t end there. It just changed.”

Her voice dropped lower. She felt like she was confessing to something shameful now.

“Over time, the Light, our side, stopped being what it was. The Ministry collapsed. Old alliances frayed and everyone was desperate. The Light wanted to capture Harry. Use him as bait or as a bargaining chip. They said it was the only way to force Voldemort’s hand. Some others just wanted to give him up in exchange for their family’s safety.”

Harry was still staring at her, eyes wide. But she could tell it wasn't ‘surprise’ anymore. It was the weight of inevitability. Like some part of him had known all along that peace would never last.

“And the Dark,” she whispered, “wanted him too. They thought if they could get to Harry, they could bring Voldemort back to power. Bellatrix was the one leading them by then. After he weakened, she started calling herself his chosen successor.”

She let the words hang in the air for a moment, her throat burning, her heart pounding against her ribs. There was still more. So much more. But even now, she could see the impact in their eyes.

Harry’s hands were clenched. Draco looked like he was trying not to shatter.

And Hermione? She just felt tired. Tired of remembering. Tired of pretending that it didn’t still live under her skin.

Draco stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the stone floor. The sound echoed in the quiet room like a whip crack, making her flinch. He ran a hand down his face, palm dragging across his mouth like he was trying to ground himself. Then, wordlessly, he grabbed the flask and took two long, burning swigs.

She watched the line of his throat move as he swallowed. The tension in his posture was unbearable, strung too tight, like the next word might snap him in half.

“Fuck,” he muttered, low but not soft.

Hermione reached inside her robes, fingers closing around the cold metal of the Time Turner. Her hands were shaking. She drew it out and, with a breath held far too long, extended it toward him.

He looked down at the delicate piece of magic in her palm, the chain catching the firelight in glints of gold.

Her fingers didn’t want to let go. He already had the ring. Already had more pieces of her than she ever intended to give. Trusting him with this felt like taking off another layer of herself. But she let go anyway.

“This time turner is from Narcissa,” she said softly. “She gave it to you a few months before I left. We decided…” she gestured between the three of them “...that I would be the one to go back.”

Draco’s eyes flicked up to hers. Sharp. Suspicious. “Why not Saint Potter?”

“I asked her the same thing,” Harry muttered from her left, crossing his arms. He didn’t sound bitter. Just tired.

Hermione winced. She didn’t want to answer. She really didn’t. But the potion wrapped tighter around her lungs, pushing the truth from her lips like steam.

“Because… it’s what we all agreed on.” Her voice shook. “It was your Time Turner, Draco. You didn’t want to leave Narcissa behind. Harry couldn’t leave Ginny.”

It was true, and she was glad the Veritaserum was content with the answer. She saw Draco’s jaw shift like he was ready to ask another question, but she held up her hand to stop him.

“I’ll explain more in a bit,” she added quickly. “Since we’re already talking about the Time Turner, there’s something else I need to say.”

She pressed her palm flat on the table and looked between them, forcing herself to meet both their eyes.

“When we decided I’d go back… we spent two months preparing. We mapped everything. Timelines, objectives, which led us to do an Unbreakable Vow.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly. Harry went still.

“You created a modified version,” she told Draco. “One that would bind all three of us. It would transcend timelines, in case something went wrong or the time jump landed differently than expected.”

The words tumbled faster now, unstoppable. “Ginny cast the Vow. The terms were simple: none of us can reveal the existence or use of the Time Turner and the future events I share unless all three of us agree it’s safe to do so.” she exhaled. “That means you’re both under the Vow. Already. Even if you don’t remember making it.”

She reached for her wand with trembling fingers.

“Monstra mihi fila quae connectunt.”

The incantation whispered into the space between them. For a moment, nothing happened. Then slowly, like threads unraveling from the fabric of the world, glowing gold lines bloomed into view. Thin, fiery strands flickered between the three of them—Hermione, Harry, and Draco. They pulsed faintly, like veins carrying magic instead of blood.

The boys were silent.

Draco stared at the threads with a frown etched into his face, as though trying to calculate how deeply this web had already caught him. His eyes were unreadable, flicking between the threads and Hermione like he couldn’t decide which one betrayed him more.

Harry looked down at the magic stretching from his chest to hers, then over to Draco. He didn’t speak either. But his shoulders had gone rigid again, as if preparing for a fight that hadn’t started yet.

Hermione could only wonder what they were thinking. She’d hoped it would help. Show them the truth. But instead, it felt like she’d just drawn new battle lines in glowing red ink.

“I figured you already told Potter about the Time Turner before this meeting,” Draco said quietly. “Did he know about the Vow?”

“I didn’t,” Harry answered flatly. His voice had cooled again, a bit too calm. Hermione could already hear the hurt layered beneath it. “Glad I didn’t tell Ron, or I could have… I don’t know… died?”

She winced. The guilt cracked in her chest like glass under pressure.

“I think we’ve already established that I’ve been dodging you, Harry,” she blurted, louder than she meant to. Her voice was shaking. “And I’m sorry. I am. I just… I trusted that you wouldn’t say anything. I knew you wouldn’t. I counted on it.”

She hated how desperate she sounded. Her hands trembled in her lap.

“Everything’s moving too fast,” she said, voice cracking. “The timeline’s either accelerating or mixing up events and I can’t keep up. I keep replaying every possible outcome in my head, planning and re-planning every conversation, every step, every spell I might need to cast.” 

Her voice broke.

“What if I say the wrong thing and it all unravels? What if I miss something, some tiny, stupid detail, and it gets one of you killed? I’m running through every possible version of the future, trying to account for all of it, and I still feel like I’m failing.” She took a deep breath.

“And on top of that, I have to convince the boy who once called me a Mudblood to trust me like he does in the future, when I can barely trust myself to hold it together.”

She hadn’t meant to shout, but the words rushed out in a flood. Her lungs burned.

“I’m sorry for trying to do everything alone,” she whispered, the words dissolving into a choked sob. “I didn’t want to. But I thought if I could just hold it together a little longer…”

Her shoulders shook. She buried her face in her hands, her fingers digging into her cheeks as if she could scrub the guilt off her skin.

“Draco already warned me about this,” she mumbled behind her hands. “He told me I’d overthink it. That my overplanning would ruin it somehow. He said I should bring you both in as fast as I could. That I’d drive myself mad trying to do this without you.”

The room was silent as the threads of the Unbreakable vow began to fade from their vision, hidden again. Harry let out a loud sigh, grabbed the flask, took a drink, cleared his throat and handed it to her. It was probably a sign that they’re okay… or they’ll both be okay after this. Malfoy took the flask after and drank as well. 

“You can continue asking me questions now.” She wiped her eyes.

“Why did we choose you, Hermione?” Harry asked, his voice calmer now but still searching. “I mean… I think I get it. You’re brilliant. No one else could’ve handled this. But the reasoning—why you, really? I understand Malfoy didn’t want to leave his mum, but wouldn’t she have wanted him to go? It was her Time Turner, after all.” He paused, looking at her. “And me? Why didn’t I go? Why couldn’t I leave Ginny?” He shook his head. “I think we need the full story.”

Draco nodded along. Hermione didn’t want to answer this.

“We actually had a horrible fight about it,” she continued. “We were all fugitives. Both sides were after us. There were only 7 of us left. The three of us, Ginny, Narcissa, and the elves, Mippy and Tippy. There was no winning anymore. We all knew it was just a matter of time before either of the sides would find us. One evening, you both just decided to tell me that I should use the time turner to run away to some timeline where I could be safe. I refused, of course… I wouldn’t leave you… But then…”

Her chest ached. She felt the first stinging behind her eyes. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt.

“We made a mistake one day. You and Harry left to scout a Death Eater base. Ginny and I were mapping the area near our new safehouse. Narcissa stayed behind with Mippy and Tippy.”

The memory was sharp. Unrelenting. She couldn’t breathe through it. Hermione swallowed hard.

“When we were at the outskirts of the wards, Tippy apparated toward us, screaming. The Death Eaters had taken Narcissa. We ran back to the safehouse, but it was a trap.”

She saw the change in Draco instantly. The way his shoulders tightened. His knuckles went white around the flask.

“They used blood magic to trace the elves,” Hermione said, her voice beginning to fray. “The spell targeted Tippy, because he was bonded to the Lord of the Manor. To Lucius. They couldn’t use Mippy. She was tied to Narcissa through the Black family line, and that saved the elf.”

She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, curling smaller in her seat.

“They used Imperius on Lucius to summon Tippy,” she continued, barely above a whisper. “That’s how they found us. They brought us to the Manor. And then… they began the tortures. They didn’t stop.” 

Her nails dug into her sleeves. 

“When the Cruciatus Curse wasn’t enough, when they got bored of it, Nott Sr. turned to Narcissa. He put her under Imperius. And then they…” Hermione’s voice cracked. “They chained her. Carved into her skin. Took turns torturing her… taking her by force. It was horrible.”

Her breath hitched, and she glanced at Draco. His fists were clenched white against his thighs. His eyes, burning silver, gleamed with tears he hadn’t let fall yet. Fury and grief carved hard lines into his face. She could feel the storm rising in him like a curse waiting to be cast.

“Where was Father?” he asked, voice taut with restraint.

She looked away. “He couldn’t do anything. He was under the Imperius too. They let him watch. When they were done with her, they killed him. And then… they took Ginny.”

She felt Harry flinch beside her.

“They tortured her too,” she said. “Called her a blood traitor. Said she wasn’t worthy of proper wizarding pain.” Her throat bobbed, and her next words came out in a whisper. “So they used Muggle whips.”

The room went silent.

“When they began scalping her, I broke free from the Death Eater holding me,” she continued, breath shaky. “I ran to her. I just wanted to get between her and them. And then Jugson cast Diffindo” Her fingers clutched at her sides. “It was meant for her. It hit me instead. They laughed… thought it was funny. And when I fell, they turned their wands on me and just… kept cutting.”

She pressed a hand to her side as if she could still feel the scar burning there.

“I thought we were going to die. But then, Draco and Harry barged in…  they came with Mippy. I don’t remember much after that. When I woke up a week had already passed, we were in a new safehouse. Draco told me later that Narcissa had died the same night you apparated us to safety. ”

She stopped, breathing ragged. Harry was frozen beside her. Draco’s fists trembled.

“Ginny recovered. Eventually. I took longer.”

She looked at them both now. Her voice came quiet.

“We found out Ginny had been cursed during the torture,” Hermione said quietly. “Something dark. Slow. It was killing her from the inside.” She swallowed. “Draco offered me the Time Turner again. He was so broken after Narcissa’s death and didn’t want to leave. I told him I’d do it… but only if I could go back far enough to change the tides of the war, or at least give us better odds.”

“That’s… that’s why it’s me…”

Silence filled the room like smoke. Heavy. Suffocating.

And for the first time since she arrived back in this timeline, Hermione felt completely seen. Broken open. And utterly bare. 

Harry stood slowly. He crossed the space between them without a word and pulled Hermione into a tight, grounding hug. She didn’t resist. Her arms wrapped around him instantly, as if they’d been waiting for permission to fall apart. He held her there, steady. 

After a long silence, he whispered against her hair, “I’m so sorry you had to go through all of that… just to get here.”

As Hermione exhaled into his shoulder, she heard another chair move. She looked up just in time to see Draco standing. His face was unreadable, pale with tension, his mouth pressed into a line. He didn’t meet her eyes. He didn’t even glance their way. He simply turned, leaving his silver flask behind on the table.

“Dra—Malfoy,” she called softly. “Wait.”

But he was already at the door. He paused, his back still to them.

“I need time to think,” he said quietly. Then, without another word, he stepped out of the room and disappeared.

Chapter Text

Breakfast in the Great Hall felt like static in his ears.

Everything buzzed around him. The cutlery scraping against plates, spells flipping open Daily Prophets and Witch Weeklies, snippets of gossip hissing through the Slytherin table like steam through a pipe. But Draco could barely hear any of it. He stared blankly at his untouched toast, the ache behind his eyes pounding in rhythm with his pulse.

He hadn’t slept... not really.

His body had shut down sometime around three, only to jolt awake two hours later in a cold sweat. His limbs still hummed with leftover magic. His head throbbed from the Veritaserum-Firewhiskey mix, and his mouth felt like he’d swallowed ash.

He took a glance at the Gryffindor table.

Granger and Potter looked like hell, too. Good. At least he wasn’t the only one shattered by what happened last night. They probably tried Pepperup. Idiots. It did nothing for this kind of hangover. No potion accounted for truth serum fused with regret. Maybe he’ll create a potion for it soon.

“Look, guys,” Daphne said, holding up the front page of the Prophet. “They’ve declared it. The Dark Lord is back. Officially. The Minister of Magic announced it himself this morning. It says here that He-who-must-not-be-named attacked the Department of Mysteries then Dumbledore arrived and stopped him. Apparently there was a battle, but the Dark Lord escaped. Salazar…”

Draco barely blinked. His brain registered the words too slowly.

Public admission. The Dark Lord. It was real now. He remembered what Granger said happened in her past.

“Speaking of Dumbledore,” Pansy cut in smoothly, lowering her voice. “I was passing the infirmary for my monthlies potion. Madam Pomfrey was whispering with McGonagall. Dumbledore’s back at the castle. They said he found Umbridge near the centaur border barely alive. Something about saving her from being trampled to death for trespassing.” She smirked. “And they’re suspending the pink bitch. Word is, she was caught torturing students during detention.”

Theo choked on his pumpkin juice.

“You okay, mate?” Blaise asked, patting his back.

“Fine,” Theo rasped, coughing.

“Never liked her anyway,” Blaise muttered, and his eyes slid to Draco.

But Draco didn’t react. He couldn’t. His thoughts were too loud.

He had barely made it back to the dorms last night before passing out facedown in his pillow. Blaise and Theo had been asleep, thankfully, but he knew it wouldn’t last. They’d want answers.

He shifted uncomfortably and dared a glance at the Gryffindor table again.

And that’s when he caught her eyes.

Granger.

Her gaze met his—quiet, steady and was that pity? Worry?—and something in his chest snapped.

He sneered before he could stop himself. Abruptly, he stood and shoved away from the bench, scraping the floor. He needed to leave. Needed air. Needed to move or scream or hex something until it cracked apart.

He stormed through the corridors, ignoring curious glances and the whisper of his name.

He needed to destroy something, and he knew the perfect place to go to. 

The Undercroft welcomed him. Cool, dim, and warded to the teeth. He, Blaise and Theo had discovered it in third year as they were walking around the DADA tower. It was soundproof, spell-repairing, and hidden. The best place to practice new spells they wanted to try out.

The door shut behind him instantly. He pulled out Blaise’s flask that he had stolen from their dorm earlier—his own flask, he realized, was left with the Gryffindors at the Room of Requirement—he took a deep, burning swig.

His throat flared. His chest burned. And the rage? It was still there, undimmed. He turned to the mannequin at the back of the room.

Bombarda

The mannequin exploded in a wave of splinters and stuffing. The blast lit up the dark corners of the Undercroft, scorching the air. The recoil cracked through Draco’s arm, burned up his shoulder like lightning, but he didn’t flinch. 

He didn’t care. He staggered back, dragged the flask to his lips again, and swallowed hard. It scorched down his throat. He welcomed the pain…needed it.

He raised his wand again with trembling fingers.

Bombarda Maxima

Another dummy shattered into chunks. The sound was deafening, sharp enough to rattle the stones. Dust and broken limbs flew across the room, clattering like bones, but it still wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough right now.

His magic crackled in the air, vibrating under his skin like it wanted to burst out of him, tear through him, take everything down with it.

She was from 1999. From a bloody war.

Confringo

He screamed it. The far wall erupted in flames. The impact knocked him back a step, his knees nearly buckling from the force. Heat pulsed in waves, scorching across his face, his hair. The self-repairing enchantments tried to mend the damage, but the scorch marks stayed like a curse.

He downed the rest of the flask and let it fall from his hand. It clanged against the stone, forgotten.

She had his ring. His ring.

He gave it to her. Future him did. And the ring fucking protected her using a spell that he apparently created.

Diffindo

He slashed his wand through the air with enough force to wrench his wrist. Another mannequin split apart like paper. A snarl ripped from his throat, low and wild, the kind of sound that came from somewhere too deep to name.

He cast again and again. The dummies fell. His voice cracked with the next spell but he continued lashing out the spells.

She said they were friends. In the future. Friends.

He staggered sideways, caught himself on the wall, and laughed—high, sharp, and unhinged. It echoed back at him like mockery.

She had called his name—Draco—multiple times last night. Like he didn’t have a choice in the matter because they were, as she said, already friends in the future…

He grabbed the nearest object, some ruined limb of a mannequin, and hurled it at the far wall with all the force he had. It hit with a sickening thud and fell limp to the ground.

…Just like he and Potter had no fucking choice in being part of an Unbreakable Vow.

His knees hit the stone with a crack, but he didn’t feel it. His body folded forward, gasping now, desperate to hold it in. 

His fists pounded the ground once, twice, three times, before he bent over them. His knuckles split on the impact, scraping open against the stone, blood smearing across the floor beneath him.

His lungs were clawing for air. His ribs ached like they were caving in around his heart.

Why didn’t my father protect my mother?
He was at the Manor. He saw what they did. And he let it happen.
Years of claiming to protect the family. All that pride. All that legacy. For what?

A strangled noise tore from him. His wand flew from his hand, flung across the room. It bounced off the wall and clattered against the floor.

He was shaking. Hands curled into claws. His mouth opened again but this time no words came, just a cracked, broken shout, hoarse and raw. He punched the floor once more, magic sparking beneath his skin like it didn’t know what to do with him.

Father followed Voldemort into hell and brought all of us with him. And he let her die there.
He let her die in pain.

Draco pressed his forehead to the floor. His body was wracked with invisible tremors. Every breath hurt. His chest heaved like it was trying to force the pain out physically, like it would spill from his ribs and flood the room if he didn’t hold it down.

His hands sparked with uncontrolled magic, dancing green-white light cracking around his fingers.

And what about himself? What did his future self do wrong?
Because whatever he did—it wasn’t enough to save his mother…

He let out a sob he didn’t recognize as his own and clawed at the floor, like he could bury himself in the stone. The grief roared inside him, a storm with no name. His body convulsed with it. His mind fractured under it.

He screamed, wordless, violent, ...inhuman.

He threw a hex with no name, no incantation, just raw magic from his palms. The last standing mannequin burst into flame.

He didn’t notice when the Undercroft door opened and heard soft footsteps. But then a familiar voice reached him, cautious.

“Mate,” Blaise said gently.

Draco looked up, startled. How long had they been there?

Theo was there too, standing by the entrance. Neither of them said anything else. They saw his face. The broken pieces of it. The rage. The wounds. The tears.

And they didn’t mock him. They just stood there as silent witnesses.

Draco dragged his sleeve across his eyes, breath still ragged. He turned back to the dummies. He walked towards the opposite wall, picked up his wand with his bloody knuckles, and kept casting.

—

It had been three days since the Room of Requirement. Three days since Granger’s voice carved open the inside of his head, spilling secrets that weren’t supposed to be his to hold. Now she kept watching him like he was going to crack.

She stared too long at Charms. Hesitated in the hallway outside Potions. She lingered by the greenhouse gate before Herbology started, eyes full of worry. He knew she wanted to talk. Probably thought it would help.

But he didn’t want help. He wanted silence. Space. Air that didn’t taste like Veritaserum and guilt. Her eyes were suffocating.

And still, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

His loyalty was pulling in all directions. Family. House. Duty. He was heir to a name that now made his stomach turn. And now she looked him in the eye and told him how everything ended. That his father failed. That he failed. That nothing he believed in had ever kept them safe.

And so, he avoided her like Dragonpox.

After the Undercroft, Theo and Blaise must have sensed something. Maybe they heard the screaming. Maybe it was the wand scorch marks or the broken dummy heads. Either way, they didn’t ask. They just became his shadow, protective and watchful.

When Granger tried to approach him after Charms, Theo had cut her off with some questions about wand rotations and wandlore lineage. Blaise tugged Draco’s sleeve before she could redirect. They were out of the room before she had a chance to speak again.

During Herbology, she tried once more, standing awkwardly at the entrance like she wasn’t sure where to go. Blaise nudged Daphne toward Draco’s side and steered Pansy to the table next to them, blocking Hermione with two layers of loud Slytherin gossip.

He appreciated it. He hadn’t asked, but they knew. He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t speak about time travel or the end of the world or the way his mother died while he just stood there in a memory he hadn’t even made yet.

But he would have to tell them something eventually. Blaise wasn’t stupid. Theo could feel lies in the air like a Niffler could smell Galleons. He’d have to come up with a story soon.

Today, he barely registered the class discussion. Professor Sprout’s voice was background noise. His mind kept slipping, retracing Granger’s voice in that sunroom, the raw edge in it when she said ‘ we’ . When she said ‘ Draco’ . Like she had a right to it. 

Ahead of him, two students whispered something excitedly. He didn’t catch it until Tracy turned around with a knowing smile.

“So, are you going to participate in the year-end courtyard duels tonight, Draco?” she asked sweetly, lashes fluttering.

Blaise leaned over and answered before he could. “That’s if our magical box of fate picks his name.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but Blaise hooked an arm around his neck, the easy kind of touch meant to anchor him.

Tracy pressed on. “Well, I was asking Draco because if he’s not in the mood to duel, he could come patrolling with me.” She tilted her head and smiled. It was an open offer, and he knew what kind.

Normally, that kind of suggestion would’ve cheered him up. Tracy was a fun distraction. Pretty, warm, not clingy like Pansy. She was a sweet snog and didn’t demand more than five sentences after. Low effort, high reward.

But today, his thoughts were sludge. Thick and heavy. There was a dull throb behind his eyes. Too many nightmares. Too many broken sentences echoing in his mind.

He raised his walls, slid his mask back into place, and let the grin curl at his lips like it belonged there.

“Sorry, doll,” he said smoothly, catching her wrist. He pressed a kiss to her skin, just lightly. “I’m honored, but I’m not in the best shape lately. Wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

She pouted a little, then sighed, clearly pleased anyway. “Fine. I hope you feel better, Draco. Owl me.” She bit her lip as she turned back around.

He leaned back into the ledge and exhaled, finally letting himself blink a little slower. His temples still ached. His muscles were tight with tension he couldn’t shake.

Across from him, Blaise was still watching. Quietly.

Draco gave him a small shrug and closed his eyes for just a second. Just long enough to pretend everything was quiet again. But the knot in his chest hadn’t moved in days. He missed his bottomless flask. He’ll have to steal Blaises again.

—---

The stars overhead blurred into streaks of silver.

Draco swayed where he stood near the Clocktower courtyard steps, Blaise’s flask in hand. He’d spelled it himself to become bottomless. He was a genius. Ha. He could kiss whoever invented Extension Charms.

The night air bit at his skin, sharp and cold, but he barely felt it. He took another swig, the burn anchoring him to the present.

Around him, the Secret Dueling Club’s year-end showcase buzzed with anticipation. Students gathered in clusters beneath enchanted lanterns, their faces alight with curiosity and excitement. Most weren’t even there to duel. They came to gawk, to gossip, to make bets.

He wasn’t supposed to be there either. But his legs had clearly made the decision for him.

The brass dueling box floated in the center of the courtyard, softly glowing. A faint bell chimed overhead as it summoned the next pair.

“Blaise Zabini. Draco Malfoy.”

Draco lifted his chin as whispers broke out through the crowd. Of course. Always when I just arrive.
He chuckled.

He staggered toward the platform, boots scraping against the flagstones. A few heads turned. Worried stares followed him. Did he look that bad?

Blaise looked up from the other side of the ring and swore under his breath. “Draco.”

Draco tilted his head. “Don’t start.”

“You’re drunk.”

“So?”

Blaise stepped forward, lowering his wand slightly. “You sure you want to do this? You can barely stand.”

Draco smirked, the expression brittle. “Then it should be easy for you.”

“Mate.”

“Shut up,” Draco muttered. “Let’s just get this over with.”

A hush fell across the courtyard as they took their positions. The glowing perimeter of the ring lit up around them.

Draco’s wand was already in his hand, trembling just slightly. His heartbeat thudded like war drums inside his ears. He didn’t even know why he said yes. He should’ve stayed in bed…stayed away from all of this.

But there she was. Across the crowd, just beyond the firelight—Granger.

Her arms were folded tightly across her chest. Her brow was pinched, lips pale. She looked like she was about to be sick.

The ache in Draco’s chest twisted into something jagged.
Of course, she came. Why can’t she just fucking leave me alone?

He tore his gaze away, jaw clenched.

Cormac McLaggen, serving as referee, gave the signal.
“Begin!”

Blaise moved first—quick and clean. A Disarming Charm shot from his wand.

Draco sidestepped it sloppily and cast a shield with too much force. The backlash made his knees buckle.

His vision swam. The dueling ring spun.
Focus. Focus, you bastard.

Blaise winced as he blocked a wild Stupefy that nearly hit a second-year standing too close to the edge.

“Draco,” he said again, lower now. “Stop. You’re going to hurt someone.”

Draco sneered. “Maybe I want to.”

He fired again. Then again. Half the spells weren’t even aimed properly, scattering off the shielding wards with volatile sparks.

His pulse was a thunderstorm. His wand burned in his palm.

He couldn’t get the image out of his head.
Granger crying. Her voice cracking. Telling him how his mother died. How he gave her the ring.

Blaise was still blocking. Refusing to fight back. Holding back.

“Fucking fight me!” Draco snapped. “Come on!”

He cast another hex, then a fourth and fifth. His wand was vibrating in his grip now, buzzing with the wild surge of untamed magic.

“Draco, stop!”

He staggered as the Firewhiskey caught up with the adrenaline. The world tilted. 

He barely caught himself before his wand slipped from his fingers. He heard it clatter against the floor, rolling to the edge of the ring.

In the crowd, Hermione took a step forward.

His magic surged without warning, screaming through his veins like fire. There was a faint voice in his head saying he didn’t need the wand.

He screamed, wordless and raw, as he hurled a blasting spell wandlessly with his left hand. It ruptured the shield over the ring. The crowd shrieked and flinched back.

Blaise reacted instantly. “Accio Draco’s wand!”

Draco watched as his wand flew from the floor into Blaise’s hand.

He was about to throw another wandless spell, but his vision blurred. The night spun. The stars collapsed.

He didn’t hear the gasps. He didn’t see Hermione running toward the ring or Blaise and Greg dragging him aside.

All he felt was the cold, hard stone against his back as the sky swallowed him whole.

—

The headache came first.
A brutal, throbbing reminder that his skull still existed and hated him for it.

Draco groaned into his pillow, then cracked one eye open. The green hangings of his four-poster bed swayed slightly, like the whole dorm was rocking on water. The air smelled faintly of dust, parchment, and aftershave. His tongue felt like it had been hexed with sandpaper.

“Well, look who’s awake,” Theo drawled.

Draco sat up slowly, squinting. “What… happened?” His voice was raw. He rubbed at his temples. “What time is it?”

“Quarter to nine,” Blaise answered. He was lounging against the far desk, arms folded. He tossed a small phial at him, and he caught it one-handed without thinking. “Good to see your Seeker reflexes are still functional.”

Hangover potion. Thank Salazar.

Draco popped the cork and downed it in one gulp. It tasted like boiled nettles and metal, but he forced it down. The moment it hit his stomach, his pulse began to slow. The pressure in his head ebbed slightly. He sat still, waiting for the potion to finish doing its job.

At least there was no Veritaserum in that Firewhiskey. He didn’t think he could survive another headache like that.

“It’s been days,” Blaise said, tone shifting. “We need to talk.”

Draco glanced at them. Theo was perched near the foot of the bed, arms crossed. They were both watching him closely, not with judgment (okay, some judgement), but with the kind of concern that made his stomach twist.

He turned toward the patrol schedule posted on the wall and stood up. His eyes scanned the parchment. Granger and Weasley - -  First shift - - DADA Tower.

He felt the tug low in his chest. Like a spell calling him toward her.

“I need to talk to her,” he muttered.

“Draco,” Theo snapped. “You already talked. And it made you bloody barmy. You almost obliterated the dueling ring. Wandless.” He threw his hands up.

“You’ve never lost control like that,” Blaise added, arms still crossed. “What did she tell you?”

Draco looked at them. His oldest friends. His brothers, really. They deserved a proper truth.

“I’ll tell you what I can,” he said quietly. “But only after I confirm something with her. I’m under an Unbreakable Vow,” he sighed.

Their eyes widened slightly, but neither spoke.

Draco turned back toward his trunk, pulling out his robes. He flung them over his shoulders and reached for his wand.

“Draco,” Theo warned again, rising from the bed.

Draco paused at the door, glancing back.

“Just be careful,” Theo said. “No more wandless spells. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Draco gave a nod. Not a promise, but close enough.

He left the dorm with purpose in his stride and the echo of Blaise and Theo’s worry clawing at his spine.

The corridors of the castle were quiet, dimly lit by floating sconces. He moved fast, feet silent on stone. The weight of everything pressed against his back: grief, confusion, the burn of memory. He didn’t know what he was walking into. Only that he needed to see her again. 

He found Granger on the third-floor landing near the DADA Tower.

She was walking briskly, her eyes fixed ahead, wand gripped in her hand like a habit. Weasley was next to her, arms flailing as he explained something, probably an excuse. Draco didn’t need to listen too hard to catch a few muttered words.

“Sorry, ‘Mione… I really need to finish my Potions essay… can’t risk detention again…”

She was clearly annoyed, but she waved him off. “Fine. Go. But you owe me one.”

Weasley gave an awkward salute, then disappeared around the bend.

Hermione resumed walking, muttering under her breath.

Draco stepped out from the shadows. With one fluid movement, he reached for her arm and pulled her into the nearest alcove.

Her wand was at the ready in a flash, her eyes sharp and defensive—

Until she saw his face.

Her hand lowered.

“Malfoy?”

Her voice was soft, wary.

Draco stared at her in the low torchlight. She looked just as tired as he felt. There were shadows under her eyes, and her curls were frizzed from the humidity in the corridor. Her hand was still clenched around her wand, but it had dropped just slightly. She wasn’t going to hex him…yet.

Draco licked his lips. His throat felt tight.

“Granger.”

She flinched a little at the sound of his voice. He didn’t blame her. He sounded like he’d swallowed gravel.

Her eyes searched his face carefully. She wasn’t looking at him like a professor or a classmate. She looked like someone tiptoeing around a wild animal.

“How are you feeling?” she asked gently. “I… After the duel. Zabini and Goyle brought you back to the Slytherin dorms. They didn’t want me near you.”

Right. The duel. He barely remembered it. They were just flashes of noise and heat and the roar of magic boiling under his skin. But the important parts stuck. Blaise’s voice. The flask. Her face in the crowd.

He gave a short nod, voice gravelly. “I’m fine.”

That was a lie.

He wasn’t fine. He felt like his soul had been stripped raw and scraped over every jagged stone in the castle.

“We need to talk,” he said, stepping closer.

Hermione’s expression shifted, her mouth pulling tight.

“I was trying to talk to you,” she snapped, voice low but fierce. “For days. But you—”

“Cancel that,” he cut in sharply. “I don’t want to talk.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I need you to show me.”

Her brows drew together. “Show you?”

He nodded, breath ragged. “The memory. Of what you told us. About the Manor. About my mother. I want to see it.”

Hermione went utterly still.

Her whole face changed. Surprise gave way to something heavier, darker.

“No,” she said immediately. Too fast. Too certain.

“No?” he echoed, stunned. “What—what do you mean, no?”

“I can’t show you that!” she said, voice breaking. “Even the future you didn’t see it! You never wanted to know.”

“I’m not him ,” Draco growled. “I’m me . And I’m telling you I need to see it.”

She stepped back half a pace, and his stomach lurched at the distance. She looked at him like he’d just asked her to slice open her own chest.

“It’s too much,” she whispered. “It’s—Merlin, Draco, it’s not just a memory , it’s a wound. It’s cruel to show it to you. And you…you think you can survive it like it’s just something to analyze?”

He ran both hands through his hair, tugging at the roots.

“Don’t you dare tell me what I can or can’t survive,” he spat.

She didn’t flinch this time. Her eyes were wide now, glassy. He didn’t know if it was tears or fury or both.

“You don’t understand,” he said, quieter now. “I don’t want to see it. I need to.”

The words came before he could stop them. They came from some deep, shaking place in his chest that didn’t care if it bled.

“I need to know what happened,” he went on. “What really happened. Not your voice, not a summary, not Potter’s pity eyes. I need the truth. All of it.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, her voice hoarse. “It was war, Malfoy. You couldn’t have changed it. You couldn’t have stopped what they did—”

“I don’t need your validation,” he snapped.

Hermione recoiled like he’d struck her.

He regretted it instantly, but his blood was boiling now, and the words refused to stop.

“I don’t need you to pat my head and say I did my best. I need to see if I really did everything. If I fought hard enough. If I tried. How I failed.” His voice cracked. “Because if I didn’t —if there was more I could have done—I want to know. I have to know.”

Silence fell around them, heavy as snowfall.

He could feel his pulse beating in his throat. His fists ached from how tightly he was clenching them.

Hermione looked at him like she wanted to cry. Or scream. Or run. Maybe all three. She opened her mouth. Then closed it.

And he waited. Breath shallow.

Please, Granger, he thought, but didn’t say. Please.

Hermione didn’t speak for a while. The quiet stretched between them, tense and loaded, broken only by the sound of her shallow breathing. She was clearly trying to keep herself composed, every part of her posture carefully managed, as if saying yes might unravel something inside her.

When she finally nodded, “I’ll give you the memory.” Her voice was small and strained. “You can watch it through a Pensieve.”

Draco exhaled, slow and steady, but the flicker of relief that passed through him didn’t last long. A Pensieve would take too much time. He would need access to one at home, or worse, ask permission to use Dumbledore’s. Neither option was realistic, not when everything inside him was clawing for answers now.

He realized she had offered the memory because she didn’t want to relive it. Whatever she had seen, it had left marks on her too. And he would never forget the look in her eyes when she had spoken of it. But even with all of that, he couldn’t wait.

“I don’t need a Pensieve,” he said, his voice lower now, more deliberate. “I can watch it through your mind. Isolated. You won’t have to see it with me.”

She turned to him, eyebrows rising slightly, confusion etched into her features. “What do you mean?”

He explained, and even now, in this moment, he heard his own voice echoing Snape’s lectures in his head. “There are different ways I can view a memory. The standard method is watching from your point of view in first person, which means you’d be reliving it while I’m inside your mind.”

He saw her shoulders tense at that, her mouth tightening at the thought.

“The second way,” he continued, calmly but with quiet urgency. “You can give the memory to me. That’s what you did with Umbridge. When you took the book from your mind palace and passed it to me.”

She nodded slowly in understanding.

“And there’s a third,” he added. “You let me in entirely like a Pensieve. Since your mind palace is a library, you’ll probably need to give me access to a whole shelf or a section… I’ll be able to watch it like I’m there. As if I were standing in the room when it happened. Detached. I’ll be there in third person.”

Hermione’s eyes flickered with something that looked like doubt, or maybe awe. “I didn’t realize Legilimency could work like that. I’ve only read about the first two.”

“Perks of being a Natural Legilimens,” He shrugged.

She didn’t answer right away. Draco could see her thinking, weighing the options, wrestling with her instincts. When she finally gave a reluctant nod, her voice was softer than before. “If that’s how you want to watch it… We’ll need somewhere private.”

Draco didn’t hesitate. “Follow me.”

He turned and led her down the hall, his boots echoing off the stone floor. His limbs still ached from the duel, and the hangover potion had only barely cleared the worst of it. But his mind was painfully clearer now.

They descended two floors, past the DADA Tower landing. At the far edge, they reached a cabinet on the right side of the corridor. He paused.

“Here,” he said.

Draco muttered a charm, and a door materialized in the wall. He stepped inside, motioning for her to follow.

She raised an eyebrow. “What is this place?”

“It’s called the Undercroft,” Draco said. “Blaise, Theo, and I found it in third year. We used to train here. Practice spells. Dueling routines. Or just… escape.”

The burn marks that stained the walls in patches were gone now. Several old dueling dummies stood silently in the corner. The air still crackled faintly with residual magic.

Hermione glanced around the room, her expression unreadable. “Like your own Room of Requirement.”

He nodded. “This was my prep space. Especially during third year… when I started time traveling. Sometimes I’d just hole up here when things got too noisy.”

She folded her arms. “That would’ve been convenient. I didn’t have a room like this.”

Draco let out a faint breath and shrugged. “Too bad we found it first.”

That earned him a tired glance, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped toward the center of the room and closed her eyes.

“So, how do we do this?” she asked. “Do I need to do anything differently?”

“Nothing new. Same as the last time.”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Draco nodded, his heartbeat slow but heavy.

The silence stretched long between them. Then he felt it. A ripple in the air. A slow blooming sensation, like someone unfolding a map in front of his consciousness.

He stepped forward and touched her temple lightly with two fingers. 

The room fell away.

Darkness swept around them, and then they stood in her mind palace.

He recognized it instantly. The architecture was the same as before: long corridors with stone archways, glimmering light that didn’t seem to come from anywhere. But this time, the halls were quieter as though the space was holding its breath.

She led him through the corridor without speaking, her footsteps quiet on the polished floor.

They reached the far back.

A towering set of double doors loomed ahead. The wood was darker than the rest. It looked like aged oak, carved with shifting runes that glimmered faintly. This part of her mind was more fortified. Whoever it was that taught her to compartmentalize was good. It could be improved, though. He was sure, if he wanted to, he could break through the doors with some effort.

Hermione stepped up and pressed her hand to the door. She whispered something under her breath. The doors unlocked with a heavy click.

Draco said nothing.

The doors opened.

Inside, the shelves were taller, and the bookshelves weren’t as filled. Everything was darker here. Hermione stepped carefully through the aisle, her fingers trailing the bindings.

Then she paused.

She reached up and pulled a single thick book from the shelf. There was no title. Just rough brown leather, worn and weathered.

She didn’t look at him.

She just held it out, arm trembling slightly.

Draco took it.

His hands closed around the spine.

It was cold. And humming. He braced himself, because he already knew. Whatever was inside this book… it would tear him apart.

—--

Draco blinked.

The world around him reformed slowly, like watching ink spread across parchment. He found himself in a dim, cramped kitchen. A narrow window let in a shaft of morning light, catching the motes of dust that hovered over a chipped wooden table. The chairs didn’t match. The walls were painted the wrong shade of yellow. There were odd box-like items that were on the kitchen counter with rubber strings attached to the walls. One of them had the shape of a kettle. This definitely wasn’t a wizarding home.

It was probably a Muggle safehouse. That much he could tell.

He turned slightly and saw himself sitting at the table. Slightly older. His hair longer, jaw sharper, but not by much. A tired version of himself. Not just tired, more like…haunted. His left sleeve was rolled up, and where his arm should’ve been, there was nothing.

Draco’s breath caught.

He hadn’t noticed it at first, but now that he had, he couldn’t stop staring. The arm was gone. Severed cleanly at the elbow. The version of him in the memory didn’t even flinch as he levitated a fork into his right hand with a casual flick of wandless magic.

He swallowed hard, feeling a cold heaviness slide down his chest. Granger had told him about his getting the Mark as his father’s punishment. But seeing it like this was different. Something must’ve gone terribly wrong. Did he cut it off himself? Did he do it to escape the curse? Or was it taken from him? He didn’t know which was worse.

Hermione moved around the tiny kitchen, spooning scrambled eggs onto mismatched plates. Her hair was tied back in a loose braid, strands falling in front of her face as she worked. He could see that her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Granger,” he murmured under his breath, though no one could hear him here.

Across the table, Potter and Weaslette were curled around each other like vines. Whispering. Laughing. Sickeningly sweet.

“Hermione, you make the best eggs,” Potter said between mouthfuls.

“Don’t let Mippy hear you,” Ginny added, already chewing. “But… I agree.”

Granger rolled her eyes, but there was no sharpness to it. Just tiredness. She walked toward the table and set a plate down in front of Draco’s older self. Then she served herself and sat across from him, her movements automatic, like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Neither of them said anything.

Memory Draco picked at the food. Granger didn’t eat at all.

From the corner of the room, Weaslette cleared her throat, too deliberately.

“Sooo,” she began, dragging the word out. “I think it’s best for everyone if we swap jobs.”

That got their attention. Both Granger and Draco turned to her at once.

“Gin—” Hermione started, but Potter raised a hand to stop her.

“Listen,” he said, pointing at the two of them. “Whatever this is. You need to fix it before the next mission. I’m not letting either of you go out like this.”

“It’s not like it’s going to affect the way we fight, Potter,” Draco heard his own voice bite back, thick with sarcasm.

He winced inwardly. It was strange, seeing himself like this. He looked tired, hardened, and still throwing up walls like it was instinct.

“I’ve seen you two in the field,” Potter said simply. “And I’ve seen you two lately. You’re off.”

Before either of them could argue further, his mother entered the room.

She looked older. Thinner. But still composed, still the portrait of dignity she had always been. Even in the faded cardigan she wore, she carried herself like a queen.

“I think it’s a sound decision, my dear,” she said. “Let the men handle the mission. Hermione, you can assist me and Ginny with reinforcing the safehouse wards.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but his mother only gave her a look. The kind of look that could stop a Bludger mid-flight.

Granger sat back down immediately.

“Fine,” she muttered. “I prepared breakfast, Narcissa.”

Draco couldn’t help it. His lips twitched. That stare and absolute command. His mother didn’t need a wand when a glance would do. He watched the scene shift again.

—

Now, the setting had changed. The walls were different. They were stone, not plaster. The lighting was lower. It was one of the bedrooms in the safehouse. Granger stood by the window, hands clenched at her sides. His mother stood across from her, composed as ever.

“Are they ready to leave?” his mother asked.

Granger nodded.

“Have you decided yet?”

Her voice was quieter now. “I… I can’t. It doesn’t feel right. He should be the one to travel.”

His mother’s gaze was unreadable. “I gave it to him, Hermione. It is his choice. And he chose to pass it on to you.”

“I don’t want to run away. I don’t want to leave you all behind.” Her voice cracked, just a little.

“Did you tell him that?”

“Of course I did. We had a huge row about it last night.”

Draco watched his mother closely. There was something almost soft in her expression now. A deep weariness, but no regret. “At least think about it, dear. He just wants you safe.”

A knock interrupted them. The Weaslette entered.

“Mione, they’re leaving.”

“How long until departure?” Granger asked, voice stiff.

“Ten.”

His mother raised an eyebrow. “Go stall them, darling. Make it fifteen.”

Weaslette nodded and vanished from the room. But before the door could swing shut, she yanked someone else inside.

Memory Draco stumbled through the threshold, caught by the wrist.

“What—ow! Red, your nails are claws—”

“I swear, both of you,” Narcissa said with a sigh. “Go sort it out. I’ll be having tea with Mippy and Tippy on the balcony.”

She turned on her heel and waved her wand, taking the Weaslette with her. The door slammed shut and sealed with a burst of golden light.

Draco, watching from the edge of the memory, couldn’t look away.

The two inside the room stood frozen for a moment. Then Granger bit her thumb, hard enough to whiten the skin. His older self stepped forward and gently pulled her hand away from her lips, fingers brushing hers as he guided her wrist into his own grasp. He lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss to the skin.

Draco blinked again. That was a gesture he’s familiar with. He didn’t do it often, though.
Usually, it meant he was apologizing to a witch. Or trying to charm his way out of something.

But here, it felt real. Like it wasn’t a game. Like he meant it.

“Pages,” his older self said softly. “Look at me.”

Draco’s breath hitched. Pages? The nickname caught him off guard.

Granger didn’t move.

“You know… I could die today,” he said, smirking, still holding her wrist.

She jerked her head up at that, eyes flashing, but said nothing.

“Stop pulling away,” he muttered. “I can still carry you, you know.”

“You’re not going to die, Malfoy.”

“Ah. Malfoy again.” A weak smirk. “That’s reassuring.”

“You’re Malfoy when you’re being a prat.”

“But if Potter comes back and tells you I’m gone… I’d rather my last memory be you calling me Draco. Not… Malfoy.”

Hermione shook her head, but the edge of her mouth twitched. Her fingers flexed in his hand. He took the chance to pull her close, his arm wrapping around her back. She didn’t fight him.

“We’ll talk about it when I get back,” he whispered, his voice buried against her temple.

She pounded weakly on his chest once, but her body sank into the embrace like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“You’re incorrigible,” she said. “Draco.”

He closed his eyes and laughed.

“Please don’t die.”

“I won’t,” he promised. He pulled her even closer, and she buried her face in his collar.

Watching it happen from the outside, Draco had never felt more out of place in his own body.

It was like watching a ghost wear his skin, only this ghost held her like she meant something. Like she was something to lose. 

Then he remembered how Potter embraced Granger in the Room of Requirement. Draco finally understood the weight behind the way she’d said his name.

The scene shifted again.

—-

Colors bled together before the new setting formed. A light wind rustled the trees around them. The smell of pine and earth filled the air, fresh and wet like a recent storm had passed. They were in a forest clearing, quiet, secluded, and close to the edge of the wards. Draco recognized the shimmer of enchantments flickering faintly in the air, like heatwaves clinging to the bark.

He could see the safehouse’s rooftop barely peeking through the trees in the distance.

The Weaslette—Ginny (it was easier to remember her name like that) stood at the base of a gnarled tree, her wand extended as she traced the perimeter. She held a piece of parchment that floated beside her, quill moving on its own, recording her path. It was traditional ward mapping, painstaking and slow. His mother must have taught them. The Black family took their wards seriously after all.

Granger was a few steps behind, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her brows were furrowed like she was still chewing on an argument in her head.

“Soo,” Ginny said, glancing at her sideways. “Did you make up with Drake?”

Draco scrunched his nose at the nickname. Drake? It felt weird when someone other than Blaise and Pansy called him that.

Granger let out a long sigh. “Kind of. He said we’ll talk about it when they get back.”

There was a silence between them. Ginny didn’t press, but she waited. Granger eventually broke.

“Do you think I’m crazy, Gin… for not wanting to leave?”

Ginny didn’t answer immediately. She looked up from her parchment, red hair catching the pale light that filtered through the trees.

“Honestly?” she asked.

Granger nodded.

“Yes.”

Granger groaned. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Ginny gave a soft laugh. “I am. But come on. Harry can’t leave, Draco doesn’t want to leave Narcissa. And we’re in a war. He has a point, you know. Is that the only thing you fought about?” She flicked her wand.

“I–no… but it’s not important…” she hugged her sides. “Also, Harry can leave. He just chooses not to.”

“He absolutely can’t , or I’ll kill him.”

“What do you mean?” Granger asked, turning to look at her properly.

Ginny smiled and pressed a palm to her stomach, slow and hesitant. Her other hand trembled as she reached for Granger’s.

Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

Granger stared for a second. Then gasped.

“Oh my God—Ginny! Are you serious?”

Ginny nodded, lips trembling.

Granger launched herself forward. They clung to each other, both laughing and crying, shoulders shaking as they swayed slightly in the clearing.

“I’m so happy for you,” Granger whispered through a choked sob. “You’re right. He definitely can’t leave.”

Ginny nodded. “I’m sorry for crying. I just—shitty timing. And we’re in a war. I don’t even know if—if I should be happy.”

Granger hugged her tighter, resting her chin on Ginny’s shoulder.

Draco watched them quietly from the edge of the memory. There was something soft about the way Granger’s hands moved when she comforted someone. She didn’t just hug like a formality. It was whole-bodied, fierce, and grounding. He remembered how tightly she had clung to memory Draco before he left in that earlier scene. Like it was the last time.

Merlin, her people were touchy. Loud and emotional and constantly clinging to one another like it was the only way to survive. And maybe it was.

Maybe his future self had learned to live that way too. It was a bit unnerving to think about.

He took a step back. He could feel something building in his chest again.

That was when the air cracked.

A pop of magic, sharp and jarring. A small figure stumbled into the clearing.

Tippy.

Draco’s breath caught.

The little elf was a mess. His right ear was torn clean through, and blood soaked the fabric of his tunic. One arm hung limp at his side. His tiny legs trembled as he looked up at Granger.

Granger’s eyes widened. “Tippy—what happened?!”

“The mistress—” Tippy croaked. “Death Eaters…”

Draco’s chest locked.

It was starting.

The memory he had been dreading was coming for him.

And this time, he would see it all.

The scene shifted

************TW SCENE***********

The light disappeared. Draco’s breath caught the moment the memory settled. The air turned heavy. The room around him reformed in cold silence, stone and shadow creeping across the floor.

He knew this place.

The back Floo room of Malfoy Manor.

But it didn’t look like it used to. Everything here reeked of something twisted. The hearth glowed faintly with green flame, barely casting light beyond its iron grates. The walls, once immaculate, bore scorch marks and streaks of something darker. Charms for silence and containment buzzed in the corners like flies.

There were hooded figures in the room wearing silver masks.

Death Eaters.

And in the center, crumpled against the floor, bound in thick, living ropes, were three figures. His mother. Granger. Ginny.

Their limbs were locked by Incarcerous ropes, their wrists crushed against their sides, their ankles forced together, and a tight coil wrapped around each of their throats like a noose.

They were trying to scream, but the ropes twisted every time they moved, silencing them with every twitch.

He could see his mother struggling to sit upright, chin raised despite the bruises blooming beneath her jaw. Granger was trying to twist free, her teeth bared, eyes wild. And Ginny. Her mouth was open in a silent sob, her body shuddering from the restraint.

Then a voice cut through the air.

“Crucio.”

The spell hit like thunder.

All three witches seized. Their bodies jerked violently under the curses, eyes rolling back. Their screams were muffled by the ropes around their throats, their sound swallowed by the silencing charms, but Draco could feel it. The agony poured into the room like heat from a furnace.

His stomach turned.

Granger's body arched off the floor. His mother slammed back against the stone with a sickening crack. Ginny convulsed, blood already dripping from the corners of her lips from where she’d bitten down too hard.

He wanted to cover his ears, but there was nothing to hear.

He heard a Finite cast on the silencing spell, but only one voice broke through.

“Please—” Narcissa gasped, her voice hoarse, barely cutting through the air. “Please. Let them go. They’re only children.”

Draco felt himself freeze. The other two were still under the silencing charm. 

She was begging. His mother was begging.

A soft chuckle answered.

Rodolphus Lestrange stepped into the light. His mask was gone, hanging from his belt. His eyes glittered like polished coal.

“Oh, dearest sister-in-law,” he cooed, as if soothing a child, “we can’t let them go. You know that.”

He reached down and fisted a hand into Ginny’s hair, yanking her head back to show her face.

“We’ve got Potter’s little red jewel,” he sneered, tilting her head for the others to see, “and,” he turned, letting his boot press down between Granger’s shoulder blades, “a proper gift for the Dark Lord himself.”

His foot dug in harder. Granger collapsed to the floor, choking against her bindings.

“The brightest little mudblood of her age.”

He smiled, slow and wolf-like.

Draco’s hands were fists. His nails dug into his palms. The scene wasn’t over, but his rage was already choking him.

Rodolphus turned, his wand lazily tracing patterns in the air. “Where are Nott Sr. and Jugson?”

A rasping voice answered from the shadows near the hearth. “Here, mate.”

Draco turned his head instinctively toward the sound and stopped breathing. 

They had brought someone else.

Two masked Death Eaters dragged a man forward between them. His steps were uneven, limbs limp. His blonde hair had been sheared away in jagged clumps, exposing a pale, battered scalp. His robes were torn, filthy. His face—

Draco’s heart sank. No. No.

It was his father.

Lucius Malfoy shuffled forward like a broken puppet, head bowed, gaze distant. His eyes that were once sharp and terrifying were wide and glassy now, utterly vacant. He looked through them all, not at them.

He was under the Imperius curse.

Draco staggered a step back in the memory, even though no one could see him.

Nott Sr. came into view then, stepping into the firelight like he belonged there. His face hadn’t changed. Same sneering lips and cold eyes.

His eyes found Narcissa.

“Ohhh, what a treat,” he said slowly, smiling like a man unwrapping a long-desired gift. “My beautiful Narcissa.”

He moved forward. Draco tried to step in front of him even though he couldn’t. The memory did not pause for him. It played on.

Nott Sr. crouched beside her, one hand lifting her face by the chin. His thumb pressed too hard into her cheek, tilting her head to better see her. “I’ve always wanted to hold your porcelain face.”

His mother spat in Nott Sr’s face.

Without hesitation, Nott Sr. slapped her.

The crack echoed.

Her body slammed against the marble floor, and her head snapped to the side. Her hair fanned out behind her like white silk soaked in blood.

Draco’s entire body trembled.

He had always known. Always saw the way Nott Sr. stared at his mother during galas. He always hated the lingering gaze. The too-smooth comments. The way the man found excuses to be near her at social events.

He was going to kill him.

He was going to rip his fucking heart out.

Nott Sr. rose to his full height, wiping his cheek with the back of his sleeve, eyes still gleaming with sick pleasure.

“Funny,” he said. “How you still try to fight. When your husband…” He stepped aside, gesturing casually toward Lucius, “...is willing to give you to me.”

His mother’s head turned slowly, as if every muscle ached.

“Lucius?” Her voice cracked. “What have you done to him?”

She tried to crawl closer, but the ropes held tight around her limbs.

The two masked Death Eaters forced Lucius to face her. His eyes didn’t flicker.

Mulciber answered, his voice oily. “You see, Lady Malfoy… we traced you through your husband’s house elf. Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy. You see, your husband…” He tutted. “He was difficult. Quite the strong Occlumens, if I do say so myself.”

He crouched near her like Nott Sr. had, smiling widely.

“But,” Mulciber continued, “after the Dark Lord gave him a scene of you and Draco… dead on the floor?” He grinned. “His Occlumency shattered. He cracked open like a fucking egg. It was delightful. His mental wards shattered.”

He stood slowly, wand twirling in his fingers.

“It was a matter of seconds before everything had been transferred. The manor, the elves…” he snapped his fingers sharply, the sound echoing off the marble, “...straight to the Dark Lord.”

Draco’s hands curled into fists. He could barely breathe. The rage flooding his chest was unlike anything he’d ever felt.

Mulciber flicked his wand, casually tossing bursts of Crucios toward Ginny and Granger. Granger’s body arched violently. Ginny screamed through her bindings, convulsing beside her.

Then Nott Sr. leaned over and whispered something into Mulciber’s ear.

Whatever it was, it made the man smile like a wolf.

Mulciber turned, aimed his wand at the door, and locked it with a hard snap of magic. The walls seemed to seal.

Then Nott Sr. turned to his mother again.

“Cissa,” he said gently, mockingly. “You know I’ve loved you for a long, long time. Since Sixth Year, in fact.”

He shoved aside the Death Eater holding her and walked up slowly.

He raised his hand and Accio’d the Floo table. The small ceramic bowl of powder crashed to the floor and scattered.

Then, with calculated ease, he shoved her onto the table.

“No,” she breathed, “please, don’t—”

Her voice wavered for the first time. She was shaking. Her wrists strained against the ropes.

Nott Sr. leaned in, running a finger down her arm.

“So beautiful like this,” he whispered. “All bruised. All bloody. Just for me.”

Hermione and Ginny were screaming now, but the silencing spells still held. They thrashed against their restraints, eyes wide with horror. Hermione’s face was slick with tears. Ginny had bitten her lip raw.

Draco wanted to scream with them. He wanted to kill everyone in that room. Rip the memory apart with his bare hands. 

Nott Sr.’s wand flicked again, and sharp slicing spells tore through Narcissa’s robes, through her skin. Fabric fell to the floor in shreds, bloody.

Draco felt sick.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be real. This was his mother.

Mulciber leaned down and bit her shoulder. Her scream pierced through the room like glass shattering.

“Lucius,” Mulciber growled, looking up at the hollow-eyed man, “look closely. You were always the prince. The prodigy. The fucking favorite. Well, look who’s got your wife now.”

He bared his teeth, blood staining them red.

Draco couldn’t breathe.

His fingers twitched for a wand he didn’t have. His magic flickered and cracked under his skin. He pressed his palms to his temples, but it didn’t help. He could feel it, like his soul was being torn in half.

His mother sobbed, her voice no longer sharp or proud.

Nott Sr. turned his attention back to Narcissa. He moved forward, slow and deliberate.

He pulled off his belt in a single, fluid motion. The buckle clinked faintly as it hit the floor. Draco’s stomach lurched.

He watched in paralyzed horror as Nott Sr. wrapped the leather strap around Narcissa’s neck. He tugged it tight. 

Her eyes widened. She gasped for air, choking against the makeshift collar.

“Look at him,” He hissed. He yanked the belt, twisting her toward Lucius.

“Look at your perfect husband. The great Lucius Malfoy, frozen like a coward while I fuck his wife.”

Draco’s magic howled under his skin, pushing at every seam in his body. He gritted his teeth, but it didn’t stop the tears. They blurred his vision. His hands shook uselessly.

Nott Sr. took her by force. Over and over.

Skin against stone. Pain against pain. Her wrists were still bound. Her legs barely moved. She cried out once—a raw, terrible scream—and Draco felt it split him open.

“LUCIUS!” Narcissa screamed, her voice cracking with every breath. “Lucius, please—!”

His father moved.

Just barely.

His body twitched. His fingers trembled. A single tear rolled down his cheek. His mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out.

The spell held.

The Imperius still clung to his mind, but something inside was clawing against it.

Draco collapsed to his knees in the vision. His hands dug into the illusion of marble, but he felt nothing. He sobbed. He couldn’t stop. It was ugly and silent. He felt ten. He felt five. He felt like a boy watching the world burn and knowing he’d built the matchstick tower.

When Nott Sr. was through, Rodolphus approached his mother’s limp body and raised his wand and cast a magical gag. 

The magical gag twisted around her face, choking her until her eyes rolled back. She slumped to the side, completely unconscious.

“Too noisy,” Rodolphus said dryly.

“Fuck’s sake,” Mulciber muttered, pacing like an irritated customer. “I wanted a turn.”

Nott Sr. adjusted his robes, face flushed and breathless. “She’ll come around.”

“She’d better,” Mulciber sneered. “Otherwise, you’re cleaning her up for nothing.”

But then someone gasped.

His father twitched again. Harder this time. His eyes blinked rapidly.

“Oi—” one Death Eater muttered. “He’s breaking it.”

Mulciber turned, wand already raised. “Fuck this.”

“Avada Kedavra.”

The green light struck Lucius in the chest before he could speak.

He collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. There was no resistance, not even a last word. 

Draco screamed. He screamed like his lungs were being torn apart from the inside. His whole body folded in on itself. The world spun, and he wanted to vomit.

His father’s body hit the ground with a sickening thud, while his mother lay unconscious on the table. The Death Eaters laughed.

And somewhere, beyond the fog of memory, Draco could feel his own heart breaking in real time.

Draco could feel the crackle in his left hand. He felt the surge of magic biting at his nerves like electricity with nowhere to go. His whole body trembled with it, a violent ache crawling up his arm and into his throat. He didn’t even realize his breathing had turned into panting until—

A warm hand wrapped around his. Real.

He flinched. But it held on tighter.

Granger.

His first instinct was to pull away, recoil from the touch like it burned, but she didn’t let him. She wasn’t dragging him out of the memory. She was staying. Holding on, not for her, but for him. To finish this.

He swallowed hard. He couldn’t look at her.

Up ahead in the memory, Jugson was dragging Ginny across the room. Memory Granger tried to reach her, but a brutal spell doubled the binds around her body. She collapsed with a strangled cry.

“Hello, blood traitor,” Jugson sneered, circling Ginny like a predator savoring the panic. “I think I’ll remove that silencing charm now.”

He did.

Ginny’s scream tore through the room, high-pitched and raw. Draco felt it echo inside his chest. Sharp and shattering.

“I think you’ve had enough Crucios for today,” Jugson crooned. He flicked his wand and conjured a long metal whip. Draco’s stomach dropped.

“I heard Muggles enjoy this sort of pain. After all, blood traitors like you don’t deserve wizarding torture.”

Granger’s grip on his hand tightened.

The whip cracked through the air. Over and over again. Every lash tore skin. Blood sprayed in red fans against the marble. Ginny’s cries twisted into wet gasps. Her body writhed under the restraints, but the whip kept falling.

Granger trembled beside him. He could feel her entire body shaking from the effort of not collapsing.

Memory Granger was screaming, wordless and furious. Jugson ignored her. He grabbed a knife. A silver one. Curved.

Draco’s breath caught in his throat.

Then Jugson began to scalp her.

Ginny’s shrieks turned into gurgles as blood poured down her face. When she convulsed, he stabbed her straight through the stomach. A puncture meant to kill slowly.

“No!” Memory Granger’s voice shattered through the room. Her magic erupted like a tidal wave. The magical restraints broke. Her bindings ripped away with an audible snap.

She dove forward.

She reached Ginny and wrapped her body around her friend, shielding what was left of her. Draco watched as she tried to protect her while she herself was bleeding, helpless.

Jugson didn’t hesitate. He whispered a spell to the knife and slammed a knife straight into Hermione’s side. Black smoke engulfed her.

The scream she made cut Draco in half.

Ropes flew again. She was bound. Another death eater wrapped Ginny in new restraints, her body limp.

“You dare interrupt me, Mudblood?” Jugson hissed.

He raised his wand. Diffindo.

The first slash hit Hermione across her back. Then another, along her ribs. Her body jerked. Blood soaked her shirt and began to leak onto the marble.

“Jugson!” Rodolphus barked from behind. “Enough. The mudblood belongs to the Dark Lord. He wants her alive. We need her memories to get to Draco and Potter.”

Jugson sneered. “Fucking Mudblood.”

He raised his wand again, and another curse was coming.

But the doors blew apart.

Draco flinched.

His older self and Potter burst into the room in a blaze of raw, unstable magic. The floor quaked beneath them. Walls cracked. Even the torches trembled.

He heard himself snarl.

Draco watched his own face twist in rage. His eyes found his mother, bleeding on the floor. Granger. Ginny. Crumpled and broken, barely alive.

The magic coiled around his memory self like a storm made flesh.

“Potter,” he heard himself say.

Harry nodded. His wand was already up, blocking spells.

More curses flew. The Death Eaters descended. Draco didn’t wait. He sprinted forward and dropped to his knees beside his mother, then Granger and Ginny. His voice trembled as he murmured incantations under his breath.

Potter’s shield flared.

“Draco! Fuck—NOW!”

He knelt. Planted his palm on the bloodstained marble.

“Draconis Maxima.”

Draco from the future watched as the world flared green.

The ring ignited around them. A wide circle of emerald flame that pulsed outward like a heartbeat. He and Harry stood at the center. The girls—his mother, Granger, Ginny—were inside the circle, protected.

And then the dragon flames came.

Fire twisted upward into monstrous serpents, their eyes glowing, their teeth made of vengeance. They struck the Death Eaters with merciless precision. Jugson’s scream was first. Then Mulciber. He watched Nott Sr and Rodolphus get swallowed by the flames. Then the nameless ones.

And Lucius.

Draco watched—watched himself burn his father…

Watched the fire wrap around Lucius Malfoy’s body like a crown of judgment.

The future Draco looked at his father with cold eyes.

And then he watched as Draco and Potter disapparated with everyone.

The memory ended with a sharp tug. Draco and Hermione were pulled out of her mind. They were back in the Undercroft. 

**************TW END***************

When Draco’s eyes opened, the first thing he noticed was that he was still holding her right hand. 

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open a second later. She looked down at their joined hands and flinched.

“I-I’m sorry, ” she whispered, trying to pull away.

But Draco held onto her hand harder. 

She hissed softly in pain. His eyes snapped down.

He was surprised to see it burned, with faint red lines running across her skin. Her wrist was raw, the skin angry and inflamed where his uncontrolled magic had leaked through during the memory. His gut twisted. That had been him. She hadn't let go the entire time. 

Why didn’t she let go? What was wrong with this witch?

“Come on.” His voice came out rougher than intended.

He stood up and pulled her wrist gently toward the far wall, to an old wooden cabinet with scuffed corners and silver latches.

“Malfoy, wha–”

He didn’t answer. He crouched, ruffling through the contents with one hand while keeping hold of her injured wrist with the other. She didn’t resist again, but he could feel her eyes watching his every movement.

There. A small tin jar near the back.

He unscrewed the lid and dipped two fingers into the thick, orange salve. The scent of peppermint and calendula hit him first. He rubbed the paste carefully along her wrist, slow and steady.

She winced when he started, and he froze. But she didn’t pull away.

After a few seconds, she exhaled. He could feel her shoulders relax.

“You don’t have to…” she murmured, her voice unsteady. “It’s just a light burn.”

“And you didn’t have to hold my hand,” he said quietly, without looking up.

She didn’t reply to that.

Her skin was warm under his touch, and despite everything, she stayed still. He’s thankful for her silence.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He bit the corner to hold it in place while he wrapped it carefully around her wrist, knotting it tight enough to protect but loose enough to breathe.

He’d wrapped plenty of wounds — his own, Theo’s, and Blaise’s during dueling practice. But this felt different. It felt more fragile. Her hand looked small in his.

When he finished, he let her hand go at last. She flexed her fingers experimentally.

“Feels better,” she said. Her voice was small.

He nodded. That was good.

“It’s a good salve,” she added. “Why do you keep it here?”

“We practice duels here a lot,” he replied, leaning back against the cabinet. “Makes sense to stock things for burns, bruises, wounds. Nicked that one from Snape’s stores.”

He smirked faintly at her amused look. 

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He didn’t respond at first. Just ran his hands across his face, now dry but tight with the residue of tears. His head still throbbed faintly, but the ache in his chest was worse.

He looked at her for a long moment.

“I’ll walk you back to Gryffindor Tower.”

“I’m fine.”

“It wasn’t a question, Granger.”

Her lips parted like she might argue again, but then she stopped. Her shoulders sagged.

“Okay.”

They walked in silence through the DADA corridor, the stone floors echoing beneath their footsteps. The castle was quiet at this hour, torches flickering in their sconces. When they reached the Grand Staircase, he noticed how she leaned ever so slightly into the shadows, her shoulders curved inward like she was shielding herself.

He didn’t say anything. He understood that kind of silence.

The walk to Gryffindor Tower felt longer than usual. When they reached the Gryffindor common room door, the Fat Lady’s portrait stirred and raised an eyebrow at Hermione.

“This is me,” Hermione said, her voice no louder than a whisper.

Draco nodded.

“Goodnight, Granger. And… thank you.”

She hesitated, then gave him a tired smile. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

And then she was gone.

The portrait swung closed.

Draco stood there for a moment longer, staring at the now-empty frame. The corridor was still. His hands hung limp at his sides. He took another deep breath and walked back to the Slytherin dorms.

Chapter Text

She hadn’t meant to go in with him. That wasn’t part of the plan.

The original idea had been to hand him the memory, step back, and let him view it alone. It was supposed to be detached, distanced, and safe. But nothing about that night was safe.

Inside her mind palace, she had watched him stand before the floating book. His expression was still at first. Just mildly furrowed brows. A quiet frown. But then she saw it change slowly, then all at once.

His hands curled into fists. His breathing shifted, heavy and uneven. She wondered what part of the memory he was in. His shoulders tensed. And there, around his fingertips, threads of wild magic began to crackle and glow.

Without thinking twice, her hand reached for Draco’s. Her fingers slipped between his, and to her surprise, she instantly entered the memory with him.  He looked surprised as she was, but didn't push her away. There was a flinch, but she just held on tighter. She wanted to tell him she could carry it with him.

And when they emerged, when it was all done and the worst of it had passed, he didn’t shout, didn’t sneer, didn’t accuse her of violating some line she couldn’t see.

He had looked at her, eyes still damp, and cared for her wounds.

Godric. That alone would’ve unraveled her.

He healed her hand. Tended to her like she was fragile china, even though she hadn’t been the one shattering. His touch had been careful, deliberate. Just quiet, simple care.

When he insisted on walking her back to Gryffindor Tower, she had wanted to argue, but she couldn’t find the words. And when he told her thank you at the portrait, her heart did something traitorous.

It leapt.

Now, with morning sun pouring through the enchanted windows of the Great Hall, Hermione stared blankly at her oatmeal, trying not to replay it all over again.

Too late.

She could still feel the warmth of his hand as he wrapped the handkerchief around her wrist. The said handkerchief was now washed and sat snuggly in her skirt pocket. She could still hear the scrape of his voice, low and tired, as he said her name. She could feel herself smiling and immediately forced it down.

Absolutely not.

She picked up her spoon and stirred the oatmeal aggressively.

This wasn’t the first time she’d gotten her hopes up around one Draco Malfoy, and she wasn’t going to let it happen again. In the future, he had rejected her feelings not once, but twice. She wasn’t keen on collecting a third.

She had told Harry what happened in the Undercroft — well, the parts that mattered — and asked, point-blank, if she should just go up to Malfoy and ask whether he was joining their mission or not.

And of course, Harry, introspective, patient Harry told her to wait.

“He doesn’t seem to be the kind you press,” Harry had said over toast. “He’s a broody prat. And a control freak—like someone I know.” Raising an eyebrow at her, “He’ll come to you if he’s ready. Don’t poke the ferret.”

She sighed at that. So for once, she took Harry’s advice and waited.

Now that she had committed to waiting, however, she found herself spiraling. Not with fear, but with something worse. Merlin, she was hopeless. This crush would not do.

Hermione Granger was not proud of the squealing sixteen-year-old living in her chest, but she had returned with two extra years’ worth of maturity, one of those extra years was buried feelings for the future version of the Slytherin blonde, and apparently, they all decided to reawaken last night. Sodding Malfoy and his perfect, slender hands.

Her hand wasn’t bruised anymore. It had healed overnight with the salve. But her brain had absolutely no interest in letting it go. It kept replaying... his large hands. His voice. The way he bit down on the handkerchief while wrapping her wrist.

She slapped her cheek lightly and picked up her pumpkin juice.

Get. A. Grip.

Across the Great Hall, she felt a twinge of pressure between her shoulder blades. She glanced up.

Malfoy was staring at her.

Not glancing. Not peeking.

Staring.

His grey eyes didn’t shift away when she met them. He wasn’t trying to hide it. He didn’t even look embarrassed. He watched her with a kind of quiet scrutiny, with furrowed brows, not in anger. It was like she was some ancient riddle he was still trying to solve.

She blinked, heart skipping.

And he kept looking.

Hermione turned away, heat crawling up her neck. She shoved a spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth just to have something to do. Ron, thankfully oblivious, was still mid-rant about how he was still missing an inch for the essay he had yet to turn in for Arithmancy, and Harry just nudged her foot gently under the table.

“You alright?” he murmured.

“Fine,” she said too quickly. “Fine. Just tired.”

Harry gave her a knowing look, but didn’t press.

Later, during Charms, things didn’t get any easier.

They arrived late, so most of the seats were already taken. The only spot left was the one in front of Malfoy, who had apparently chosen the far back corner for maximum dramatic brooding.

Hermione slid into the empty seat in front of the blonde, casting a brief glance over her shoulder. He was twirling his wand lazily between two fingers, pretending not to look her way.

She turned back around.

It was humid in the room. Not sweltering, but enough to make her hair cling annoyingly to her neck. She muttered a simple charm and lifted it into a ponytail, the strands floating for a second before twisting neatly and tying themselves into place.

The moment her hands dropped, she felt it again.

That same weight. That same heat on the back of her neck.

She didn’t turn around this time.

But her fingers brushed the edge of her desk. Her heart had no right to be this loud.

Stop it.

She had already told herself: no third heartbreaks. Not this time. 

—

After walking Granger back to Gryffindor Tower last night, Draco returned to the Slytherin dormitory and found Blaise and Theo already asleep. They were sprawled out like limp trolls, snoring loud enough to echo. He didn’t bother changing or washing up. Instead, he sat at his desk, pulled out a stack of blank parchments, and quietly began his own form of therapy.

He transfigured the parchments into a small bouquet of paper roses. They were charmed to hold their shape and softly smell of roses, like a memory of spring. He added a short note in a tight, looping script.

Miss you, Mum.

See you soon.

–DLM

Then he headed back out, all the way to the Owlery. His eagle owl, Argentum, was already awake. The large bird didn’t question the late-hour delivery, just took off into the night.

That was when the exhaustion finally caught up with him. By the time he returned to the dorm, his legs felt like lead, and the moment he collapsed into bed, sleep hit like a stunning spell.

This morning, though, something had shifted.

He had decided, without fully realizing it, that today, he would observe her...closely. Not out of suspicion, nor because he needed answers… but simply because he wanted to.

Hermione Granger.

He tried saying her first name under his breath a few times, letting it linger. It still felt foreign on his tongue. But it was starting to sound less strange.

She had already caught him staring twice today. Her brows furrowed, her lips pressed into a line, but she didn’t say anything. Neither did he. He didn’t look away.

The girl in that memory: bloodied, screaming, holding her ground while bleeding from continuous torture, was the same girl who held his hand last night when his grief threatened to destroy everything in the Undercroft. That was the part that stuck. She had stayed when she could have walked away.

The Granger from 1999 was the witch who saved Theo from jumping off the Astronomy Tower. The same one who fought with him as equals in the courtyard duel. Did she know those events would happen too? He’d ask her soon.

He was beginning to make sense of the unease he felt around her at the start of the year. That strange feeling. His instincts had been screaming that something was off. And now he knew. She had always known more than she let on.

She had said they were friends .

He didn’t know what to do with that yet.

Dinner arrived before he could unravel the thought. He made his way to the Slytherin table with the intent of eating in peace and possibly pulling Theo and Blaise into a discussion. He had decided to finally explain the detention with Potter and the disaster in Dumbledore’s office. He would omit the time travel and future events, of course, but they deserved something.

Blaise was mid-conversation with Vince about dueling formations, but Draco’s peripheral vision caught movement on the other side of the Great Hall. Granger. Her curls were tied into a ponytail again, just like earlier in Charms. And through a completely respectable, academic analysis, Draco observed that she had a surprisingly graceful nape. It led to shoulders that looked… nice.

He cleared his throat and stabbed a potato with unnecessary force.

She was laughing now, probably at something Weaslette said. Then, before he could look away, a red blur cut across the Gryffindor table.

Weasley.

The idiot was charging toward him, and Potter was doing a terrible job holding him back. Granger and Weaslette were following, both looking mortified.

Draco sighed and set down his fork.

Salazar help him, he just wanted to enjoy his roast.

Weasley reached their table. “Malfoy!”

He could feel Blaise straighten beside him, chin lifting in warning. Theo had already placed his goblet down, clearly ready to hex someone if needed.

Draco cracked his knuckles and crossed his arms. “Weasley.”

Ron looked wild-eyed. “You stay away from Hermione.”

Granger groaned from behind him. “Ron!”

Draco blinked. Oh. So it was that kind of scene. He leaned back slightly, gaze cool. “And why would I do that?”

“Because it’s you!” Ron said, turning to Hermione. “He’s been awful to you for years. And now you’re just…what? Hanging out with him at night!?”

Hermione blinked, once, then twice. She turned to look at Draco, who raised one brow slightly, then back to Ron.

And then…Salazar…she giggled.

It was light, unexpected, almost musical. It startled him. He didn’t think he’d ever heard her giggle before. It was… bloody cute.

“Ron,” she said patiently, “I was on patrol last night. Supposedly with whom?”

Ron turned red. “That’s not the —”

“Answer me, Ronald,” She asked more sternly.

“With me.”

“Exactly,” she said sweetly. “You ditched patrol to finish your Potions essay. So I went alone.”

Draco watched as Weasley’s mouth opened, then shut.

Hermione continued. “Malfoy is also a prefect. He was patrolling nearby. We patrolled the remaining corridors, then he walked me to Gryffindor Tower.”

Weasley looked like he wanted to argue, but she raised a hand to cut him off.

“It was a long walk. He was being courteous. And you still owe me a butterbeer, by the way. Now you owe me two.”

Potter and Weaslette had the audacity to laugh behind her. He was trying to keep a straight face as well.

“Honestly, Ronald,” she added with an exaggerated sigh.

“Honestly, Ronald,” Potter mimicked, snorting.

Ginny leaned in with a smirk. “What do you expect from someone with the emotional range of a teaspoon?”

Ron scowled. “Shut up, all of you.”

They laughed harder as they walked off together, Ron trailing after them in defeat.

But Hermione lingered for a second.

She turned to Draco, her expression warm but slightly embarrassed. “Sorry about Ron. He’s just being protective.”

Draco didn’t respond at first, but Theo did. “Your boyfriend’s insecure.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ron is not my boyfriend.”

Theo studied her, then leaned his head to the side. “You’re very pretty when you’re angry, Granger.”

Draco and Blaise both snapped their heads toward him. Theo smirked, clearly enjoying himself.

“Too bad…” he sighed and added lightly, “I’m into blokes.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, then laughed. A real one this time.

Her fingers brushed a curl behind her ear, and her cheeks flushed pink. 

Draco looked away before his own expression betrayed anything.

“Thanks for not hexing Ron, Malfoy,” she said gently. “And… owl me, I guess?”

The Slytherin table fell into absolute silence. Blaise froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.

Draco looked up at her, slow and deliberate, trying not to show his surprise. She really had no idea what she just said. Did she?

“I’ll … owl you, Granger,” he tried to say as smoothly as he could.

She smiled — soft and genuine — and ran after the Gryffindors.

Draco watched her go, unsure if the twist in his stomach was nerves or something else entirely.

Maybe this whole “friends” idea wouldn’t be so terrible after all. 

He shuddered slightly at the thought, eating his slice of roast.

—-

The bell rang for the end of Arithmancy, and Draco stretched his neck to the side, already counting the minutes until lunch. He was gathering his things when Professor Vector called out from the front of the classroom.

“Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger. Please head to the Headmaster’s office. You’ve been summoned.”

The words barely left her mouth before Draco felt the weight of half the class’s eyes swing toward them. He stood, gave a lazy flick of his satchel strap over his shoulder, and glanced sideways. Granger was already halfway to the door with a suspiciously straight back. Her riotous curls bounced behind her as she walked briskly.

He followed without a word, matching her pace as they crossed the hall and turned toward the moving staircases.

“What did you do?” he asked, not bothering to hide the dry note in his voice.

“I was about to ask you the same,” she shot back, but her lips twitched slightly.

They didn’t speak again until they were seated in the two chairs across from the Headmaster’s massive desk. Professor McGonagall stood near the window, her expression bordering on delighted, and Snape hovered in his usual bat-like fashion in the corner, arms folded like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Draco braced himself for the worst. Did they find out about Umbridge? He remembered Theo blindfolding all the portraits in the office, and the room was muffliato’d too… so there shouldn’t have been any witnesses. 

Instead, the Headmaster smiled warmly and said, “Congratulations to both of you. You’ve achieved the highest OWL scores in your year.”

Draco blinked, surprised despite himself. He hadn’t expected anything less from himself, obviously — but tied with Granger?

No. Wait…not tied.

“You both received Outstandings in all ten subjects,” Dumbledore continued, “though Miss Granger edged ahead by eight nominal points.”

There it was.

Of course she did.

He didn’t glance at her, but he could feel her triumph. It was practically radiating off her. Merlin, she really was a swot.

“Gryffindor is awarded one hundred house points,” Dumbledore announced. “And Slytherin receives ninety.”

McGonagall beamed. Snape looked like someone had slipped vinegar into his tea.

Dumbledore pressed on. “As top-performing students, you may now select any NEWT-level classes you wish to pursue next year. And if you’ve considered future career paths, your Heads of House will assist in tailoring your schedules accordingly.”

Draco nodded once. The plans were already in motion. He had been mapping out his NEWT subjects since fourth year… more like, his father had already mapped it out for him.

“And, I must say,” the Headmaster added casually, “your duel with the Ravenclaws at the Courtyard Duelling club at the start of the year was one of the finest displays I’ve seen at this school in decades.”

That pulled Draco’s attention. His brows lifted slightly. That duel had been… intense, certainly. He’d always wondered whether the faculty was aware of the secret courtyard duelling activities. Then again, the professors were probably members when they were students.

“Indeed,” McGonagall added with an uncharacteristic gleam in her eye. “It was a treat to watch.”

Snape didn’t say anything at first. Then, slowly, he drawled, “Filius still owes us three hundred Galleons.”

Draco blinked. Had they been betting?

He exchanged a quick glance with Granger.

“You know about the club.” She looked just as stunned.

“Why yes, Ms. Granger. The faculty are well aware of the courtyard duelling club, noting that they were all members in their student years as well.” Dumbledore said, then moved his attention to Draco. “That said, I am glad you are feeling better now, Mr. Malfoy. It would be good for you to know that alcohol and wandless magic do not go well together.”

Draco looked sheepish. Of course, they had also watched the year-end duels. “I apologize, headmaster. I was having a very difficult day.”

“No need to apologize, Mr. Malfoy. It is by our experiences that we learn. We’re also pleased to see old rivalries fading,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling as he regarded both of them. “At least, that’s what the Fat Lady at Gryffindor tower has informed me.”

Draco felt a wave of heat creep up his neck. Granger’s face turned pink at the same time. Bloody portrait gossip.

“And one final thing,” Dumbledore continued. “Next year, Hogwarts will be offering a new subject. Ancient Studies. It will be taught by me.”

Draco stared. He wasn’t sure what shocked him more — that Dumbledore was returning to classroom teaching or that they were being asked to join.

“You are the first two students selected,” Dumbledore said. “The class will be small. We will open it to only eight students. The other six will be chosen over the summer. Your parents have already been informed as of this morning.”

Hermione, ever the overachiever, raised her hand slightly. “Professor, this wasn’t in the curriculum last year, was it?”

“No, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore replied, a smile curling his lips. “It is new. We decided on it just this week. I rather missed the experience of teaching.”

After some final words of praise and encouragement, they were dismissed. They thanked the Headmaster and stepped out into the corridor.

They had barely left Dumbledore’s office when Draco noticed something was off. Granger wasn’t radiating her usual brand of smug satisfaction, which was odd considering she had just topped the entire year’s OWLs.

But here she was, silent as they walked toward the Great Hall. Draco kept glancing sideways, waiting for her to burst into some kind of obnoxious celebration. She didn’t.

He finally gave in. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just thinking,” she said, brushing her hands along the railing.

He stopped walking. “You just got top marks again. We get a shiny new class next year with Dumbledore himself. The House points. The Academic glory. And you’re acting like someone kicked your cat.”

“I am pleased, of course,” she said, but her tone was subdued. “It’s just that… this didn’t happen in my timeline.”

That pulled him up short. She turned to look at him, clearly realizing he’d fallen behind. He caught up slowly, trying to look casual while his brain sprinted ahead.

She gave a weak shrug, “We were still top of the class, yes. That part’s the same. I remember checking the rankings posted by the Great Hall back then. But being called to the Headmaster's Office, being offered the new class… Ancient Studies? That never existed.”

“And you think this is a bad thing?”

“It’s not bad, exactly,” She looked at him earnestly. “I’ve changed things. I tried to keep them close to the original timeline, but now things are unraveling faster than I can track. It’s more variables to factor in. Which means there are more chances for things to go wrong. I didn’t even know about the existence of the duelling club until this timeline… and now new events have branched out and —”

She was rambling. He imagined this happened to the swot a lot. Salazar, she really was an overthinker, wasn’t she? 

He tapped her forehead with one finger and left it there, stopping her runaway thoughts before she could spiral into one of her infamous mental lists.

She stared up at him, frozen.

“When you came here,” he said, lowering his hand, “did you really believe things would stay the same?”

“Of course not. But, I hoped they would stay similar enough for me to plan.”

“Well, that’s where you’re being delusional,” he said plainly. 

Her jaw tensed. She looked like she was about to argue. Typical Granger.

“I can practically hear your brain getting ready to implode,” he said. “But listen to me. Just by coming back, you’ve changed things. You didn’t go to the Department of Mysteries. You dragged Potter and me into the swirl, which also affects the choices we make. That alone probably altered half the bloody timeline.”

“I never wanted to control your choices,” she said, her voice tight.

“I know you didn’t, with your bleeding Gryffindor heart. But you’re still trying to build a plan, like everything will go as it once did. That’s not realistic. That’s not how time works. You didn’t come back to keep things the same. You came to change them.”

He watched her. The pout was returning. It was hard to tell if she was brooding or recalculating. Maybe both. He caught her biting her thumb again, just like in that memory, just before his future self had embraced her. 

He forced the thought out of his head and cleared his throat.

She looked properly sulky now. Arms crossed and lips pursed. It was an endearing sight.

He sighed. “Anyway. Looks like it’s up to Potter and me to keep you from spinning off into a mental tailspin.” 

Her head whipped up sharply. He blinked. What? What did he say now?

“You just said Potter and me,” she said quietly.

He blinked. “So?”

“That means… you’re going to help.”

He hadn’t thought about it in those terms. But the truth was, he was already too far in. Between the Unbreakable Vow, the ring, the time turner, and everything he had seen in that memory — his mother, his future self, the wreckage of their lives — he knew he wasn’t walking away.

He exhaled slowly.

“With the Unbreakable Vow in place, and the time turner being mine, I think the choice was taken from me long before you showed up.”

He tried to keep his tone even, but some bitterness still leaked through. He couldn’t help it. Being heir to two ancient and noble houses came with responsibilities he never had a choice in. He was used to being told what to do. Everything was pre-planned. What’s one more thing he didn’t have a say in?

“No,” she said firmly. “You have a choice. I’m giving it to you. I’m not going to lie. I need your help…desperately. But if you ever want out, I won’t stop you. I told your future self the same.”

That surprised him.

He glanced sideways. “And what did he say?”

Granger gave a small smile. “He wanted me to recruit you no matter what, of course. Wanted me to blackmail you with your deepest, darkest secrets… not that he told me any.”

Draco snorted. “Figures. I would do that. Smug bastard.”

They continued toward the Great Hall in silence for a few moments. Just as they reached the massive wooden doors, he felt her tug lightly on his sleeve. She let go immediately, as if she’d just touched something scalding.

“What is it now, Granger?”

She hesitated, then pulled a small paper bag from her satchel and offered it to him.

He eyed it suspiciously. “What’s this?”

“It’s your flask,” she said quickly. “I think it has a pretty advanced extension charm. It probably cost a fortune. I tried to empty it, but it might be connected to a distillery the size of Wiltshire. I — uhh cleaned it. Sort of. I used a distillation charm to remove the remaining traces of Veritaserum and — um — also a sanitation charm because, well, we all sort of passed it around.”

Draco didn’t interrupt. There was something satisfying about watching her spiral into a rambling mess in front of him. He bit his cheek to keep from laughing and peeked inside the bag. Sure enough, his flask was there. Alongside it, a small phial.

He reached for it.

“No — wait,” she said, stopping him. “Not here. It’s a memory. Just something I thought you’d want to see. After everything.”

Her voice was softer now. More careful. “It’s just…you deserve to see it. I assume you’ve got a pensieve at home.”

He nodded.

“Good. Okay. That’s all.” She smiled awkwardly. “Thanks again for agreeing to help. Let’s talk more over the summer.”

And with that, she rushed into the Great Hall before he could respond.

Draco dropped into his usual seat at the Slytherin table, the paper bag tucked discreetly into his robes. His flask was back in his possession, freshly cleaned by none other than Hermione bloody Granger. She probably read five journal articles about potion residue removal before she even touched it.

Across the table, Blaise raised a brow the moment he sat down. Theo slid a seat closer. He had leaned forward already, eyes fixed with mild concern and barely veiled curiosity.

“What did Dumbledore want?” Theo asked, like he wasn’t dying to know if their Umbridge oblivation escapade was the reason for him and Granger being summoned.

Draco reached for the pumpkin juice with a casualness he did not feel. “Granger and I got the highest OWLs in our year,” he said, pouring himself a glass. “She beat me by eight points.”

He paused to take a slow sip, letting that particular detail sink in.

Blaise let out a whistle. “Damn. That’s brilliant, mate. It was 30 points last year.”

Draco gave a noncommittal shrug. “Dumbledore gave Gryffindor a hundred points and Slytherin ninety. McGonagall nearly exploded with joy. Snape looked like he’d swallowed a lemon but still managed to smirk.”

Theo snorted into his goblet. Blaise was still eyeing Draco carefully. He always saw more than he let on.

Draco was just about to bring up the new class — the Ancient Studies subject Dumbledore himself would be teaching — when Daphne Greengrass materialized beside him like a particularly chatty ghost.

“Draco,” she said sweetly, poking his cheek. He immediately flicked her finger away.

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me speak.”

“I already know whatever you’re about to say is nonsense.”

Her grin widened. “So you’re dating Granger, then?”

He choked on his juice.

Theo patted him on the back far too gleefully. Blaise leaned forward with interest, clearly abandoning all attempts to be the composed one in the group.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Draco coughed.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that you’ve been seen together multiple times at night… by the portraits, no less.”

He rolled his eyes. “We were patrolling. She’s a prefect. I’m a prefect. I just walked her to Gryffindor Tower.”

“And when Weasley stormed the Slytherin table the other day?” Daphne asked, tilting her head.

Draco raised a brow. “Weasley was being a dramatic troll. As usual.”

“And today?” She gestured toward the bag now concealed in his robes. “I saw her give you something.”

“She returned my flask.” His voice came out flatter than he meant it to. Definitely defensive.

Daphne leaned in, looking entirely too satisfied with herself. “Right. Just the flask. Nothing sentimental. Nothing that involved blushing or awkward glances. And absolutely nothing that might qualify as, say, a gift.”

Draco flicked his hand beneath the table. The bag shrank instantly, and he pocketed it.

“Exactly. It wasn’t a gift.”

Theo looked ready to laugh, seeing the gesture. “Subtle, mate. Really subtle.”

Blaise nodded solemnly. “Even you get terrible at lying when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” Draco muttered.

“You’re twitching,” Blaise added helpfully.

“I always twitch when Daphne talks too much.”

Daphne placed a hand over her heart. “I’ll have you know I went on a date with Ernie Macmillan last weekend.”

All three boys paused.

Draco snorted. “You went on a date with a Hufflepuff?”

She grinned. “Hey! He was sweet. He took me around Muggle London. He prepared everything! Fake Identification, Muggle currency, we walked around town, and after the long date, we stayed at a Muggle hotel.”

Blaise’s expression darkened immediately. “Daphne…”

“Don’t you dare start. He was a perfect gentleman, until I asked him not to be, of course.” Daphne smiled as she stole a grape from Theo’s plate.

Theo snickered. “That’s exactly what I’d say after spending a weekend with a Hufflepuff.”

They all laughed, but Draco didn’t join in. Not fully. His mind was elsewhere.

Beneath the casual conversation, his thoughts circled back to the phial in his pocket. The memory Hermione had given him. He had no idea what it was. But her face when she handed it to him… it hadn’t looked like strategy or obligation. It looked like guilt or something like remorse.

There were only two days left before summer break. Two more days until the clock reset, and they were scattered across different manors, towns, and boroughs. The future hung just slightly out of reach, shifting every time she made a move. And he had just agreed to help shape it.

No pressure at all.

He reached for his pumpkin juice again and took a long sip. 

Granger

Potter

His family

The Dark Lord

Time travel

Sweet Circe, what’s next?

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express rumbled steadily beneath him, its rhythm humming through the soles of his boots like a steady heartbeat. Draco sat in the very last compartment of the train, legs stretched out, arms lazily crossed. The door had been charmed shut the moment the three of them had boarded. Only Blaise and Theo could open it, and he made sure of that. Privacy had never felt more necessary.

The castle was behind them now, but the weight of the school year lingered like smoke in his lungs.

For once, the ride home was pleasant. Just the three of them. Only silence and the occasional curse when someone remembered a particularly outrageous moment.

He had finally told them.

Not everything, of course. The time turner, the future timeline, all the war memories — those stayed locked where they belonged, behind the tightest mental walls he could manage. But the rest? He gave them all the highlights. Details of what happened in Dumbledore’s office. How he had entered Potter's mind and how he was connected to the Dark Lord. How Dumbledore pushed Potter to take the same Occlumency lessons he had with Snape.

He watched as their faces shifted. First came the disbelief, then confusion, then muttered strings of swearing when Blaise realised what Umbridge had nearly done before Theo called him into Dumbledore’s office. 

“Merlin’s beard,” Blaise muttered, leaning back against the window. “You’ve gone and got yourself tangled in something mental, mate. Like properly mental.” He looked like he was trying and failing to hide a grin when he pieced together that Draco had been at the centre of it all.

Draco gave a dry laugh but didn’t disagree. There was no point pretending this was anything short of chaos.

“There's another thing,” Theo said after a long stretch of silence. He had his feet kicked up, but his tone had shifted, more serious now. “You don’t need to answer it if you don’t want to... or can't.”

Draco turned his head toward him, nodding once to let him speak.

Theo’s eyes narrowed. “After your talk with those two in the Room of Requirement, you just went... barmy. First at the Undercroft. Then, during the duels. You said you were under an Unbreakable Vow. Then you bloody run after Granger.”

“I did.”

“What’s Granger's connection? Why does she have a replica of your ring?”

Draco didn’t answer. He stared at the compartment ceiling for a long moment, watching shadows from the passing trees flicker across the glass. The truth curled around the base of his throat, and he knew he shouldn’t push it out.

“It’s classified. Under the vow.” Draco bit his tongue.

“Alright. So what? Are you going to play cat and mouse now with Potter and the Dark Lord? Another choice stolen from you? ” Theo’s brow furrowed, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. 

If there was another soul who understood Draco, it was Theo. Theo knew what it felt like not to have a choice. Of being backed into a corner by your own family. Of doing what you’re told because you’re the heir and heirs do not disappoint.

Draco knew that rage all too well. That helpless kind of anger that sits heavy in your chest when you realise you never had a say.

“She gave me a choice,” Draco finally muttered, voice low. “She said I could back out if I wanted.”

“And yet you’re still in it?” Theo asked, and the bite in his tone wasn’t subtle.

Draco exhaled, long and slow. He tilted his head back against the seat, eyes slipping shut. The rumble of the train blurred into the back of his mind.

“Fuck if I know,” he said eventually, barely more than a breath. “Maybe because I’m too deep in it now. Maybe because... for someone who claimed she desperately needed my help, she still gave me a way out.”

That part stuck in his head more than anything. The fact that Granger, of all people, had looked him dead in the eye and said he could walk away.

“If anything worse happens,” Blaise said suddenly, pulling him out of the thought spiral, “you know the vineyard’s always open to both of you.”

He crossed his arms, tone final.

Theo gave Blaise a nod, then turned back to Draco. “Just... Draco. Whatever’s outside the vow... don’t shut us out.”

Draco glanced between the two of them. Blaise looked unbothered as usual, but his eyes were sharp. Watching. Theo had his usual scowl on, but Draco could see the concern buried beneath it. They were serious.

“Three of us,” Blaise added, eyes meeting his. “Or none.”

Draco looked at them for a long second. A warm pressure built somewhere in his chest. He didn’t say it out loud, but he felt it. These two were more than friends. They were his anchors. His brothers. If anything ever happened to them — no, he didn’t want to think about it.

“You two are complete nutters,” he muttered, letting a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “But if I ever find myself needing backup, you’re the first ones I’ll call.”

Blaise raised his flask in mock salute.

Theo grinned.

Draco leaned his head against the cool glass window and let his eyes slip shut again.

—--

The manor looked exactly the same. Still pristine, cold, and humming with enchantments that predated the Ministry itself. Draco stepped over the threshold, the familiar feeling of ancient wards brushing against his skin like static. He barely had time to blink before a small blur skidded across the marble foyer.

“Welcome home, Master Draco! Tippy will take your trunks to your room,” the elf announced with a low, sweeping bow.

In the past, Draco would have barely spared him a glance. He usually gave a clipped nod and let the elf scurry off while he tossed his cloak somewhere for another to pick up. But this time, as Tippy straightened, Draco hesitated. Watching Granger's memory of their elf, battered and bleeding, flashed across his thoughts. His stomach clenched.

“That would be great, Tippy. Thank you. If it’s too much, go call Mippy,” Draco said instead.

Tippy blinked once. Twice. His bulbous eyes went wide with something that looked like confusion, then alarm.

“I... Yes, Master Draco. You is very kind today,” the elf stammered, clearly unsettled by the unexpected tone of basic decency. He gave a frantic nod and disappeared with a crack.

Brilliant. Now I’ve gone and terrified the elf.

Draco rolled his eyes at himself and turned away from the floo parlour, only to freeze as a familiar scent hit him — white gardenias and frostmint. His mother.

His mother stepped through the archway, a soft smile already forming on her lips. She was poised, graceful, every inch the regal witch she had always been, and yet as she stepped forward, her arms half-raised for a kiss to his cheek, something in him broke. Without thinking, he leaned forward and pulled her into a full embrace.

She stiffened in surprise. It was not their usual greeting. She smelled like winter mornings and pressed flowers. Her arms wrapped around him a second later, warm and steady.

“My Dragon?” she asked softly, pulling back just enough to cradle his face in her palms. Her eyes were sharp, scanning his features. “What’s happened?”

He gave a tired smile, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Nothing. I just missed you, Mother.”

You’re safe. You’re alive.

Her eyes softened. He saw her relax slightly, but the tension didn’t leave her completely. “You’ve grown. You’re already half a foot taller than I am. How did that happen so quickly?”

She brushed his cheek with her thumb, her voice gentler now. “Go on, get some rest. I’m sure the train ride was exhausting. We’ll talk more at dinner. Your father’s absolutely delighted with your OWL results.”

Draco nodded, not trusting his voice this time, and made his way up the familiar staircase toward his wing of the manor. He walked the halls like a ghost, his shoes silent against the carpets. He opened the door to his bedroom and stepped inside.

Salazar, he had missed this room.

His four-poster bed looked positively regal compared to the stiff Hogwarts mattresses, and the air here didn’t smell like ink, parchment, and pubescent teenagers. It smelled like cedarwood and lavender, like childhood and safety.

He threw himself face-first into the duvet with a dramatic groan, burying his face into the soft, silken sheets. His bed welcomed him like an old friend. For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then something sharp jabbed into his hip.

With a muttered curse, he fished around in his pocket and pulled out the paper bag Granger had given him. Of course. The flask. He flicked his hand, casting a simple Engorgio , and the bag expanded to its original size.

He stared at the flask for a moment, then sighed. As tempting as it was to drown himself in firewhisky and sleep until the next century, he decided against it. If he showed up to dinner reeking of liquor, his father would sniff it out immediately.

He tucked the flask back into the bag and caught sight of the phial inside — Granger’s memory.

Granger had said it was something he needed to see. Not right now, but soon. It definitely seemed important, but he didn’t want to risk another breakdown like what happened in the Undercroft.

He set the bag on the nightstand and turned his gaze upward.

The canopy of his bed was still charmed to reflect the stars. A soft enchantment his mother had added when he was five. He’d told her to leave it when he started Hogwarts. He’d pretended it was because he liked astronomy. Truthfully, it had been the only thing that calmed him after one of his father’s long-winded lectures.

The stars twinkled faintly now, calm and indifferent.

He remembered how it used to feel. The shame of coming home only to be told again that he’d been bested by a mud — muggleborn. Every year, without fail, Granger scored higher. Every year, his father would frown at the report, tap the parchment twice, and tell him that Malfoys did not come second.

She was of lesser blood. She wasn’t supposed to be better than him. But she was. Every single time.

Fourth year had been different. For once, Draco had something to be proud of. He’d won the year-end courtyard duelling tournament. He’d beaten sixth years and seventh years alike. He came home beaming, eager to show the memory to his parents, who were once part of the club too. His father barely looked up from his ledger.

“Good,” Lucius had said. “Your extra lessons were not a waste.”

Draco had handed over the memory phial anyway. They watched it together. He remembered the flicker of approval in his father’s expression, the way Lucius pointed out his footwork, dissected his shielding form, and offered critiques without mockery.

He had thought, for a moment, that they were bonding.

Then came a week into the summer. Theo had visited, and Draco had been relieved to see him intact. He didn’t expect that the visit included the likes of Nott Senior, Mulciber, Jugson, and Rabastan Lestrange to dinner.

After the meal, the wizards retreated to the smoking room. Theo and Draco, ever resourceful, snuck out a pair of Weasley Extendable Ears from Theo’s bag. They crouched in the hallway, holding their breath.

The conversation was exactly what Draco feared.

“He’ll be back soon,” someone had muttered. They were preparing.

He heard his father speak, calm and calculated. “We should move the gold. Some of the foreign accounts can be accessed through our Italian branch. We need stability when the tides shift.”

Rabastan's voice cut through the haze. “And what of your sons? Will they serve?”

His father’s voice didn’t hesitate. “Draco was named dueling champion this year. He begins Occlumency with Narcissa this summer. He is on schedule. He will be ready when he comes of age.”

Draco had nearly dropped the ear in shock.

His father then added, “It would be good to include Theodore to spend the summer here with Draco to prepare, don’t you think, Nott?”

Nott Senior scoffed. “You’re soft with your boy. Theo will learn in the field. I’ll take him muggle-hunting with the lads.”

“He is not of age. His wand still has the trace. Clearly, you know that, Nott,” His father drawled. 

Draco barely remembered the panic after that. He grabbed Theo and pulled him straight back to his room.

That night was the first time they got drunk. Really drunk. His bottomless flask never left his side after that.

He remembered slumping against the bedpost, taking turns with Theo as they tried to make sense of it all. That was the moment everything cracked open. The truth of it. They were being groomed, shaped, and prepared like weapons.

Draco wasn’t being trained to defend his family. He was being trained to serve the Dark Lord. 

The weeks dragged on, and the Occlumency lessons with his mother became relentless. Every evening was spent in the sitting room beneath heavy wards, his mind peeled open like an onion under her precise, unflinching pressure. She was patient but ruthless. And the more he struggled to clear his thoughts, the more his mind betrayed him with questions he had never dared to ask before.

He began to wonder whether any of it truly made sense.

The rhetoric he’d grown up with — that purebloods were stronger, better, more deserving — started to crumble beneath the weight of his own logic. He had heard whispers of it for years, of Muggle hunts during the First War, of punishment for blood traitors and those who dared to consort with muggleborns and muggles. But now, he was hearing the planning firsthand. Now, he understood that when they said purify the wizarding world, they meant it literally. It wasn’t just exclusion or social ostracizing.

They meant death.

Muggleborns weren’t just considered unworthy of respect. They weren’t considered worthy of magic. They weren’t worthy of existence.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Would they kill people like Granger? She bested him every single year in nearly every subject, and not through trickery or theft. She was still an irritating know-it-all, and he still hated her, but did she need to be hunted just because she breathed?

He started going to the manor’s library late at night, alone. He combed through books on magical ancestry, magical theory, bloodline studies, and recorded spellwork. He expected to find evidence that would justify the claims he had been raised to believe. Some concrete proof that muggleborns lacked something essential.

But there was nothing.

The older texts were riddled with bias, most written by purebloods who used vague language and generational assumptions. They praised heritage, but not ability. They argued that purebloods were more “stable” in their magic, but no one had ever conducted a real study on the topic. He found nothing empirical. Nothing measurable.

And then there was that one book tucked in the back of the genealogy shelf, nearly falling apart at the seams. It noted that most Muggleborns could be traced back to magical ancestry, often from squib branches in pureblood trees. That magic didn’t vanish. It just skipped. It mutated. It resurfaced.

It wasn’t that they were lesser.

It was that they were an inconvenience.

The more he read, the more uneasy he became. Not just with the ideology, but with the people around him who spouted it with such confidence. The men he was expected to emulate.

And Draco wasn’t so sure he wanted to grow into their ranks.

It was why when he started 5th year, he stopped paying any mind to Granger. It’s not that he cared about her. He just didn’t see the sense in bullying. His schedule was already filled to the brim with Occlumency and DADA training with Snape. So he didn’t really have enough time to think about anything. Then suddenly she was everywhere, like a storm cloud — Theo’s Astronomy Tower incident, the duelling club, detention with Potter, the incident with Umbridge… and then Circe, his ring… the time turner…  

He closed his eyes and let the starlight from his ceiling dance across his eyelids.

—

He needed to see it for himself. There was no moving forward until he faced what she had left in that phial.

He pushed himself off his bed and padded quietly through the manor. The halls were familiar, polished to perfection, but even the soft glow of enchanted sconces felt dimmer tonight. He turned left past the solarium, veered down the conservatory hallway, and arrived at the tall glass-paned doors of the potions room. It was his sanctuary since he was twelve. But even sanctuaries could bite.

Literally.

The old brass doorknob snapped at his hand the moment he touched it, leaving a sharp sting and a prickle of blood on his palm. “Bloody thing,” he muttered, shaking out his hand. Still, the door creaked open, as if satisfied with its toll.

Inside, the room smelled like crushed sage and soot. His cauldron sat idle in the corner, shelves of carefully labeled ingredients lining the walls. He moved toward the small pensieve tucked into the far alcove, its runes glowing faintly as he removed the phial from his pocket.

He hesitated, just for a second.

Then he poured the silvery contents into the basin and let himself fall forward.

--

When the world solidified around him, he found himself standing in the same cabin in the memory from the Undercroft. The air looked colder now, although he couldn’t feel it. Snow fell outside the window in thick, heavy flakes. It had settled into the corners of the windowsill, softening the world into silence.

Memory Granger was pacing in front of the fireplace. She was wearing a too-large jumper and thick woolen socks, her hands twisting together as she bit her lip. Weaslette sat curled on the couch, staring blankly at the snow outside.

“How long has he been there?” Granger asked.

Weaslette didn’t look away from the window. “Since two in the morning. Harry said he left once. Came back ten minutes later.”

“He didn’t even sleep?”

Weaslette just shook her head.

“I should — maybe I should go out to him,” Granger said.

“‘Mione,” Weaslette replied, more gently this time. “You need to let him grieve.”

Hermione dropped to her knees slowly in front of Weaslette and hugged her tightly.

“I just don’t know what to do,” she said, muffled into the Weaslette’s wool jumper.

Draco felt his throat tighten. This was most likely after the event at the manor. 

Potter walked in then, face drawn and jaw clenched. “Still nothing from him.”

“You tried talking to him again?” Granger asked.

Harry gave a weary nod. “Three times. Nothing. Wanker bloody hit me with stinging hex.”

Granger paused for a bit, sighed, then stood up abruptly and crossed to the kitchen. She pulled out a kettle, filled it with water, and set it to boil with a flick of her wand. Then she grabbed a battered thermos and rummaged through the cabinets.

“Gin, where’s the Dreamless Sleep?” Granger asked.

“Mione, no.”

“I said, hand it to me. Make sure it’s the strong one.”

Weaslette made a face but obeyed. Harry leaned on the counter beside her.

“You really think drugging him is the best option?” he asked.

“If this doesn’t work, I’m going to slap him harder than I did in third year.”

“You’re still too short to reach his face properly.”

Granger rolled her eyes and cast a warming charm over her coat. “Wish me luck.”

Draco followed Memory Granger as she stepped outside. The wind whipped her curls around her face as she trudged through the snow. The lake shimmered under a thin sheet of frost. And there he saw his future self standing in front of a freshly dug grave.

It was her. His mother.

The weight of that realization crashed into his chest. Even from here, from the safety of memory, the sight knocked the air out of him.

Memory Granger stopped a few feet behind his future self.

“Hi,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer.

“I figured they’d send you next,” he muttered eventually, eyes still fixed on the gravestone.

“You were waiting for me?”

“I figured after I hexed Potter, they’d send in reinforcements.”

“You didn’t have to hex Harry, you know,” she rolled her eyes.

He gave a small shrug. “You Gryffindors are too clingy for your own good.”

She stood beside him without comment. After a pause, she pointed her wand at the snow, vanishing it from the grave. Another flick and white gardenias bloomed across the plot, their petals delicate and bright against the dark soil. She added black Baccaras along the edges.

“She smelled like gardenias,” Hermione murmured. “And she told me once how she missed her rose garden.”

“I used to help her tend them,” Memory Draco said quietly. “Father gave her the garden as an anniversary gift.”

The moment hung, heavy and fragile. Granger’s face crumpled. Her shoulders shook as she bit back sobs. She covered her mouth with both hands, trying and failing to hold it in.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” she choked out. “I’m so sorry. She didn’t deserve it. I should’ve—”

Draco cut her off. “I should have gotten there sooner. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Then it wasn’t yours either.”

She reached out to him, but he recoiled. 

“Don’t, Granger.”

She froze. Her eyes dropped, but she didn’t retreat.

“Go back inside. It’s freezing.” He snapped

“No.” 

Memory Draco groaned softly and raked his hands through his hair.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Granger. Everything I touch falls apart. Everyone I care about ends up dead.”

“Pages,” she whispered.

“What?”

“You’re supposed to call me Pages. Not Granger.”

He blinked.

“We’re not dead. You saved Ginny. You saved me. You burned the Death Eaters to the ground,” she said.

Hermione wiped her eyes with her sleeves and then tossed the thermos at him. He caught it without effort.

“That’s hot chocolate,” she said, facing the lake again.

He raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“It’s Hot chocolate….with Dreamless Sleep.”

“Your marvelous plan of dragging me back inside was to drug me?... You’re losing your touch… Pages.”

“I told Harry I’d slap you if it didn’t work.”

“You really think you could reach me?” 

“I’d conjure a stool.”

He huffed a laugh. It was dry, tired, but real. She laughed too, soft and quiet.

He cast a wandless charm, clearing the ground beside him, then sat. A moment later, he reached up and pulled her down beside him.

“Draco!” She massaged her thighs that hit the ground.

“I told you. I’m not going back inside. But after I drink this, I’ll be out cold. If someone drags me inside after, it won’t be my doing.”

He downed the hot chocolate and grimaced. “Merlin, you didn’t skimp on the potion.”

“Maximum efficiency.”

Without warning, he leaned sideways and dropped his head into her lap. His eyes slipped closed.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“The ground’s cold. You’re warm.”

She sighed but didn’t move. Her fingers hovered near his hair but didn’t touch.

“Draco…”

“Hmm?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I’ll do it. I’ll take the Time Turner.”

His eyes cracked open just barely, the potion already dulling everything.

“Now? You’re telling me now?”

“We’ll talk once you’ve slept,” she murmured, finally deciding to brush his hair with her fingers.

His breathing slowed. His face softened.

After a few seconds, she conjured her patronus. “He’s asleep now.”

The silvery otter darted off toward the cabin. A few minutes later, Potter and Weaslette appeared. Potter carried a bottle of firewhiskey. Weaslette had blankets and glasses.

“He’s really out,” Potter whispered.

They laid the blanket over him, careful not to wake him. Granger took the glass from Weaslette and let Potter pour.

“I told him I was taking the Time Turner,” she said quietly.

Potter’s face shifted. “What made you finally decide? When and where are you going?”

“Maybe you could go to Beauxbatons, the war didn’t reach there.” Weaslette offered.

“Please,” Potter rolled his eyes and smirked. “She’ll go back to Hogwarts. Save everyone with me again.”

Granger smiled faintly.

“No,” Weaslette said, catching the look. “Hermione, he’ll never let you.”

“I got the ferret to sleep, didn’t I?”

Weaslette frowned but didn’t argue. Granger stared at the sleeping boy in her lap.

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to kill Voldemort or Bellatrix if I go back,” she whispered. “I don’t even know if I can change anything. But after that attack, something in me wanted to try again. Just once more. And if I can’t fix everything... I’ll at least make sure Draco never loses Narcissa… I’ll make sure he doesn’t lose anyone he cares about ever again…”

The scene faded. The lake vanished. The memory collapsed into mist.

Draco surfaced from the Pensieve.

—-

It had been ten days since the summer holidays started, and Hermione had checked the post every single morning like clockwork.

Well. That was a lie. She checked at least five times a day.

Her parents found it endearing at first — her hovering near the front windows with a book in hand, pretending not to glance up every time a shadow crossed the pavement. But after the third day of her asking if a “very large eagle owl” had arrived yet, her mother had given her a look that bordered on concerned and annoyed and gently suggested she go outside and get some sun.

But she didn’t dare miss it. She even set up a perch on their balcony, just in case his owl preferred the high ground. She had bought frozen white mice from a nearby shop, trying to guess what purebred Malfoy owls might find acceptable. The bag of mice was stored in a glass container on her desk, spelled with a stasis charm to keep them fresh. 

When the owl finally arrived, it was just after four in the afternoon. She had been curled up in bed, rereading Pride and Prejudice for what might have been the sixth time, when the sharp tap of a beak on glass startled her into dropping the book face-first on her chest.

There he was.

A magnificent silver eagle owl, massive and regal, perched on the windowsill with a perfectly bored expression and a green silk ribbon around its neck, the Malfoy family crest stitched in silver thread.

Hermione scrambled to open the latch and pushed the window wide. “You’re gorgeous,” she whispered, gently taking the envelope from his beak. “Thank you for not biting me.”

The owl blinked once, then helped himself to a mouse from the glass container on her desk, tipped his head in what felt dangerously close to smug acknowledgment, and took off into the fading summer sky.

She closed the window, sat on her bed, and opened the envelope with fingers that didn’t quite feel steady.

Granger,

I’m in.

DLM

P.S. Mother would have loved the flowers.

She stared at the parchment for a long moment. The breath she didn’t know she had been holding came rushing out all at once, and her shoulders sagged in relief.

He was in.

It was short. Maddeningly short. But it was confirmation, and that was all she needed. She folded the letter neatly, then slipped it inside the drawer where she kept her important notes.

She had debated for days whether giving him that final memory had been the right choice. It felt like she was handing him something sacred, something raw. She placed the phial along with the flask in a bag with a card at the bottom that had her home address.

She had nearly talked herself out of it. Twice. But then she remembered how he had let her hold his hand during the Undercroft memory. How he had wrapped her wrist. How he had walked her to Gryffindor Tower without saying much, and how that silence had felt safer than any words could have. It felt like maybe he didn’t hate her anymore.

It wasn’t just about convincing him to help. It was about showing him that this wasn’t a scheme. She wanted him to know he could trust her. That she would help him protect Narcissa.

Of course, the fact that the memory also proved that Future Draco had really been her friend — possibly her best friend — was a convenient bonus. If a Slytherin would be moved by anything, it was legacy and loyalty. And she would absolutely use both to secure his help. Manipulation? Maybe. But she was sure future Draco would have approved.

Still grinning, she rushed down the hallway to the sitting room and grabbed the cordless phone.

Her parents had gone to a dinner party. The house was empty, quiet. She dialed quickly.

The line picked up after two rings.

“Hello, Dursley residence,” came a shrill, nasal voice.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Dursley. This is Hermione Granger. I’m a friend of Harry’s from school. May I speak with him, please?”

She heard the woman shout over her shoulder, “Boy! Someone’s calling you! One of your weird friends from school!”

There was a muffled, irritated noise in the background, and a few moments later, Harry’s voice came through.

“Hermione?” He sounded cautious. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. No emergency,” she reassured him quickly. “But I had to call. Malfoy owled me.”

Harry groaned faintly. “Merlin. What now?”

“He said he’s in.”

There was a pause. Then a sigh. “So that’s it then. It’s really happening.”

“You’ll get used to him. I mean — we’ll get used to him. Eventually.” She said it more for herself than for Harry.

“What happens now?”

“I need to brief both of you before the term starts. I’ve compiled a list of events, key deviations, things to prepare for. But I need your help.”

“With what?”

“You know Mum and Dad don’t want me to have an owl. They would definitely lose it if an owl just dropped dead mice on the windowsill. I need you to owl Malfoy for me.”

“Hermioneeee.”

“Please, Harry.”

She could practically hear him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll owl bloody Malfoy Manor.”

“Thank you! Tell him we’ll meet at Eclipse Café, beside the British Library, at London. Friday at 2 p.m.”

There was a snort on the line. “You’re making Malfoy meet us in Muggle London?”

“I thought it was safer that way. And it’s close to King’s Cross, so maybe he won’t get lost.”

Harry was laughing now. “This is something I’m looking forward to seeing now.”

“I’m being practical,” she said, but her smile was slightly wicked. “If he’s going to work with us, he has to learn how to survive outside his pureblood bubble.”

“Alright then. I’ll send the owl. And Hermione?”

“Hmm?”

“I hope he shows up in full robes. I need a laugh.”

She laughed too. “See you soon, Harry.”

“See you, Hermione.”

As she hung up the phone, Hermione stood by the window once more. The sky was streaked in gold and violet now, the kind of twilight that made everything feel just a little bit softer. She ran her fingers along the edge of the owl perch and whispered, “It’s happening.”

Chapter Text

The parchment crinkled beneath his fingers as he read Potter’s letter for the second time, not because he needed clarity, but because the nerve of the-boy-who-fucking-lived was truly something worth admiring.

Malfoy,

Hermione doesn’t have an owl, so I’m sending this in her place.

The three of us should meet at Eclipse Café, beside the British Library in London. Friday at 2 p.m.

I included a map just in case your sparkly pureblood nose gets lost.

P.S. Hedwig will wait for your response.

Harry

Draco stared at the elegant snowy owl perched on the window ledge. Hedwig met his gaze with calm expectation, pristine feathers puffed slightly as if she, too, was silently judging his response speed.

He clicked his tongue. “Sparkly pureblood nose,” he muttered, insulted on a philosophical level.

He considered stuffing the return envelope with a few dungbombs. Sadly, his summer prank stock was depleted. Blaise had used the last of the good ones for a prank involving a rogue self-writing quill and Daphne’s potions homework.

With a dramatic sigh, Draco picked up his quill. If he couldn’t retaliate with mayhem, then mockery would have to do. He conjured a handful of green-and-silver glitter. If Potter wanted sparkle, he would get sparkle. He flicked it into the envelope with the flair of someone signing off on a declaration of war.

Potter,

I’ll be there.

P.S. Since you’re so concerned with my sparkly pureblood nose, I have graciously shared with you some…sparkle.

DLM

He sealed the letter, tapped it twice to add a minor sticking charm on the glitter designed to activate when the recipient opened the envelope, and handed it to Hedwig with a smug grin. “Try not to shed all over your precious Gryffindor when this explodes,” he murmured. The owl blinked slowly at him, plucked a mouse from the dish he’d set out, and lifted into the sky with silent grace.

He leaned against the window, arms crossed as he watched her vanish. The irony still irked him — how someone with absolutely no sense of style, charm, or decorum could own a creature so graceful. Potter probably didn’t even appreciate how rare that breed of owl was. It had dignity, poise, and a better posture than Scarhead and his weasel sidekick combined.

Turning away, he retrieved the map that had come with the letter. It had been hastily sketched, no artistic flair whatsoever. Draco squinted at the hand-drawn ink lines and landmarks, some of which he didn’t recognize in the slightest.

He sighed again, this time louder. “Bloody muggle London.”

Kings Cross, he knew. They always portkeyed near the station every first of September. But this… Eclipse Café ? Close to the British Library — of course she would pick a place close to a library. He rolled his eyes. He’d have to arrive at the station and figure it out from there. Unfortunately, as an underage wizard, he couldn’t just waltz to the Ministry and request a portkey.

He rubbed his temples. Navigating Muggle transport sounded like a punishment. Cars, trains, paper money, and buttons on shirts that served no clear purpose. He would not survive it alone.

Then there was the matter of attire. If he turned up in wizarding robes, Potter would never let him live it down. He’d seen muggleborn boys at school, of course, but he had always dismissed their fashion sense as either tragically lazy or vaguely inspired by potato sacks. But now, he was on their turf.

He sat down hard on the edge of his bed, tapping his quill against his knee as he thought. He needed help. Someone who knew how to navigate through Muggle London and enough about Muggle fashion to avoid humiliation, but who wouldn't ask too many questions.

And then it clicked.

Daphne.

Daphne Greengrass had a closet that could rival a boutique — according to Pansy, a dangerous level of taste, and a carefully guarded love for Muggle fashion magazines. She would know what to do. More importantly, she owed him after he made an antidote for her when she nearly poisoned herself with a love potion-filled box of chocolates that was given to her last year. Thank Salazar, she was in the common room when she ate the chocolates, so she was able to run to their dorms to ask for help when she felt feverish after a few bites. 

He walked to the small fireplace in his bedroom and floo-called her without hesitation. Her silhouette appeared in a blur of green.

“Draco?” she blinked. Her voice was already suspicious.

“I need a favour,” he said flatly. “Can you floo over?”

“Why?” Her eyes narrowed immediately.

“I just do. It’s fashion-related,” and I need bloody help on how to get to Muggle London,  he left unsaid

She raised a perfectly arched brow. “You’re asking me to help you dress?”

“Yes. And I need to look good.” 

She looked scandalised. “You’re not dying, are you?”

“No,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “but I will be if you don’t help me.”

She leaned closer. “Draco, I don’t want to feed your ego, but you already look good. So I don’t know why you need my help, your closet is surely filled with more than adequate wizarding — wait…” She paused, “You don’t need wizarding fashion advice, do you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t deny it either. She smirked like a cat who had just seen a canary fly directly into a window.

“I can come after tea,” she said breezily. “You want me to floo into the drawing room?”

“No. My bedroom.”

There was a pause.

“Your bedroom,” she repeated.

“Yes. It’s more efficient.”

“Draco Malfoy, if your mother finds out, she will hex your legs off.”

“I’ll take that risk.”

She sighed, dramatically, of course. “Fine. Fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, Daph.”

He ended the call before she could say anything else. Then he looked around at the pristine state of his bedroom and muttered, “bloody Muggle London”.

–

He nearly crashed into a wall when the portkey dumped him unceremoniously into the receiving chamber. His boots slid slightly on the polished floor, and he righted himself with a grimace. He hated portkey travel; it felt absolutely barbaric. One moment, he was inside an old shop, and the next, he was being spat into some bloody holding room with seven other dazed witches and wizards coughing up their dignity.

He blinked against the light, trying to shake the dizziness out of his skull. The room was dull and square, with thin glass partitions and a bored-looking wizard stationed behind a counter. The line ahead shuffled forward slowly.

The witch in front of him stepped up, presented her portkey, which was a broken teacup, if he saw correctly, and handed it through the sliding drawer to the clerk. She nodded, said thank you, and walked away as if she didn’t just get teleported halfway across Britain in the most inelegant way possible.

When it was Draco’s turn, he stepped forward and placed his own portkey teaspoon into the tray with deliberate calm.

“Is it possible to schedule a return portkey in advance?” he asked.

The wizard behind the glass raised an eyebrow, then sucked his teeth. “No can do, lad. You’ll have to get it on the day itself.” He jabbed a finger toward the sign taped to the window: 

No Advance Bookings. Ever. Stop Asking.

Draco stared at the sign, then back at the wizard. Charming.

“Of course.” He exhaled slowly through his nose and stepped out.

As soon as he stepped out into the sunlight, he squinted. The portkey office looked like nothing more than a rundown ticket booth on the corner of a busy London street. Glamoured well enough, though. Muggles walked past it without even a glance. He paused to get his bearings.

This was already a disaster in the making.

Daphne had told him about Stitches and Draughts , a shady shop in Knockturn Alley that sold under-the-table portkeys. It was a potions shop, legally, and the most discreet supplier of untraceable domestic Portkeys in the UK. They didn’t really care about the age of their clientele. As long as you had the coin, they’d entertain you.

It was exactly the sort of place Macmillan would utilize for a date. Apparently, the Hufflepuff had taken Daphne there the previous month, and Merlin help him, he’d impressed her enough for a second date. The bloke had guts. Or no sense of danger… possibly both.

Tomnis, the potions-brewer-turned-portkey-peddler, presented him with the list of terminals their portkeys can take him to. Conveniently, there was a terminal near the British Library. Now, according to Potter’s map, the café was only a few blocks from here. 

He pulled out the scribbled monstrosity from his coat pocket and double checked the directions. He glanced around, snapped his fingers, and dropped the glamours hiding his identity. He didn’t need anyone linking the Malfoy heir to a Knockturn portkey ring.

He pocketed the parchment and started walking, his posture straight, wand tucked in his coat sleeve, and his expression carefully blank. He passed several groups of Muggles along the pavement, their voices loud, their clothing mismatched, their movements jerky and rushed.

Everything was so… noisy. Why were they always in such a hurry?

He kept close to the buildings, shadowed from the sun, when a sudden grip yanked him backward.

“Oi! Watch the lights!” a grey-haired Muggle barked, holding Draco by the sleeve as two of those Muggle metal box contraptions screeched by and honked angrily in front of him.

Draco’s pulse skidded sideways.

He snatched his arm back as if the man’s touch had scorched him. He’d never actually been touched by a Muggle before.

The man sneered. “Didn’t see the stoplight, did you?”

Stoplight ? What the hell was a stoplight?

Draco glanced around and noticed the object the man was gesturing toward. A tall pole with two glass orbs. One glowing red, the other a dim green. The red one must have meant Stop, given the man’s tone and the way the metal carriages had thundered past.

He waited until it shifted to green and carefully crossed the street.

His heart hadn’t quite calmed when he reached the opposite curb.

Merlin’s bollocks , he thought, feeling the nausea roll again. He felt like a bloody first-year lost in the dungeons. What kind of world required you to decode lights to survive?

He inhaled sharply through his nose. Get it together, Draco. You’ve duelled seventh-years. You’ve lived through Potter’s snake dream, you survived Daphne trying to style your hair once. You can handle this.

At least he didn’t look ridiculous. He’d made sure of that.

Daphne had come through for him. When she floo’d into his bedroom, she had brought with her a binder that had clippings from those thick, glossy Muggle magazines she hoarded — the ones with dramatically posed men staring moodily into the distance, half of them shirtless for no reason. 

She’d rattled on about silhouettes and tailoring and not wearing jeans because they make the arse look flat . Not that Draco had ever worn jeans, or knew what they were like, but apparently that was a fate to be avoided.

They eventually settled on tailored black slacks, a fitted black tee, and a deep olive overcoat transfigured from one of his cashmere travel cloaks. She’d even charmed the hem to fall correctly when he walked. He was both alarmed and begrudgingly impressed.

He made a mental note to owl her a box of rose toffees and the expensive candied violets she liked when he got back home.

When he reached the café, the first thing he saw was Potter, leaning casually against the wall like some misplaced garden gnome, hands in his pockets, his hair still looking like it had never met a comb.

Draco exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “Potter.”

Harry looked up and gave him a once-over, blinking in surprise. “Malfoy.”

Draco arched a brow and pointed lazily to the edge of Harry’s ear. “Bit of glitter still clinging on. I see the sticking charm held.”

“Fuck off,” Harry muttered, swiping at his ear. “I had to scourgify my hair five times. It got the stick out, but the glitter won’t go.”

“You could have just evanesco’d it.”

“Hermione said the same thing,” he grumbled.

Draco snorted. “Not my fault basic charms aren’t part of your tiny Gryffindor brain’s repertoire.”

Potter folded his arms and glared. “Look. Malfoy,” He sighed. “If we’re going to do this, we need to call a truce.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. A truce. How very noble. But also, infuriatingly, correct. He gave a short, deliberate nod.

Harry relaxed. A little.

“You’re wearing Muggle clothes,” Harry pointed out.

“Yes. Daphne helped me.”

“Greengrass? She’s pureblood.”

“Pureblood doesn’t mean blind,” Draco drawled. “She reads Muggle fashion magazines like they’re sacred scrolls. Disappointed?”

“Honestly, yeah. I was hoping you’d turn up in your Sunday best wizarding robes.” Potter snorted.

Draco scoffed. “As if I’d give you lot the satisfaction of taking the piss out of me.”

Harry looked like he was about to retort when a familiar voice rang out.

“Harry!”

Draco turned just in time to see Granger hurl herself into Potter’s arms. Harry caught her with a soft oof, clearly used to this kind of dramatic greeting. She punched him in the arm, kissed his cheek, and beamed like it had been years instead of days.

She turned to him, her eyes widening slightly. “Malfoy. I’m so glad you made it safely.”

“Of course.” He gave a small shrug, resisting the urge to adjust his coat.

She was looking at him strangely now. Her gaze drifted lower, then back up again. And unless the summer sun was playing tricks, she was blushing.

This was an unexpected surprise.

Her voice pitched a little higher. “You, um… You look good.”

He tilted his head, a smirk curling slow and deliberate, his usual flirting tendencies kicked in, “Like what you see, Granger?”

Before she could combust, Potter reached over and placed a hand heavily on her head, pushing her toward the door like she was a kitten who needed redirecting.

“Oi! No flirting with Hermione.”

“Harry! I just fixed my hair!” she yelped.

Draco chuckled and followed them inside the cafe

—

Granger picked the corner table near the window, which immediately piqued Draco’s attention. Smart move. From there, she could see everyone entering and leaving. No one could sneak up from behind. He’d been taught the same by his father to never keep your back exposed in public, especially when dealing with unfamiliar crowds. She didn’t do it consciously, he suspected. It seemed like muscle memory. He didn’t comment, though. The last thing he wanted was to sound impressed.

She and Potter were already craning their necks to look up at the strange, glowing menu behind the counter. A cluster of absurdly cheerful names floated over even more absurd photos of drinks. What in Merlin’s name was a frappuccino ? It sounded like something one would find bubbling in a second-year’s failed potion cauldron.

Still, the pictures looked tempting, and the dessert case at the front was far more familiar. Flaky pastries. Puffed rolls. Then his eyes settled on a tray of blueberry scones. At least Muggles hadn’t completely ruined that.

Granger offered to place their orders, slipping out of her coat as she made her way to the counter. She always had to take charge, didn’t she?

“How much do I owe you?” Draco asked, pretending to scan the menu but really just wondering if anything in there would kill him.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said over her shoulder. “I invited you both here, so it’s my treat.”

“I insist,” he said, fishing into his coat pocket and pulling out a carefully folded bundle of Muggle notes. “I even had my Galleons exchanged.”

He didn’t get far. Potter’s eyes went wide, and Granger actually hissed. The next thing he knew, both of them had shoved the money back into his coat like he’d pulled out a cursed object.

“Malfoy, keep that down!” Potter hissed.

“What?” Draco blinked, completely lost. “What did I do?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Granger said quickly. “It’s just… that’s a lot of money to wave around in public. How much did you even exchange?”

He shrugged. “I exchanged five hundred Galleons worth, just in case.” He also had another five hundred Galleons reducio'd in his pocket for emergency, but he didn't see the need to share that, noting their reaction.

Potter made a strangled sound and turned his laugh into a cough. Granger snorted, not even trying to hide it. Draco narrowed his eyes at both of them.

“Oh my god, Malfoy,” she said, covering her mouth as she laughed. “You didn’t need to bring that much.”

“Well, forgive me for being overprepared,” he muttered, slipping the notes back into his pocket. “I’m not about to walk into unknown territory underdressed and underfunded.”

“You won’t have to spend a single dime — knut,” she said, waving a small card in front of her. “I’ve got my plastic.”

“Your what?” Draco asked, eyeing the card suspiciously.

“She means that thing,” Potter said, still smiling. “It’s called a credit card. Kind of stores money credits, and it’s paid off monthly.”

“We have those in the wizarding world,” Draco replied, still staring at the card like it might sprout legs. “Father’s is tied to his signet ring. Pureblood families use enchanted items instead of...plastic.”

“Well, this one’s mine… still under my mum’s name, of course,” Granger said proudly, tucking the card back into her wallet. “Mum gave it to me when news of my top marks arrived by post.”

She gave a little victory wiggle in her seat, which Draco pretended not to find amusing. Potter raised his chin.

“Eight points ahead. Take that, Malfoy.”

Draco rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull. 

Granger had ordered them tea and a tray of scones and sweets. She asked the Muggle behind the counter to bring their cold drinks later. Draco glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just past quarter to three. Afternoon tea, right on schedule. He took note. That level of precision was no accident. He glanced at the witch across him.

“ Mione and tea, tea and Mione… three o’clock habit, sweet and divine, time to draw the sugar line ,” Potter sang under his breath.

“Oh, shut up,” Granger groaned, snatching a sugar cube and flicking it into his tea. Some of the liquid splashed up onto his sleeve, and he cursed as he patted it dry.

Draco was about to ask when Granger cut in, “Don’t even ask. It’s just a stupid song Ginny made up because I enjoy having my tea and biscuits at three in the afternoon.”

Draco couldn’t help but watch her hands. She was stirring her tea in small, careful motions, the spoon gliding through the liquid without ever clinking against the porcelain. Back and forth, never touching the sides. It looked polished.

He tilted his head. “Did you take finishing classes, Granger?”

Her hand froze mid-stir. “I… no. Not exactly.”

He arched a brow. “The way you stir your tea seemed otherwise.”

She sighed. “Fine. As you both know, we lived together in the future under one roof for almost a year. That included… Narcissa.” she directed her stare at Potter, “And just so you know. You can never say no to Narcissa.” 

Ah. That made Draco snort. “Mother taught you how to stir tea?”

“She taught me how to do a lot of things, actually,” Granger said, clearly defensive but trying not to sound it. “And she was terrifying. Honestly, worse than Snape.”

Draco chuckled at the absurdity, imagining the scene: his mother, perfectly composed, correcting Granger’s posture and her spoon grip while the Gryffindor swot sat trying not to fidget. That alone was worth enduring this awkward meeting. He was surprised that the scene didn't irritate him at all.

“She drilled all those habits into you too,” Granger added, nodding toward Potter.

“I doubt that could ever work,” Draco said with a smirk. “Judging by how he’s holding that fork like it’s a wand.”

“I can stab you with it in a second,” Potter muttered.

Draco leaned back, sipped his tea, and glanced at Granger again. Her hair was up in some sort of loose knot, curls spilling over her shoulders with her delicate nape slightly peeking out.

He bit into a blueberry scone and pretended not to think about any of that.

—-

Once the waitress had returned with their cold drinks served in absurd, see-through cups with names written on them like calling cards, Draco watched Granger casually murmur a Muffliato charm under her breath, wandlessly. She followed it with a subtle notice-me-not charm. Impressive.

His own drink had been labeled "Drayco" , with an exaggerated loop on the D. He squinted at it in offense. Granger’s read "Hermoine"  which looked like someone had lost a fight with the alphabet. Only Potter’s name was spelled right. He stirred his chocolate chip Frappuccino with the straw, eyeing the strange blend of cream and crushed ice. He took a sip.

Merlin’s hairy knuckles.

This was... actually delicious.

Before he could form another snide remark or even pretend to be interested in Potter’s rambling, movement in his periphery snagged his attention.

Granger was fiddling with the lid of her drink. She peeled the plastic dome off with delicate fingers, making sure she didn’t spill. Then, she tilted her head and leaned forward, licking a slow, purposeful stripe across the whipped cream like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was borderline obscene. 

The moment slowed. Her tongue grazed the surface, and she pulled back with a soft, satisfied hum, unaware of the absolute chaos she was causing in his head. His eyes followed the motion instinctively. When her gaze met his, it was too late to pretend he hadn’t been staring. He didn’t bother.

He raised a brow. “You have cream on your nose.”

She blinked, flustered, and wiped at it. “Oh. Thank you.”

Then she flicked the cream onto her finger and popped it into her mouth. He watched her finger as she sucked it clean.

Fuck. Draco’s soul briefly left his body.

Potter made a noise somewhere between a cough and a bark and forcibly set down his drink. “Alright. Let’s do this, then.”

Granger was all business again, of course. She straightened in her seat and brought out a thick notebook, several sheets of parchment, and one of those ridiculous Muggle pens that clicked like a nervous tic. She slid an empty sheet toward them.

“Okay. I thought it would be best to tell you both first about the plans we — future you two and I — had before I traveled. Obviously, things can change if either of you disagrees. After that, I’ll walk you through what happened in sixth year... in my past.”

She was mixing her drink again, stirring too much for someone who seemed calm. Her shoulders were slightly tense. Draco reclined against the wooden bench. Potter leaned forward, arms braced on the table like he was preparing for a defensive spell.

“The four of us — me, Harry, Ginny, and Draco — prepared everything for the jump,” she continued, her voice lower now. “Ginny handled the safehouse and the daily protections. She made sure we had our supply of potions and kept the wards solid. Harry wrote down every major event he could remember from the war, starting when he was eleven. Especially the details he kept from us then. Starting from visions he saw of Voldemort to activities he had with Dumbledore.”

Draco shot Potter a glance. Eleven. The rumors weren’t rumors then. The boy really had survived multiple encounters with the Dark Lord before he even hit puberty. He remembered his encounter with one of Potter’s many Dark Lord visions last year. He swallowed.

Then Hermione turned to him.

“And Draco... you were responsible for conditioning me.”

That made him sit up. His brows furrowed.

“What did … conditioning entail?”

“I wasn’t exactly eager to leave the future,” she admitted, her voice quieter. “I felt guilt for leaving you all. Doubt that I could really do anything. Your job was to keep me grounded. Apart from being my pseudo mind healer , you taught me Occlumency. You also helped me compartmentalize events… just in case I remembered too much of the war once I’m here.”

“Why me?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Well, first… you’re a natural Occlumens and Harry was rubbish at it. Still is.” She smiled.

“Hey!” Scarhead cut in.

“And I trusted you with my mind. It just made sense.” Granger continued.

He leaned back, still unsure how to process his friendship with her in that other life. Occlumency wasn’t exactly something you handed out to acquaintances. You entered someone’s mind. You saw the edges of their soul. And he had done that with her.

He remembered her mind palace — the one she had shown him at the Headmaster’s office, then in the Undercroft. It was clever, strong even, but it still lacked defense. He had probably helped her start to build it. Helped her shape it. It was bizarre, knowing something so intimate without remembering the experience itself.

“Alright,” Potter said, his fingers tapping his cup. “Why fifth year, then?”

Draco didn’t speak.

“It was future Draco’s idea,” Hermione said, turning to him again. “He told me fifth year was when he first started to question all the pureblood rubbish Voldemort was feeding everyone.”

Potter turned to look at him then. Wonderful.

Draco crossed his arms and schooled his face into a sneer. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I? A war is coming, and I refuse to sit back while my family gets slaughtered.”

It was selfish. But it was also true.

Granger smiled softly. Potter, thankfully, said nothing. But Draco could feel him watching… measuring.

Hermione continued, her fingers now drumming along the edge of the parchment. “We spent two months preparing. After all the history, notes, and lessons, we agreed on the Unbreakable Vow. Because both Harry and Draco said that without it, I might have hesitated to involve either of you.”

She let out a nervous laugh. “They weren’t wrong.”

Then her gaze turned serious. “From the moment I arrived, things were already different. You see, during the summer of  ‘95 in my past, Ron and I spent the summer at Grimmauld Place. Dumbledore told us not to write Harry because Voldemort’s followers could intercept the letter and reveal the location of the Order. That same summer, Harry and his cousin were attacked by Dementors. He used a Patronus in front of a Muggle, which led to a trial at the Ministry.”

“A trial,” Harry added, almost absently.

“But that never happened in this timeline,” Hermione said. “Because I wasn’t at Grimmauld Place that summer. I decided to stay home to spend time with my parents. And that meant I was able to owl Harry constantly.”

“You kept telling me not to use magic,” Potter muttered, rubbing the back of his head. “I remember. We were just a block from the house when the Dementors showed up. I cast the Patronus in the backyard. No one saw.”

Hermione nodded. “I’m not sure how my letters helped, but that single shift might have kept your record clean.”

Harry looked mildly horrified. “You saved me a bloody Ministry hearing with just a few letters.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, sipping her drink again.

Then, Hermione hesitated. He noticed the flick of her fingers around her drink, how she was turning the straw between her thumb and middle finger like she was winding up a clock she didn’t want to chime.

“Another change…” she said quietly, not meeting his eyes, “was Theo.”

Draco sat up straighter, spine pulled taut against the wooden backrest. She hadn’t even finished her sentence, but his blood had already gone cold. Of course, she would bring him up.

He kept his tone light, but his jaw had tensed. “What about Theo?”

“I—” Hermione looked like she regretted bringing it up at all. Good. “I befriended him early in fifth year… mostly to get to Malfoy.”

Potter furrowed his brows. “I remember that.”

She nodded without flinching. “Yes. I didn’t know how to approach Malfoy directly. Not with our history. Theo seemed the closest… and he wasn’t hostile.”

Draco felt something tighten in his chest, like his ribs had turned to iron. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or something else entirely. “So you targeted Theo. To get to me.” He didn’t phrase it as a question.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt him,” she said quickly, and Draco watched her eyes, trying to spot whether she was lying. “I just… thought it might be easier to reach you through someone you trusted.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Did you choose him because you knew what he was planning that year?”

“What? No.” Hermione’s voice cracked. “Of course not! I didn’t realize it until it was almost too late.”

He studied her face carefully. There was no flicker of hesitation, no shift in her expression. She wasn’t lying, then. That was… something.

“I only started to suspect something,” she added carefully. “The day we spoke in the library, I saw bruises peeking from his collar and sleeves.”

He remembered that day. Theo had shown up quiet, hollow-eyed, hands shaking when he turned the pages of his book. Draco had thought it was just another bad night with his father. He hadn’t realised how far gone Theo already was.

“I recognised the signs because… in the future, you told me,” Hermione said, voice quieter now. “You told me that Theo had been abused since he was young. You said he didn’t survive after our Sixth year.”

Draco’s hand clenched. He didn’t realise he’d done it until his nails dug into his palm.

“I remembered you said the official story was that he’d left the country. But in truth… he killed himself. I swear the memory only came to me after I saw the signs.”

The words echoed like footsteps in an empty corridor.

Of course they would come back to this. Of course Theo would be dragged into this twisted knot of past and future. It was one thing to carry the weight of his own choices — but the idea that Granger had known all this and still used Theo, even just a little, made something inside Draco want to snap.

He stared at her, voice low. “And that’s when you decided to chase me down.”

“Yes,” she answered, still holding his gaze. “You weren’t there that day. And Theo looked… like he’d already given up. I knew something had shifted in the timeline. I went looking for you.”

A pause stretched between them. He wanted to be furious. He wanted to yell that Theo wasn’t some pawn she could use to get closer to her mission.

But the truth was… she had noticed.

And she had done something. 

If she had not used Theo, maybe his best mate wouldn’t be here today.

He released a breath through his nose and leaned back again, eyes flicking toward the cold drink in front of him. “Well. You got what you wanted in the end.”

“I didn’t mean to—” she started, but he cut her off with a shrug.

“Don’t worry, Granger. I’m here now, aren’t I?” He said coldly.

Potter cleared his throat, like he sensed the mood needed shifting. “You said there were more changes?”

Granger straightened, glad for the pivot. “Yes. One of the biggest was Umbridge… but I already showed you that memory.”

“Still brilliant,” Harry muttered, lifting his drink to his lips.

Granger smiled faintly, then continued. “Then there's Voldemort entering your mind during both your detentions. Malfoy wasn't there in my timeline. Then the battle at the Department of Mysteries, of course.”

Both boys nodded, though Draco didn’t miss the brief flicker of tension that passed over Potter’s expression. That wasn’t a memory anyone enjoyed revisiting.

“Finally,” Granger said, eyes meeting Draco’s again, “Dumbledore approached Draco and me about those new classes. We were —”

“Hermione?” Potter asked. Granger was looking out the glass window. Their gazes snapped to where she was looking. Crossing the street were Finnegan and Thomas holding hands. 

“Shit. umm we need to transfer location.” Granger muttered

Draco agreed. He wasn’t ready to be seen with Potter and Granger. Finnegan had a loose tongue. Rumors would go wild if they found out they were hanging out together at a Muggle cafe during the summer. The two Gryffindors seemed to agree.

“We both know we can’t go to my place, or his…” Potter offered.

Granger sighed. “I know…” She closed her eyes for a few seconds and bit her lips. “Fine… we can go to my house. Let’s go.” She stood expecting both of them to follow her.

There was a back passage of the cafe, and Potter followed her back there. Draco was behind him. This muggle excursion was getting more and more absurd. From Muggle cafe to Muggleborn’s house… what’s next?

“Hermione, where are we going?” Harry asked after her as she led them into an alleyway. “I thought you lived in Hampstead?”

“I do. But that’s two hours away, and I don’t think Malfoy is ready to ride Muggle transportation.” Granger shrugged. She was right. There was no way Draco would ride one of those metal boxes. 

“So, how are we going to your home, Granger? Do you have a portkey?”

“Nope,” She grinned. “There’s something I forgot to tell you two. When I traveled to this timeline, I noticed something interesting… I don’t have the trace. I can apparate us home.”

That surprised Draco. It made him question, though. That meant her magic as an 18-year-old was carried into her present 16-year-old body post time travel. He made a mental note to ask her about the technicalities of the time turner soon.

“That’s convenient! Let’s go then,” Potter held her arm instantly. Granger offered her other arm, and Draco stared at it for a few seconds when she hooked her arm around his instead. That caught him slightly off guard as he felt the discomfort of apparition.

—

They landed on the front lawn of her childhood home, right beside the tall hedges near the gate. Hermione steadied herself, glancing at Draco and Harry as they took in the red brick facade. It struck her then how strange this moment was. She had always imagined the first friends she would bring home would be Harry and Ron, not Harry and Draco Malfoy of all people.

Harry was looking around curiously, but Draco’s gaze was harder to read. Was he silently judging? Approving? She could not tell. She wondered what he thought of the neat brickwork, the brass number on the door, the rows of flowerpots by the porch.

“Come on,” she said, leading them inside.

The entryway smelled faintly of lavender polish. Inside, the house showed off her mother’s love for order and her father’s fondness for classic design — Victorian touches, a brick fireplace, herringbone floors, and ceiling moulding with intricate detail. She saw Draco remove his coat and hang it on the stand beside the door without her having to ask. His movements were precise, practiced. That simple courtesy made her blush for reasons she did not entirely understand. At least he was not sneering. That was something.

Her family had always been comfortable, her parents’ dental practice putting them in the upper middle class by Muggle standards. She had never cared about that much until now, when she realized she was suddenly hoping Malfoy would not find anything here beneath his taste.

Draco settled on one of the blue couches with a look of mild appraisal. Harry, on the other hand, crouched in front of the television.

“Hermione! You’ve got a PlayStation! Do you play?” His voice was full of boyish excitement. “Dudley begged for one last year.”

She laughed. “My cousins seemed to enjoy it when they visited a few days ago. I’m not that good at it.” She started toward the hallway. “I’ll leave you two for a minute. I need to call my mum and let her know you’re here.”

Her thoughts were all over the place. Thankfully, her mother was both understanding and trusting. The Grangers were in Bali for a week-long dental seminar. When her mum answered the phone, Hermione explained quickly that Harry and Draco were with her. She was relieved it was her mum who picked up. If her dad had heard there were two boys alone in the house with her, she would have gotten a lecture that might have lasted all night.

When she came back into the living room, she found Harry trying to explain the telly to Draco. The programme on the screen showed a football match.

“But how do they know which player to focus on?” Draco asked, brows drawn together.

“Umm,” Harry hesitated, then looked at her for help.

Hermione smiled. “There are multiple cameras at different angles. Imagine if it were Quidditch and you could watch from any point on the pitch, even replay the best plays.”

Draco’s eyes lit up in genuine interest. It caught her off guard, that spark of curiosity. Her chest tightened a little. In the war, she had never had the chance to show the future Draco these small parts of her life. Now, she was seeing him take it in without the shadow of battle over them.

She cleared her throat and moved the coffee table toward the centre of the room with a quick spell. Spreading out her papers, she flicked her wand to turn off the television.

“Rude,” Draco muttered.

She rolled her eyes and ignored him, enlarging a piece of parchment on the table. Pulling out a felt-tip marker, she uncapped it and clicked the cap onto the other end before writing “6TH YEAR” across the top in bold letters.

“So, let’s start with you, Malfoy,” she said, looking at him directly.

His pale eyes met hers steadily.

“In my timeline, this was the summer your father got arrested for fighting at the Department of Mysteries and you got the Dark Mark,” she said softly. “Did you have any visitors at the Manor when you got home?”

“No,” he replied. “But Father was out more often than usual. We normally went to France during the summer, but we skipped it this year. Probably because of business with the Dark Lord… after his fight with Dumbledore in the Department of Mysteries. Maybe they were meeting.”

She nodded. He was speaking more openly now. That was progress. “That’s already a change in the timeline,” she said as she scribbled on the parchment. “After you got the Mark, you were given a mission. You were tasked with killing Dumbledore.”

Harry’s head whipped toward her. Draco’s eyes widened.

“Kill Dumbledore? How in Merlin’s name would I manage that? He’s the most powerful wizard alive,” Draco snapped.

“Voldemort knew you would not succeed,” Hermione said quietly. “It was a suicide mission. If you failed, your parents would be killed. You were also told to find a way for the Death Eaters to enter Hogwarts.”

Draco was silent for a long moment. “Did I…?”

“You did. You repaired a pair of Vanishing Cabinets,” she said.

Harry asked the question she knew was coming. “And Dumbledore?”

“You didn’t kill him, Malfoy. You disarmed him in the Astronomy Tower, though. Snape killed him instead.” She saw Harry open his mouth to comment, so she pushed on. “Snape was a double agent for the Order, and Dumbledore was already dying from a curse I’ll explain later. He and Snape planned his death so that you wouldn't have to do it, and so it would strengthen Snape’s position with Voldemort.”

The room went quiet. She could see the tension in both boys’ shoulders.

Turning to Harry, she went on. “The summer before sixth year, Dumbledore researched Voldemort’s past. He found that Voldemort had split his soul into seven pieces and hidden them in different objects to gain immortality. They were called Horcruxes. The first was the diary we destroyed in Second year. The second was a ring that belonged to Marvolo Gaunt—Tom Riddle’s grandfather. Dumbledore found the ring, and it cursed him, which is how he knew he was dying.”

She began to pace, talking faster.

“Hermione, breathe,” Harry said.

“I’m fine. We need to get through this.” She wrapped her arms around herself as she continued, “During Sixth year, you followed Malfoy constantly because you suspected he was a Death Eater. You were right. One day, you found him in the boys’ bathroom on the sixth floor. He was a wreck. You saw his Mark. You fought him and used one of Snape’s spells that nearly killed him. I wasn't there, but you came back to the dorms all bloody.

Harry stared at Draco in shock. Draco met his gaze evenly, though Hermione could see the stiffness in his posture.

“Snape saved him, thankfully, he stayed in the hospital wing for a week,” she finished softly.

Silence filled the room again until rain started to pound against the windows, making them all glance outside. A flash of lightning came, followed by a loud rumble.

“That rain’s not stopping anytime soon,” Harry said, breaking the silence. “Maybe we should think about dinner.”

Hermione nodded, feeling the weight of everything she had just unloaded. She had promised not to keep secrets anymore, and she had kept that promise. But she could not predict how Malfoy would react to all of this, especially since he had been so close to walking out earlier at the café when Theo’s name came up.

“Your parents fine with you staying late, Malfoy?” Harry asked as he stood.

“My parents think I’m at Blaise’s,” Draco said, rubbing his face with both hands before pushing to his feet.

The three of them moved into the kitchen, the sound of the rain following them through the walls. The space was bright, with her mother’s tidy arrangements still in place — jars labelled in her neat handwriting, a vase of fresh flowers on the island, and not a speck out of place.

Draco claimed a stool across the island, sitting like he had no intention of moving. His eyes roamed the room, sharp and calculating. She caught him staring at the refrigerator longer than he needed to, tilting his head slightly as if it might reveal its secrets. She realised he was doing what he had done with the telly earlier — cataloguing every Muggle object in sight. She wondered if he was truly fascinated, or if it was simply a way to keep from dwelling on everything she had told him earlier.

Harry rolled up his sleeves and began chopping carrots, the knife making steady, rhythmic sounds against the cutting board. His silence was telling. She knew that look. He was processing.

Hermione busied herself reheating the carbonara her mum had made the day before and setting aside a shepherd’s pie for later. The soup Harry was making filled the kitchen with the scent of simmering vegetables and herbs. She didn’t expect Draco to offer help. He looked like the kind of person who could get lost finding the kitchen in his own home. And honestly, she preferred him sitting still over touching her mum’s pots and pans and possibly hexing the stove out of existence.

While she moved between the stove and the counter, she stole small glances at him. In her timeline, she had seen Draco in kitchens before, but those moments had been in dim safehouses, with the smell of smoke and fear in the air, his jaw tight and eyes distant. Now, he looked entirely different. He sat back in his seat, his hair catching the kitchen light. The wariness was still there, but it was tempered by curiosity. She could almost imagine him in this kitchen under normal circumstances, maybe even asking questions about how the appliances worked — though, knowing him, the questions would be disguised as insults.

Dinner was quiet. Draco didn’t make any snide remarks about the food, which she decided to take as a small miracle.

When their plates were nearly empty, Hermione set her fork down. “The Horcruxes I told you about earlier,” she began, glancing between them, “I think we should start searching for them in Sixth year.”

Harry looked up. “Did we get them all in your timeline?”

“Yes. Dumbledore had your help with research during the school year. We didn’t return for Seventh year. You, Ron, and I searched for the Horcruxes through 1997.” Her gaze shifted to Draco, and she let it rest there for a moment. “Regardless of what changes this timeline throws at us, I’ve accepted I can’t stop everything. So we focus on what won’t change.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So we find these Horcruxes. Then what?”

“We destroy them,” she said plainly. “We can work out the details later, but there’s another point we need to discuss now.”

Both of them were watching her closely.

“One thing we didn’t have in my timeline was proper support from capable witches and wizards,” she continued. “We had the Order, but most of them simply followed Dumbledore’s lead. He didn’t care what happened to us, as long as the Light won. Then he died and left us with puzzles as breadcrumbs to finish what he started.”

She took a sip of water before going on. “Your future selves and I agreed that in this timeline, we tell the truth to certain people who can actually help. We had three names already: Sirius, chosen by future Harry. Narcissa, chosen by Draco. And Snape, chosen by me.”

She explained that each of them could add in who they thought were essential, but every addition had to be a unanimous decision under the terms of their Unbreakable Vow.

Harry leaned back. “I’d tell Dumbledore.”

Hermione’s response was immediate. “No. In my timeline, he kept too many secrets and used children like pawns. I came back to change things, not to hand control back to him.”

Harry shook his head. “Then make him come clean. If we get him to stop with the mind games, we’ll have the strongest wizard alive on our side.”

Her lips pressed together. “You know he doesn’t—”

“Let’s vote,” Harry said.

She said no. Harry said yes. They both turned to Draco.

He sighed and gave Harry a look that was half amused, half exasperated. “Potter has a point. If he is the most powerful wizard alive, then it would be stupid not to use him.”

Hermione exhaled. “Fine. But if this goes wrong…” She let the warning trail off. “If we tell him, we might as well let him know about the ring.”

She explained that in her timeline, Dumbledore told Harry he had found the ring a week before collecting him from Privet Drive. The tension in the kitchen grew again, thick and unyielding.

A sharp tapping on the window broke it. Hermione crossed to open it, letting in a damp owl with a heavy envelope tied to its leg. She untied it and turned. “It’s for Malfoy.”

The flicker of recognition in his eyes was immediate. He opened it, and the first thing that tumbled out was a Howler.

“Draco,” Blaise Zabini’s voice boomed, “Come to the townhouse immediately. Theo has news. I know you’re with Scarhead and the Swot… you can bring them along. Portkey’s in the envelope and a letter from Narcissa.”

The Howler shredded itself in midair. Hermione met Harry’s eyes over the island.

Draco reached back into the envelope, pulled out a small cloth pouch — likely the Portkey — and then unfolded the letter from his mother. His expression tightened with every line. A quiet curse slipped from him as he set it on the table as an open invitation for her and Harry to read.

My Dragon,

Please stay at the Zabini's over the week. Your father and I have business to attend to. I am sorry it is not the summer we planned. We will make it up to you after this week.

Mippy has already sent your essentials to the Zabini townhouse.

Love,
Mum

…Business to attend to… Hermione watched his face shift. It was frustration first, then anger, and finally something closer to worry.

He looked between them. “Are you coming?”

Harry looked at her, one brow raised.

She straightened in her seat. “We’re in.”

Draco pocketed the pouch, his expression unreadable, though his eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than she expected. The rain outside continued to hammer against the glass as the three of them stood.

Chapter Text

Hermione was surprised when Draco said the portkey was taking them to Italy, Florence to be exact. 

Florence smelled different. The air was warmer than London’s, laced with the faint sweetness of flowers she couldn’t name, and the distant tang of old stone heated by the summer sun. It reminded her of postcards in travel shops, except this was real, and she arrived at the Zabini family’s townhouse alongside Harry and Draco.

They had portkeyed into a cobblestoned path inside a wrought iron gate. The air felt far too quiet for the kind of conversation Draco had dropped on them moments earlier.

“I told Blaise and Theo everything,” Draco had said in that flat, unbothered tone he used when daring people to argue with him. “Everything except the parts under the vow. If you trust me, you’ll have to trust them. Blaise will probably threaten you. Try not to embarrass yourselves.”

She had wanted to protest, but he had kept walking, his coat flaring slightly behind him like he owned the path they were walking on. Harry had muttered under his breath, and she had just exchanged a look with him. They were probably thinking the same thing. Trust them? As if that were an easy thing to do.

The Zabini townhouse rose ahead of them, four storeys of pale stone with green shutters, surrounded by iron railings that looked decorative until you saw the faint shimmer of wards around them. Inside, the air smelled faintly of lemon polish and tobacco. The floors gleamed, the ceilings stretched high above them with ornate mouldings, and the light spilling in from the tall windows gave the place a warm, deceptive serenity.

Blaise appeared almost immediately, tall and immaculate in a dark blue shirt with the top buttons undone. His expression, however, was sharp enough to cut. “You brought them,” he said to Draco, ignoring her and Harry entirely.

“You offered. I told them they’d have to trust you,” Draco replied, slipping off his coat like he owned the place. “And Theo?”

“In the smoking room,” Blaise sighed. Draco nodded and rushed into the room.

Blaise’s gaze finally flicked to her and Harry, assessing, calculating. “There’s something you two need to remember. The three of us — Draco, Theo, and I — are a package deal,” he said. His voice was cool, but there was something protective beneath it. “For some reason, Draco trusts you, or is forced to trust you.” He looked specifically at Hermione. “ If one of us decides you’re a problem, you won’t get a second chance to prove otherwise. ”

Hermione had been expecting that, though the bluntness still stung. “Understood,” she said before Harry could say something Gryffindor-stupid. Merlin knows how Harry's sassy comments have landed him in more than a handful of detentions. Harry only gave a terse nod, though she could feel his discomfort radiating beside her.

Before she could ask what happened to Theo, a sharp blast echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The sound rattled her ribs. Blaise moved instantly, striding toward a heavy wooden door at the far end of the hall.

They found the smoking room in chaos. A section of the far wall was blackened, and the air was thick with the scent of scorched wood and something metallic — blood. Theo was crumpled in a chair, bloody from the collar down, shoulders heaving. Draco had him in a tight grip, arms wound around him as if holding him together by sheer force.

“He killed them all… he wanted me to do it too,” Theo’s voice cracked into a wail. “He gave me his wand—”

Draco’s head snapped toward them, his eyes like cut steel. “Get out!”

For a second, Hermione froze, her brain trying to catch up. The blood… it wasn’t Theo’s, was it? Anger bloomed in her chest, hot and sharp, at the thought of what Theo’s father might have done.

Blaise grabbed her arm before she could move closer. “Only Draco can help him right now,” he said, low and certain.

She shook her head. “I know something that could help. Call Malfoy out here.”

“No.” The word was as sharp as a curse, but the broken sounds from Theo carried through the smoke, raw enough to make Blaise falter. He swore under his breath, then stepped inside.

A moment later, Draco appeared in the doorway, shoulders tense, jaw tight. Blaise stayed inside with Theo. Draco’s expression was thunderous. “What could you possibly do, Granger?”

“Remember when I said you taught me how to compartmentalize in the future?” she said in a quick whisper so that only he and Harry could hear, refusing to shrink from Malfoy’s glare. “You could block certain emotions and memories attached to them just for a while, until I was ready to face them. It kept me breathing when I didn’t think I could anymore.”

His eyes narrowed. “You want me to force him into Occlumency when he’s like this?”

Hermione paused for a bit. Forced Occlumency, was that what it was called? Future Draco never told her, even when she asked. All she knew was that it was a special ability he was able to do naturally with ease. 

“He might consent.” She decided to answer.

Draco’s expression darkened further, and for a heartbeat, she thought he would tell her to get out and stay out. Instead, he turned on his heel and disappeared back into the smoke.

She and Harry stayed in the sitting room after that. The minutes stretched, marked only by the faint muffled sounds from the other room, the tick of a nearby clock, and the low hum of the Florence evening outside. She tried not to imagine what was happening inside.

Half an hour later, Blaise emerged first, looking drained. Draco followed, his face unreadable. He met her gaze for a long moment before turning to Blaise. “I need to talk to Granger in one of the spare rooms.”

Harry moved as if to follow, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I’m fine,” she murmured, though she wasn’t sure she believed it.

—-

The guest room was dim, warm in color but still cold in feel, like a place meant for short stays and not comfort. Or maybe it only felt like that because the place didn’t like Muggleborns. She’s heard of old wizarding houses being sentient; the Zabini home might be like that too. The golden tones of the wallpaper caught the low light from a single lamp that had instantly lit up once they entered, creating shadows that shifted over the sharp lines of Draco’s face.

He was standing near the bed, his shoulders tense. Some of Theo’s blood streaked along his forearms and dotted the pale skin of his throat. It was a stark, ugly contrast, and she had to stop herself from staring too long. She knew it wasn’t his, but the way it clung to him made her chest tighten in ways she couldn’t quite explain.

“I couldn’t do the forced Occlumency with Theo properly, I’ve never done it before,” he said, each word clipped. “He was in too much pain. He almost cast a Diffindo on his jugular before Blaise stunned him. We… drugged him with dreamless sleep, just for now.”

That surprised Hermione, and guilt immediately followed her. She hadn't considered that maybe this Draco hadn't learned that magic yet.

“I… didn’t realize you didn’t know how to do it yet. I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me. I just thought it was something that came naturally with you. I can try to explain what I know about it if you want,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended.

His eyes met hers, cold and dark, but there was something else there. Something weighed down and restless.

“You said I could block the memories attached to the emotions temporarily too?”

“I did,” she replied cautiously.

“You seem to know a lot of things I’m still not capable of at this point,” he continued. “So you’ll have to walk me through it, not just explaining it.” 

She hesitated. Her palms were warm now, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of what he was asking or because of how close they were. This wasn’t a spell she could really teach. It was invasive, intimate, and dangerous if done wrong. She’d done it with him before — in another life where he was the caster — but that Draco had been someone she trusted with every part of herself. This Draco… she wasn’t sure yet.

“I need you to understand,” she began slowly, “this isn’t something you can do without full trust. I trusted you with my life in my future. I’m not sure I can do that yet here.”

His mouth curved into the faintest smirk, though his eyes didn’t soften; they remained cold. “Then you’ll have to pretend I’m him.”

Her pulse jumped. “No. You’re not the same. I can’t just… pretend.”

“Granger,” his voice sharpened, aggressively pointing in the direction where the smoking room was. “He tried to end it. Again. Today. So I need to know the process you claim I was able to do with you.”

He walked a step towards her. He backed her against the wall, trapping her between his arms as he slammed his palms on the wall with a thud.

The words again hit her harder than she expected. She steadied her breath, forcing her voice not to waver as she backed up against the wall. “The trust has to be mutual. Can you honestly say you trust me wholeheartedly?”

There was a pause, his jaw tightening. “No,” he admitted at last, letting his arms fall to his sides. “But for Theo’s sake, I will trust you now.”

She nodded slowly, forcing herself to keep her voice even. “There’s another thing. I can’t do the spell.”

His brows drew together sharply. “Wait. I thought—. How the hell are we going to do this then?”

“You have to be the caster,” she interrupted, her fingers tightening slightly in the fabric of her sleeve. “Not the other way around. I’ve tried before. It isn’t a matter of skill, it’s… to do with your magic.” She hesitated, her gaze flicking briefly to his eyes before darting away. “Your blood, actually. It’s a trait passed down from the Black side of your family. Like how Tonks is a metamorphagus, or Harry being a parseltongue.”

Draco didn’t speak, just watched her in that way that made her hyperaware of how close they were standing. The weight of his stare made her shift her footing, her toes curling inside her shoes.

In her timeline, future Draco had been her best friend, but when it came to his family, especially anything tied to the old magicks of the Blacks, he was infuriatingly secretive.

She’d only learned about this ability after their group was on a rescue mission. They were set to rescue Ron, only to find his mutilated remains in one of the Death Eater tents in Cragcroftshire. Harry had shielded her eyes from the scene, but it was too late. 

She had been a wreck. She was unable to eat, drink, or sleep for days after they brought Ron’s remains back to headquarters. She’d been spiraling, drowning in the memory of the scene, and it was Draco who had offered to block it from her mind. Just for a while. Just long enough for her to breathe again.

It had worked. For a week, she’d been able to function without that crushing weight in her chest, until they moved to the next safehouse and she could grieve without losing herself completely. He had done it for her more times than she could count after that. When she had asked about the spell, he’d told her only that it was one of the rare Black family magicks he inherited. 

“Future you did it for me so many times I’ve lost track,” she said, watching the faint tension in his jaw. “So I can guide you through it. He never hid the process from me, but there are parts you’ll have to work out on your own.”

He gave a slow nod. “What will Theo’s state be after it’s done?”

She pressed her lips together, thinking carefully. “I’m not entirely sure, honestly. With me… I was still aware of what had happened, but when I tried to remember the scene, it just wasn’t there. My emotions were muted too. It’s like Occlumency for both thoughts and emotions — it gave me space to process.” She twisted her fingers together under the guise of straightening her cuff.

“There were also times I asked him to block memories completely, but only the scene, not the knowledge of it,” she went on. “Theo could choose that if he wants. He’d still know it happened, but he wouldn’t see it in his mind or dream about it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “That feels like some sort of modified Obliviation. I’ve never heard of removing just the scenes or just the emotions…”

She met his gaze, her lips twitching into a small smile. “Maybe you could think of it as a branch of Obliviation. You can lift the block at any time with the right trigger. A password, a puzzle, a spell of your choosing… Not to inflate your already considerable ego, but your magic is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s literally breathtaking.”

The words hung in the air before she could take them back. His expression didn’t shift into the smirk she’d expected. Instead, he just stared at her like he was trying to work out if she’d meant it.

That look made her skin prickle. He was close. Too close for comfort. A step forward, and she would know if his breathing was as steady as he was pretending. She needed to think about anything else, so she cleared her throat. “So, yes… I can try to guide you as much as I can if you’re ready.”

Something in his posture shifted at that. It was like he’d just shaken himself out of the same strange trance she’d been caught in. He gave a curt nod.

“What’s the spell to start?” he asked, his voice lower, heavier.

“You use my name. My given name. Then ‘liber apertus. ’ The wand movement is the same as Legilimens, but your intention has to be to connect with my magic, not just my mind.”

“Okay,” he said. The air between them felt thicker now, every breath too noticeable.

“Cast a Silencio,” she told him, looking at the door, her voice quieter than she intended. “Please.”

He lifted his wand without looking away from her. “Silencio.”

The world dropped into stillness. No ticking clock, no hum from the sconces — just him, and his gaze holding hers. That was when she realized her breathing had gone shallow, every inhale loud in her own head, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of what they were going to attempt… or because of him.

—--

She had said his magic was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Draco was not easily undone by words, but that one… that one had lodged itself somewhere in his chest and refused to move. People had praised his looks. His name. His grades. His flying. He could take those in stride. But his magic? And from her of all people? It was absurd. It was irritating. It was… intoxicating.

And judging by the way she had cleared her throat afterwards, she hadn’t meant to let it slip.

They were standing far too close for his comfort… or maybe too close for hers. He couldn’t tell. He decided to let that whole moment simmer in the background for later dissection. Right now, there were more pressing things to deal with.

She had asked for a few minutes to prepare herself, leaning back against the wall with her eyes closed. He let his gaze wander against his better judgment. The rise and fall of her chest was slow and deliberate, her small hands lightly gripping the edge of her jumper as if holding herself steady. Mind magic was no joke, especially the kind they were about to attempt. He wouldn’t have risked it with someone untrained, yet here he was, trusting her to guide him through his own family magic.

Trust.  

The word itched under his skin. He had meant it when he told her he would trust her for Theo’s sake, but he was starting to realize it wasn’t just that. He could trust her because she was Hermione Granger, swot extraordinaire. He could trust her because his future self clearly had. He could trust her because she had saved Theo before, and now she was trusting him with the deepest sections of her mind.

Her eyes opened again, lashes lifting slowly. “I’m ready.”

He swallowed. His palms felt too warm against the cool length of his wand. This was new territory, and he couldn’t afford to mess it up.

He pointed his wand directly at her, locking eyes. “Hermione… liber apertus .”

The syllables left his mouth smoother than he expected, and the moment they did, something inside him surged to life. His magic thrummed like it had been waiting years for this exact connection. It was hungry, almost eager, and it sent a ripple of heat through his fingertips. It felt wrong in the way that made it feel dangerously right, like finding a forbidden door and wanting to know what was on the other side.

The room around him dissolved.

One breath later, he was standing in a vast darkness with no walls, no ceiling, no ground, just an endless room of nothing. And in the middle of that nothing, was her.

She glowed. Literally. 

Light radiated from her in soft golden waves, catching on the edges of her hair, wrapping around her like a cloak. He looked down at his own hands and found the same glow humming through him, sinking into his skin like it belonged there.

Her eyes were closed at first, then opened, finding him without surprise. “Draco?”

“Granger,” he replied automatically.

She frowned faintly. Pouted. And something about that tiny expression jabbed at him with the irrational urge to fix it. But before he could ask, everything around him flickered. Her, the glow, the space itself began to fade. He was losing focus.

Shit.

He shut his eyes, forced his breathing into a steady rhythm, and thought about what he was here for. He wasn’t here to reach Granger. He was here to reach her magic. The spell literally required him to use her given name. He repressed the urge to roll his eyes.

When he opened his eyes, the space was whole again. She was watching him.

“Welcome back,” she said with a small, knowing smile.

“Her...mione?” The word felt strange in his mouth. Not bad. Just… strange.

Something in her gaze warmed at that, like she’d been waiting to hear it from him. “Draco… It’s been a while. You feel different.”

He tilted his head. “That’s because I am different. I’m Draco from a different timeline.”

“I see.” She folded her hands behind her back in a gesture that was oddly familiar. “Nice to meet you, Draco from another timeline. I’m Hermione.”

He almost offered his hand before she stopped him with a grin.

“I would shake your hand, but that’s inappropriate unless you plan to bind your magic to mine indefinitely.”

He stiffened. “I—what? Excuse me?”

She laughed softly, then turned, beginning to walk in a direction that should not have existed in this formless place. “You haven’t realized yet, have you? Come on. I’ll take you to her — my host. She’s waiting.”

It took him half a second to catch up. “Realized what?”

“I’m her magical core.”

He glanced at her again, taking in the glow, the easy confidence. It made sense. And now he understood why she had rejected the formality of her surname. Her magical core didn’t want to be defined by her family name… but as an individual. 

“I’ve never seen one before,” he admitted. “A magical core, I mean.”

“We aren’t always corporeal,” she replied lightly. “It just so happens my current host is an exceptionally strong witch.” She gave him a sideways smile that practically begged for him to argue. He didn’t.

“So in your past hosts, you weren’t always… this?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to her human shape.

She chuckled. “No. My last host was a wizard over a century ago, and I wasn’t really corporeal back then. More like a glowing orb.”

“A century?” His curiosity got the better of him. “Why did you go dormant?”

Her steps slowed before she answered. “He tried to save someone using obscure magic he couldn’t control. It ended up hurting the very person he wanted to save.”

Draco felt his brow furrow. “I’m sorry.”

“There's no need for that." She smiled, "I chose to go dormant after that. I needed time to heal. My last host was a Slytherin too, you know.”

That startled him. “He went to Hogwarts?”

“Yes. A strong duellist. Loyal to a fault.”

“What happened to him?” He wasn’t usually this talkative, but something about this space loosened his tongue.

“He had a twin who was cursed by a dark wizard. He used very dark magic to save her, but he didn’t know how to control it. It consumed him instead. It was so consuming that it broke a part of me.”

Draco didn’t know how to respond to that. If it had taken her this long to recover, the magic must have been unimaginably destructive.

Before he could ask more, she stopped and snapped her fingers. A golden door appeared in front of them, tall and ornate, the metal warm and pulsing faintly under its own light.

“We’re here,” she said.

He hesitated. “Thank you… Hermione.”

She smiled like she knew something he didn’t. “My pleasure. Come visit me again soon — it’s rare to meet weavers.”

“Weavers?” He looked back at her, but she was gone.

—

When he touched the gate, the endless dark shifted, and he was pulled forward. One heartbeat later, he was standing inside familiar walls. Granger’s mind palace. The sight of endless shelves soothed him more than he cared to admit.

She was leaning against one of the bookshelves, looking far too casual for someone who had just opened her magical core to him. The moment she spotted him, she straightened, her mouth tugging into a smile that was half exasperated and half pleased.

“Malfoy! That took you long enough.”

Her voice was a relief. He had been unnerved by her magical core. Her magical core’s cryptic smiles and a voice that dripped with secrets unsettled him far more than he wanted to admit. This though? This was normal. Annoying, know-it-all Granger who rolled her eyes and tried to manage everything herself. He could handle her.

“Yeah,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “Your magical core led me here. She’s… different.”

That earned him a laugh, light and unguarded. “That’s one way of putting it. Draco in my timeline called her a brat.”

Draco barked a laugh before he could stop himself. “Brat is generous. She nearly tossed me out when I called her Granger .”

Her face lit up, eyes bright with something close to delight. “Godric, she did? I wish I could meet her. Apparently, only people with your ability can communicate with magical cores. I used to resent that, but… well, I’ve made my peace with it.”

Weavers. That was the word her magical core had used. He was going to need answers later, but for now, he tucked the word away.

“I can tell you all about our talk later,” he said, surprising himself with the offer. Maybe it was repayment, maybe it was his way of acknowledging how much she had helped him. Either way, she looked at him like he had just handed her a hundred points. Her lips curved into a wide grin, and her eyes glowed with anticipation. He smirked. Predictable swot . “But for now, let’s get on with it, shall we?”

She nodded briskly, businesslike once more. “As you know, we’re in my mind palace. It’s the same one you’ve entered before. But according to Future Draco, once you open one of my memories, you should be able to see glowing threads now that you have my core’s permission.” She walked to one of the shelves, plucked out a worn brown book, and pressed it into his hands.

He raised a brow. “What memory is this?”

“The day I got my Hogwarts letter,” she said, and her grin was almost mischievous.

He almost asked why that one, but of course, she barreled ahead without needing the prompt. “I had a few other choices. The day Ron and Harry saved me from a troll in first year, the day I slapped you in third year—”

He scoffed loudly and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Of course, you would include that one. I can still feel the sting.”

“You deserved it and you know it!” she shot back with a laugh.

Violent little witch. He didn’t say it aloud, but the thought amused him enough that the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

She was still rambling. “But then I remembered that the day I got my Hogwarts letter was the best choice, because it’s the same memory I used for my Patronus.”

That gave him pause. “The Patronus charm requires you to clearly envision the happiest memory you have. So if I block just the scene…”

“I shouldn’t be able to cast a Patronus at all,” she finished smoothly. “It’s perfect proof. If you succeed, we’ll reverse it, and then I’ll try casting the Patronus again.”

He studied her face, the certainty in her tone, the spark of excitement she could not hide. 

“That’s actually a good idea, Granger.” No, not just good. Merlin, she was fucking brilliant.

“Thank you. I know.” She crossed her arms smugly, and the grin she flashed him made his chest tighten. Both brilliant and cheeky.

“Insufferable,” he muttered.

“Effective,” she corrected primly.

He shook his head, suppressing a smile. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

He opened the book.

The memory spilled around him instantly. Young Granger sat at the dinner table with her family. Then the knock at the door. McGonagall’s tall figure stepped inside, composed and regal as ever. He watched the eleven-year-old version of Granger narrow her eyes suspiciously as the professor explained about magic. Skeptical even as a child. It figured.

McGonagall handed her the letter, and little Granger insisted on proof. He chuckled under his breath when the stern professor transformed into a cat, then back again. The Grangers stared in open-mouthed awe. The child Hermione paused for a full minute, then turned to her parents and declared with all the confidence in the world, “Mum, Dad, I’m a witch!” Her front teeth were still too large, and her smile too wide, yet the joy in it was undeniable.

He almost forgot himself watching it. Just almost, but there were no glowing threads. No sign of what he was meant to find. It irritated him. From his very limited knowledge of ancient magic, there was sometimes a trigger for it to wake up from dormancy. Maybe he was still not of age? He hated failing at something so quickly. He was good at intuitive magic. It was what made him so dangerous on a broom.

Relax. Focus. For Theo…

He hovered the book before him, freeing his hands. He curled his fingers into fists, let his magic pulse outward from his palms, then — on impulse — forced it toward his eyes instead. If he could redirect magic like that, why not here?

The change was immediate. Threads appeared across the memory, faint at first, then brightening into golden strands woven delicately through the scene.

He heard a faint gasp from somewhere, ignored it, and pressed forward.

Touching one thread brought a rush of emotion so strong it made his chest ache. Elation. Excitement. The thrill of discovery. Another thread flickered the memory itself, dimming the memory itself, then returning it. That one — Sight.

The rest of the threads were easier to decipher under his inspection. Sound. Taste. Scent. Texture. He was mesmerised. Weaver. The word rang in his ears again. He swallowed.

He focused on the task at hand. The goal was to block, not erase. A complete removal might as well be Obliviation. He thought through every lesson he had ever learned. Blocking, binding, shielding. His mind raced across spells and wards until it snagged on Runes.

Yes. That could work.

He summoned the binding rune pattern instinctively, weaving the combined runes of Algiz, Thurisaz, and Uruz around the thread. 

Algiz for protection...

Thurisaz for defense and overcoming obstacles...

Uruz for health and strength...

It glowed green as the runes took hold, the sight tethered but not destroyed.

He exhaled, realising only then that he had been holding his breath.

When he turned back to her, she was radiant. She stood there glowing more brightly than before. She looked just like her magical core, but the gold was bleeding into white, her presence humming like sunlight captured in human form.  She looked ethereal, beautiful.

How had he ever thought of this witch being unworthy of magic? She looked like she was magic itself.

“I think I did it,” he said, his voice lower than he intended. He closed the book and handed it to her, though his gaze refused to leave her face.

Her answering smile was so blinding it nearly knocked the wind from him. “Malfoy! That’s amazing. Let’s test it out.” She flicked the book back into the shelves.

“Malfoy?” she asked after a moment.

He realised he was still staring. Bloody hell.

He cleared his throat sharply, forced his eyes away, and gave a curt nod. Together, they snapped back outside from her mind palace.

—-

When Draco opened his eyes, the world tilted violently. His stomach lurched and for a sickening moment he thought his legs would give out entirely. He staggered forward and caught himself with both palms flat against the wall, the sound echoing like a crack through the silence.

And that was when he realized Granger was there.

She was directly in front of him, pressed between his arms, her face tilted up toward his chest. He could feel her breath, warm against the fabric of his shirt, too close, far too close. Her eyes found his, wide and startled, and for one dangerous second, he did not move. The soft brush of her hair grazed his neck, and the scent of her curled through his senses before he shoved himself back like he had been burned.

He needed space. He needed air. He needed to not be seconds away from doing something utterly reckless.

The door burst open before he could speak.

Potter stormed in first, wand raised. “Hermione, are you alright?”

Blaise followed, scanning the room sharply. “We heard a thud against the wall.”

It looks like the silencing charm had broken the moment they got back from Granger’s mind palace. Draco pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Light refracted like shards of diamond against his vision, searing and chaotic. His magic still hummed beneath his skin, alive in a way he had never felt before. When he blinked his eyes open again, he froze.

Granger was still glowing.

It was faint, softer than before, but it was there. Potter and Blaise shimmered faintly too. He wasn’t sure if this was just aftereffects of the spell, or something he’ll have to live with now. Draco tore his gaze away before anyone noticed he was staring.

“We are both fine,” she said quickly, though her voice carried that forced steadiness that meant she was not entirely composed. “We just practiced a spell that could help Theo. We were about to test it.”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed on her. “Is this classified too?”

Draco braced himself for her to falter, but she did not. She held Blaise’s stare, chin lifted. “Not really. But how I came to learn about it is classified.”

Blaise studied her for a beat longer, then gave the smallest nod.

Draco sank down onto the edge of the bed, head heavy, magic still coursing through his blood like fire. “Let’s try it now, before I pass out.” He took a deep breath. “Do you remember the memory, Granger?”

She joined him at once, too eager. “The day I got my Hogwarts letter. I know about it, but I can’t envision it…”

He forced his eyes up, forced himself to meet her gaze instead of noticing how close she had moved. “Good. Have at it then.”

She nodded and closed her eyes, wand at the ready. He watched the furrow of her brow, the way her lips formed the incantation with absolute focus. “Expecto Patronum.”

Nothing.

She frowned, tried again. “Expecto Patronum!”

Still nothing.

A rush of pride broke through the exhaustion, and Draco let himself smile. It had worked.

“Try a different memory,” he said, his voice rasping with satisfaction.

Potter frowned, looking between them. “Hermione’s never failed to cast one. What’s happening?”

Blaise crossed his arms, suspicion in his eyes. “And why do you both look pleased about it?”

Granger ignored them both, wand raised again. “Expecto Patronum!”

A thin wisp of silver curled from her wand, not corporeal but real. She gasped and laughed all at once. “I used the memory when I slapped you. Malfoy, I think you really did it!”

He smirked. She was glowing with excitement, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, and for the first time he did not feel the need to sneer at her.

She turned to Potter and Blaise. “I’ll explain later, I promise.”

Draco pushed himself to his feet, his hands trembling only slightly now. “I’ll release the memory.” He drew a steadying breath, lifted his wand, and traced the binding runes above her head with deliberate precision. With a flick, he envisioned the rune dissolving, the green thread turning into gold and threading itself back into the original weave of her memory. A sharp jolt of magic snapped back into place.

Granger gasped, hand gripping her wand tightly. Then she straightened, wand flashing. “Expecto Patronum!”

Her silver otter burst forth instantly, full-bodied and gleaming, swirling jubilantly around the room. The air itself seemed lighter.

Before he could even process the success, she threw herself at him.

The impact knocked him back onto the bed, his body sinking into the mattress with her pressed over him. For a heartbeat, he could not think at all. Her palms were flat against his chest, her hair brushing his cheek, her smile so close he could see the faint freckle at the corner of her lips.

“You did it!” she breathed, radiant, her voice trembling with laughter and something else.

“I did,” he said, though his voice came out lower, rougher. His heart hammered, or maybe it was hers. He could not tell. She was impossibly soft, so small, so near he could flip her beneath him in a breath. He wanted to. Merlin help him, he wanted to. She smelled like caramel and peaches, warm and almost cloying, and the thought of tasting her nearly unmoored him.

And then a sharp cough in the background split the moment. Blaise.

She jolted back with a squeak, cheeks blazing red as she scrambled off him. “I’m sorry! I was just excited!”

Draco sat up, dragging in air like a man starved. His skin felt hot, his pulse erratic. He ran a hand through his hair, needing the motion to ground himself.

Potter’s gaze was sharp, suspicious, but Draco ignored him. He had no time for this, not now, not with his magic still pulsing wild in his veins.

He looked at Potter, forcing his voice steady. “Potter. I need your help with Theo.”

The boy-who-lived looked startled. Draco rarely acknowledged him unless it was to insult him, but he was the safest choice. He needed space from Granger, and he was currently on a magical high and might say something accidentally within the bounds of the vow should he choose Blaise.

“Granger can explain it to you, mate. We’ll be back.”

Blaise frowned. Draco shot Blaise a look, his patience too thin to entertain an argument. They both knew what that look meant. Trust me . We’ll talk about it later.

Blaise muttered under his breath, clearly displeased, but relented. “Fine.”

Draco rose to his feet, ignoring the way his body still thrummed with her nearness. He could not afford to think about it now. 

—-

Hermione was in the sitting room with Zabini. They sat across from each other, quietly drinking tea served by his house elf, Luigi. She lifted the delicate china cup, took a sip of the perfectly steeped Earl Grey, and nearly sighed. 

Circe, it was exquisite.

She’d never had tea of this quality before, smooth and fragrant with just the right balance of bergamot. If only Zabini would stop glaring at her like he was choosing the best spell to hex her with, it might’ve been perfect.

The moment Malfoy had pulled Harry into the smoking room to help Theo, Blaise had launched into a full interrogation about what had happened earlier. She supposed she should be grateful. At least it spared her from sitting there with Malfoy after… after she’d thrown herself at him like an utter fool. She still wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

It had been instinct, a natural reaction to joy, to relief, to success — she’d leapt into her friend’s arms before. But Malfoy wasn’t Ron or Harry. Everything felt different when it was him. When she’d knocked him onto the bed, she could feel the thrum of his heartbeat, and his gaze had burned into hers in a way that felt altogether too intimate.

So yes, she was glad he’d chosen Harry.

She’d given Zabini the explanation she promised: Malfoy’s strange ability, how it was a dormant Black family magic, and how it had manifested tonight. She left out only the pieces barred by the vow. And while Blaise clearly didn’t like her, her heart softened when the first thing he asked was whether Malfoy’s ability would hurt him.

There had been no malice in it, just concern. Vulnerability, even. She was relieved Malfoy had friends who genuinely cared.

From there, Blaise’s questions were intelligent and precise. Being a skilled Occlumens himself, he wanted details, theory, sensation. She explained what it felt like to be the recipient, what it did to her memories, and how it compared to Occlumency. He listened, probed, and they ended up trading thoughts like colleagues discussing an experiment.

It was refreshing. She adored Harry and Ron with every fibre of her being, but they didn’t share this same hunger for magical theory. With Blaise, she could stretch that part of herself freely. It made her quietly envious of Malfoy that he had this sort of company at his side.

When Luigi returned with a tray of tea and biscuits, the interrogation ended. They sat in a charged silence, sipping Earl Grey. Zabini stared at her with those dark eyes, and she tried not to fidget under the weight of his scrutiny. Finally, he set his cup down.

“Zabini,” she said, arching a brow. “Do all of you have a habit of staring?”

His brows shot up. Then, to her surprise, he laughed, leaning his head against his knuckles and resting one arm lazily on the armchair. He crossed his legs, perfectly poised. “Is it making you uncomfortable, Granger?”

Her cheeks warmed. “And that! You all do that. The smirking, the flirting, whenever you want to deflect.” She crossed her arms, glaring.

“You think you’ve got us all figured out, do you? What if I actually want to flirt?” His smirk widened.

“Merlin, Ginny was right,” Hermione muttered, stirring her tea. “You’re a shameless flirt.”

That made his brow lift. “Weasley?”

She caught the way his expression sharpened, a flicker of genuine interest. “Yes,” she said slowly.

He chewed on his tongue for a beat. “Is she single?”

Hermione nearly choked on her tea. “Oh. She is. But she doesn’t do boyfriends.”

“That’s perfect,” Blaise said at once.

“What?”

“Ginevra Weasley is fit, she’s a phenomenal Chaser, confident and fiery, and she doesn’t do boyfriends. It’s perfect.”

“And she’s a pureblood,” Hermione added slyly.

That dimmed his smirk, though only slightly. He shrugged. “That can’t hurt. But I’ll have you know my best date as of now was actually with a Muggleborn.”

Hermione gawked. “What? Who?”

“I don’t kiss and tell, cara mia.” He chuckled, eyes gleaming with mischief. Then his tone softened. “I know Draco’s been a proper arse to you over the years, but that doesn’t mean we’re all the same. My family is…” he paused thoughtfully, “…more lenient.”

“So you don’t believe in blood supremacy?”

“I believe there are benefits to being pureblood, more so when you come from an old family with wealth and family magicks passed down. But I’ve never thought halfbloods or Muggleborns were any less magical.”

Hermione blinked, genuinely speechless.

He leaned back with a smug grin. “I’ve managed to render the swot speechless. No wonder Draco’s eyes keep straying to you.”

Her face flamed. “Wha—” She slapped her hands over her cheeks.

“You do this little thing when you want to argue but can’t find the words,” he teased, gesturing at her face. “It’s… oddly endearing.”

He laughed heartily, and after a few moments, she was laughing too despite herself.

“Granger, you’re something else,” Blaise said finally, still grinning. “I’ll admit I don’t trust you yet. But you’ve helped Theo twice now, if Draco’s successful in there. As for Draco… I can’t say just yet. You seem to be driving him completely mad.”

She gave him a small smile. “I get it. Draco and Theo are to you what Harry and Ron are to me. I’d die for them. So I understand. I won’t break your trust, should you ever give it.”

Something flickered in his expression, then he smirked. “You’ve got yourself a truce, Granger.”

A moment later, the smoking room door opened. Malfoy and Harry emerged, each with one of Theo’s arms slung around their shoulders. Blaise immediately hurried over, taking Theo from Harry.

“Theo, mate, how’re you feeling?” Blaise asked.

Theo blinked blearily at him. “Draco did some sick magic,” he mumbled, then looked at Hermione with a sloppy grin. “Granger, darling, you need to stop saving me. I told you, I’m into blokes.”

Her vision went hot and watery, and she kept it together with a hard swallow. “Oh, Theo. Please, just rest.” She brushed her tears away, catching Malfoy’s gaze. He gave a small nod, quiet but steady.

Malfoy and Blaise disapparated with Theo, leaving the room abruptly quieter. Luigi popped back into the sitting room and bowed low.

“Padron Blaise has asked Luigi to guide you both to your rooms,” the elf said politely, extending his hands. Hermione and Harry each took one.

They were deposited onto another floor entirely, where two doors stood side by side. Hermione was relieved that Harry’s room was next to hers. He followed her into her room, promptly collapsing onto her bed with a resigned groan.

“Hermione,” he muttered, tugging off his glasses and covering his eyes with his arm.

She perched on the edge beside him. “Did Malfoy tell you anything?”

“Pretty much,” Harry said. “About how you taught him about his family magick. Now he can pull apart memories like they’re crossword puzzles in the Daily Prophet. He didn’t explain too much since we needed to wake Nott.” 

She nodded thoughtfully, waiting for him to continue. “You’ve been awfully quiet since we arrived here. What’s on your mind?”

He peeked at her before closing his eyes again. 

“Nott. When we woke him, he was terrified.” He hesitated, then went on, “His father forced him to go Muggle-hunting with other Death Eaters. Gave him his wand and tried to make him kill a Muggle child. When Nott — Theo refused, he was tortured. He escaped before Nott Senior could Imperius him, and he apparated to Malfoy Manor. Malfoy’s mother gave him a portkey here.”

“Malfoy showed you the memory?” Hermione asked.

“No. After Draco took out the vision, Theo explained it himself. The spell didn’t take long. It was the recovery that took time… for both of them.”

Her heart ached. Narcissa’s letter made more sense now. Perhaps that had been the business she’d written Draco about. She knew Theo would need Draco, and so led him here.

“I always thought it was black and white,” Harry murmured. “Dark and Light. When you said we were going to work with Malfoy, I kept thinking he’d stab us in the back and serve me to Voldemort on a platter.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but he pressed on.

“It’s not comfortable having someone in your head. With Voldemort, it was tar, thick and suffocating. With Snape, it was sharp and angry, like hot iron. Even if he meant well, it hurt. But when Malfoy got into my head that night in detention…” Harry paused, breathing unevenly. “It was different. My mind knew he wanted to help me. His magic didn’t push or claw. It reached. Like it was calling out. I think he knew I could hear him too, because he was panicking, trying to wake me.”

Hermione felt her chest tighten. He’d never told her this.

“I know that’s not enough proof of anything, but my magic seemed to trust his entry enough to allow him to reach me. What I’m saying is… I trust him,” Harry finished quietly.

Hermione nodded slowly. “I think I'm starting to trust this version of him too.”

Harry glanced at her sidelong, then smirked. “Yeah, well, I think Zabini and I saw enough. You were about to snog him in that room.”

Her jaw dropped. “I was not!” She bolted upright.

“Oh, please. You practically jumped him… on a bed. And made those big swoony eyes—”

“Harry James Potter! You take that back!” She snatched a pillow and whacked him with it.

He cackled, blocking with his arms. “The ferrety git looked like he was going to let it happen too!”

She hurled the pillow at his retreating back as he fled to the door, laughing all the way into his own room.

Hermione collapsed back onto her bed, face hot, she flicked a muffliato with her hand, and buried her scream into a pillow.

I’m so fucked.

Chapter Text

Draco’s vision was still swimming faintly as he made his way down the hallway. His head throbbed, the faint trace of a migraine gnawing at his temples. The hot shower had taken the edge off, but only barely. He had thrown on a loose linen button-down, collar open at the throat, and a pair of tailored lounge trousers. It was comfortable and still sharp enough to look like he had some dignity left. 

He had dug through the trunk Mippy delivered and downed a small phial of his own version of a hangover potion. His own brew included a pinch of eucalyptus that gave that instant cool, invigorating feeling. At least the elf always stocked his vacation trunk properly. Vacations at the Zabini’s vineyard ensured they had more wine than water every time he and Theo visited.

As he padded down the stairs, faint murmurs drifted upward, punctuated by laughter.

“Really? Gifts for all the witches in the house every first of September? That’s so sweet, Blaise. Our house never had anything like that.”

Granger was laughing with Blaise. And apparently, she had the gall to call him Blaise now. First names, how lovely.

“Sucks for you. We look after our witches,” Blaise replied easily. “Draco even cursed a second year once for refusing to follow tradition.”

Draco stepped into the kitchen with a lazy smirk. “I didn’t hex him. I charmed his quill to vanish every time he tried to write.”

“Good morning!” Granger’s face lit up at him. She stood across the island from Blaise, a plate of toast in front of her. “That’s cruel! How was the poor boy supposed to do his homework?”

“Homework was the least of his concerns.” Draco shrugged, reaching for a cracker and a wedge of cheese, “He knew the rules. You don’t break tradition in Slytherin. He grovelled for a week, then brought gifts for every witch in his year at the start of next term.”

He cast her a sidelong glance and froze. She was dressed in a flowing sage green dress, the fabric soft and light, falling in graceful folds that hinted at shape without clinging. The neckline skimmed her collarbones, her sleeves loose until they narrowed neatly at her wrists. Her hair was a wild mane, loose and unrestrained. 

Radiant. The word clawed into his mind before he could shove it aside.

He didn’t miss Blaise watching him notice. His friend smirked knowingly, the bastard.

“Cara mia,” Blaise said smoothly, though his gaze lingered on Draco, “I’m glad you liked the dress Luigi picked out for you.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. He knew a jab when he heard one.

Granger blinked down at her plate. “It’s far too nice, really. I was about to transfigure it into something simpler, but Luigi said it was your cousin’s.”

Blaise waved a hand. “She wouldn’t mind. That cousin shops like a witch possessed. Buys a new gown almost every day. She rarely wears anything more than twice.”

Granger scrunched her nose. “That’s so wasteful.”

Draco hid a smirk in his cup. Typical Granger.

Moments later, Theo had joined them.

“Good morning, darlings,” Theo sang as he breezed in, kissing Draco and Blaise on the cheek. Blaise swatted him away while Draco rolled his eyes. Then Theo reached for Granger’s hand, lifting it with mock reverence and brushing his lips across her knuckles.

“Good morning, Theo,” she said quickly, cheeks turning pink. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

Theo kissed his thumb where her hand had rested. “Buttery,” he declared with a wink.

Granger looked scandalised.

“This was what I was talking about last night.” Granger narrowed her eyes at Blaise, who lifted his hands in surrender.

“See, cara, you’ll have to get used to it. Ten points to Gryffindor for pointing it out.”

Theo shrugged and collapsed onto a chair. “Where’s the Chosen One, then?”

Granger flicked her wand, casting a tempus charm. “It’s only just past nine, he should be up soon—oh.” Her gaze darted to the spread of food, then the hall, her expression anxious. “Blaise… I hate to be a bother, but could your elves make some broth or porridge?”

Draco arched his brow. Broth?

Blaise snapped his fingers without question. “Luigi.”

The elf appeared with a bow.

“Porridge for Granger if you please,” Blaise ordered, and Luigi bowed, then vanished again.

“Thank you,” she said softly, eyes still flicking nervously toward the hall. “Please… don’t tell Harry. It’s personal. He… he was raised by abusive relatives. They hated that he was magical. They starved him, his room was a cupboard under the stairs for twelve years, and they made him do most of the housework. At Hogwarts, the food had overwhelmed him. He gorged himself and spent the first week sick after every meal until Pomfrey worked it out. Now he can’t start the day without something light, or it unsettles him.”

Draco frowned, arms crossing over his chest. He still didn’t like Scarhead, but the wizard was treated like a house elf. “That’s bloody vile. The Potters were a respected family, how the hell—”

“Well, his mother was Muggleborn,” Hermione interrupted quietly. “Her Muggle sister resented her for it. And when the Potters died, Harry was left to them. They took it out on him.”

Theo sneered. “Under the stairs.”

“At least he’s got his own room now,” she said, smiling faintly, forcing the topic to end there. “He even blew up his aunt once.”

Her laugh was soft, almost fond.

Speaking of the hippogriff, Scarhead had appeared. His hair was a disaster, sticking up worse than usual, his glasses crooked from being shoved on too quickly. He looked like he’d just lost a wrestling match with his pillow.

“Morning,” Potter yawned, sliding in next to Granger. His eyes lingered on the food spread, uncomfortable, but before he could speak, Luigi popped back in with a steaming bowl. He began to set it down in front of Granger.

“You know, I’m stuffed,” Granger said quickly, pushing it toward Potter. “Do you want it?”

Potter blinked, then shrugged. “Sure.” He dug in, oblivious, and Granger exhaled softly in relief.

“This is good,” Potter said with his mouth half-full. “Better than Hogwarts’”

Theo pushed him a bowl of cranberries. “Try it with those.”

Potter grabbed a handful and added them without hesitation.

Conversation spilled easily around the table. Blaise smirked at Granger. “We were just discussing how Granger’s going to set me up with Ginevra.”

“Weasley?” Draco barked a laugh. “You’ve got no chance, mate. Didn’t she turn you down after the last match?”

“Technically, yes. But now I’ve got Granger in my corner,” Blaise drawled.

Granger huffed. “I never said I’d set you up. I said she doesn’t do boyfriends.”

Theo leaned forward, curious. “Doesn’t she have a thing for Potter?”

Draco smirked, waiting for Potter to squirm.

Potter shrugged. “I don’t see her that way. Honestly, I don’t think I want to date this year. Cho was a handful last year.”

“You dated Cho Chang?” Draco raised his brows. “Impressive.”

“Kind of. Didn’t last though. She was … clingy,” Potter said bluntly, spoon clattering against the bowl. “And she kept going on about Hermione.”

Granger rolled her eyes. “She actually cornered me once after Potions, asking if Harry and I had something going on. I told her he’s like my brother. No offense, Harry, but you’re not my type.”

“None taken. Same here. And now I’m starting to figure out what your type is, and it’s disgusting,” he muttered.

Granger’s cheeks went pink. “Shut up, or I won’t help you with your essays this year.”

Potter mimed zipping his lips and finally reached for the toast.

____

Hermione had wanted to bring up everything that happened last night at breakfast. Yesterday was still raw, and every instinct screamed that time was precious. At the Burrow, it would have been simple: she’d set down her fork, look at Harry and Ron, and the conversation would turn to strategy within moments. There was no resistance, no dancing around what had to be said.

But the Slytherins were different. They were like water slipping through her fingers. Every time she thought she had an opening, they deflected. A joke here, a smirk there, a change of subject that drew laughter and pushed the inevitable aside. They made it look effortless, which only made it more frustrating. 

Even Theo, who had been unraveling the night before, looked maddeningly lighthearted, as if Draco pulling that memory out had reset him. Hermione couldn’t believe he was fine, not really, but the mask he wore was good enough to fool anyone who didn’t know better.

And she needed to talk to Draco and Harry, desperately. Theo’s immediate storm had been calmed, but the larger question remained: how much should they tell Blaise and Theo? Blaise had already declared them a package deal, and Hermione knew enough about Slytherins to understand what that meant. Trust one, trust all. 

And just when the table had fallen silent enough that she thought she might finally steer the talk to where it needed to go, Blaise casually suggested a vineyard tour. And of course, all the wizards agreed.

The Zabini vineyard spread like something out of a painting. Endless rows of vines curved along the hills, the air warm with the scent of grapes and soil. Terracotta walls peeked out here and there, and tall olive trees marked the edges of the property. A pale stone path wound between the rows, lined with wildflowers that looked almost deliberately placed. Hermione couldn’t deny the beauty. It was… enchanting.

She glanced over at the boys at one of the vineyard gazebos. The three Slytherins were leaning over Harry, of all people, arguing about wine. Wine ! As if Harry had spent his life studying vineyards instead of rationing leftovers from the Dursleys’ table. Harry, to his credit, was taking it seriously, tilting his glass, sniffing it as if Professor Snape himself were judging. Hermione had to press her lips together to keep from laughing.

And yet she felt absurd, walking around the vineyard with a glass of wine in hand like some aristocratic heiress. She half expected to look down and find herself in one of those mafia films her mother liked to watch, rich Italian girls gliding around estates with practiced elegance. The thought made her laugh quietly to herself, though the wine probably helped.

What didn’t help was Luigi. Every time her glass dipped below halfway, he popped up like an overeager specter, bottle in hand, ready to refill. When she tried to refuse politely, he pouted. It was almost worse than facing Kreacher in one of his sour moods. By the third time, she gave up. If she ended up tipsy, she was blaming Blaise’s elf.

She was about to rejoin the group when Draco appeared, strolling down the path toward her. He looked sinful with his linen shirt collar open, wine glass dangling from his fingers effortlessly. He looked too composed, too polished, and it made her feel painfully aware of her own borrowed gown and wind-tangled hair.

“I can’t believe Potter picked vintage Port over Burgundy Pinot Noir,” he scoffed.

Hermione let out a surprised laugh. “For teenagers, you all sound like professional wine critics.”

“Says the witch who chose Chablis.” His eyes flicked to her glass, one brow lifting. “Nice choice though.”

“I like dry white wine. It bites the tongue without being overwhelming.”

The words left her before she could stop herself, parroting her mother’s description. When she saw his face. There was that flash of surprise, like he hadn’t expected her to have an opinion at all. She couldn’t help but laugh harder. 

“Oh, you should see yourself right now. Don’t be impressed, Malfoy. That’s just what my mum says. It’s her favorite, so it’s the only one I’ve really tried. But it is good.”

And then it happened. He smiled. Not the sharp smirk he always wielded like a weapon, but something softer. A real smile.

Her stomach did something alarming, and she bit her lip, glancing away quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed the warmth rising in her cheeks. Circe, why did it feel so different when it was him?

They walked together, step for step, until he cleared his throat.

“Granger, I wanted to thank you for yesterday.”

She turned her head, surprised. Gratitude from him wasn’t common. “You’re welcome. Theo didn’t deserve what happened to him. How are you feeling though? Harry said you were drained.”

“Hangover potion did the trick. Theo wanted the vision locked away permanently, but asked me to leave the knowledge of it.” He swirled his glass absently. “His magical core was unusual, but it wasn’t hard to get in.”

She shook her head quickly. “You don’t have to tell me. Cores are personal. I’m just glad he’s alright, at least for now. I wonder if that business your mother mentioned was about this.”

“I think so. I’ll wait for her owl. It isn’t safe for Theo to go back home.”

The words made her chest ache. “I don’t think it’s safe for you either.”

Too late to pull it back. Her face heated as she realized how it sounded.

His smirk returned instantly. “Worried about me?”

“Oh shut up. You know what I mean. What if Voldemort’s already there and—” She cut herself off. She couldn’t say it aloud. The image of him with the Mark burned enough in her mind without voicing it.

“I don’t want it either.” His voice was quiet, steadier than she expected. “But if it were the only way to keep my family safe, I’d take it.”

Her throat tightened. “I know.” And she did. She hated that she did.

The silence between them stretched, heavy, until he broke it. “Once it's safe back at the Manor, I’ll explain the horcruxes to Blaise and Theo. Do some research in the library.”

Her heart leapt before she could stop it. Malfoy Manor’s library. Future Draco had mentioned it often, dropping references to spells and rituals when they discussed strategy, and every time she’d been desperate for more. Even rumors at school claimed it was larger than Hogwarts’. She had dreamt of seeing it.

“That cheered you up instantly.” He chuckled, clearly amused by her reaction.

“You can’t blame me! At school, everyone said your library was bigger than Hogwarts’.”

“It is. Almost three times larger. There are restricted sections too, for family magicks.”

“Three times — Merlin, that’s heaven. I’d never leave.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “So you’ve never been there? Not even in the future?”

“No. You took Harry once though, for a mission. I was furious. I didn’t speak to either of you for a week.” She pouted at the memory, though a little smile tugged at her lips.

He laughed quietly. “It’s strange imagining working with Potter.”

“You know how we fought well in the courtyard duels? Well, you’re even better with him. I was usually paired with Ginny. We only got partnered after…” Her eyes fell to his arm.

“After I lost my arm?” His tone was careful.

She nodded. The memory made her stomach turn. “Bellatrix traced us through your blood. Through the Mark. You told me to cut it off. I… it was awful. You didn’t blame me, but I couldn’t stop clinging to you after. Maybe you were guilty too, so you let me.”

Silence again. Too much silence. Circe, why did she say that? Her cheeks burned. The wine. Definitely the wine.

“I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject. Please.”

He let her retreat. “Horcruxes then.”

Hermione exhaled slowly when the talk drifted back to Horcruxes. Safer ground, though still heavy.

“Yes,” she said, clinging to the practical. “We'll have to find a way to tell Dumbledore about the ring. Make sure he doesn’t end up dying because of it. I still resent you both for voting me down, by the way.” She rolled her eyes, but the truth lingered under the jest. There was still a sharp pang of bitterness she hadn’t quite let go.

Draco smirked, the smug sort that usually made her want to throttle him, yet now it only made her chest feel tight.

She pressed on quickly. “Depending on his response, I’ll update you. And most likely we’ll have to tell Ron and Ginny about the hunt… but I don’t know how we’ll even begin to tell them about all this.”

“How about you just tell them the same way we’re handling Theo and Blaise?” he asked, as if it were the simplest thing.

Hermione almost laughed. If only. “It’s not that easy. Your friends… they don’t need words. Your loyalty to each other is implicit. With Ron and Ginny, it’s different. I trust them, but…they need explanation, reasons, a hundred reassurances before they’ll take a step into something dangerous. Even more so that we’ll be working together. They’re not the ‘ help me bury the body, no questions asked ’ kind of people.” Her voice softened. “You saw how Ron reacted in the Great Hall last time.”

Draco chuckled under his breath. “I remember. We all assumed you two had a thing.”

Her nose wrinkled instinctively. “I suppose we kind of did. In my timeline, I liked him in Sixth year. We had a short relationship during the war…” She shrugged helplessly. The memory still felt strange, like it belonged to someone else. 

“It didn’t last. I think the attraction was fleeting. One day, I just woke up and realized I wanted something different. I’ll always love Ron, in a way, but I was never in love with him. He deserves someone who matches him better.” She glanced down at her glass, cheeks warming. “Merlin, are you sure this wine doesn’t have Veritaserum? I’ve been talking far too much.” She laughed nervously, lifting her glass in mock accusation.

Draco’s laugh was low and amused. “That’s all you, Granger.”

Her heart stuttered at the sound. He wasn’t mocking her. This day was getting weirder by the minute. That alone unsettled her more than if he had.

They walked on, vines brushing their shoulders as the path curved. The silence between them was easy, comfortable even, and that scared her more than the awkwardness had.

He broke it first. “Speaking of updates, Potter mentioned you don’t have an owl. How are we meant to plan if you don’t have one?”

Hermione grimaced. “My parents never allowed it. Too high-maintenance, they said. And my mum hates mice.”

“There’s a wizarding village nearby,” Draco said, “We’re getting you an owl. I’m not coordinating with you through Potter. It’s just impractical.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off with that sharp look of his.

“But my parents—”

“Granger. You’re a witch. Transfigure the mice into something else. Add self-cleaning charms to whatever it wears, so it doesn’t offend your precious mother’s sensibilities.”

Her eyes widened, remembering the little kerchief around his owl’s neck. “That’s why your owl wore that. That’s brilliant.”

Draco’s mouth curved into a proud, smug smile. “Of course it is. His name is Argentum by the way.”

“Argentum,” she repeated softly. “It’s perfect. His feathers really do look silver when he flies.”

He looked unbearably self-satisfied, but she couldn’t even tease him for it. She was too caught in the warmth curling low in her chest.

By the time they circled back toward the gazebo, Hermione was almost grateful for the interruption. Their friends were slouched together, wine-drunk and loud, Harry and Theo belting the awful Hogwarts Hymn at the top of their lungs, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, while Blaise stood in front conducting with his wand like some pompous Maestro.

Hermione laughed, the sound bursting out before she could contain it. She pulled her wand and snapped a picture, the scene so ridiculous it almost felt normal.

—--

Draco wasn’t sure what the hell had gone through his head when he invited Granger to come with him to Wizarding Florence. Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the fact that Potter and the others had chosen to stay behind and drink themselves senseless in the sun. She really did need an owl, and this was an extended thank you for saving Theo.

It was for the mission! He told himself.

She walked beside him now, a little too close, her eyes darting left and right as if she had never seen a proper market in her life. She looked enchanted by everything. Shops lined the main street, and branching paths spilled into smaller lanes where vendors called out their wares. The air was full of the rich scent of potion brews, dusted with herbs and smoke. Colorful stalls displayed enchanted jewelry, hand-stitched robes that shimmered faintly, and even the occasional set of runes carved by hand.

He liked Florence for that reason. There was creativity here, not the same dull standard shops copied over and over. Here, families still poured their history into their craft. He had always found it more interesting than anything sold in Diagon Alley.

And yet, he found himself distracted. Not by the shops, not by the bustle of Florence, but by the witch walking at his side, slowing every few steps to admire something.

She stopped suddenly at a stall selling sea glass bracelets, holding one up with visible fascination.

The merchant launched into her practiced upsell, words flowing smoothly as Granger slipped the bracelet over her wrist, tilting her head with that thoughtful little crease in her brow.

A few seconds later, a woman beside the merchant rose to her feet, and Draco’s attention snapped toward her instantly.

“ Signorino Malfoy!” she exclaimed warmly.

His chest loosened at once with recognition. “ Signora Volpi,” he greeted, stepping forward. He took her hand and brushed his lips lightly over her fingers, as was proper.

Her face softened with approval.

“È passato troppo tempo, caro mio. Come stai? * she asked.

“Davvero troppo,” Draco replied smoothly. “Sono stato molto preso dagli studi. Spero che che gli affari vadano bene.” **

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Come meglio possono, caro. Vedo che hai portato la tua fidanzata.” ***

Her eyes darted knowingly toward Granger.

Bloody hell.

He cleared his throat a touch too sharply. “This is Hermione Granger, a friend from school.” He glanced at Granger, catching her watchful stare. “Granger, this is Signora Volpi. She taught me how to cast my first item enchantment when I was seven.”

Her expression shifted from surprise to polite composure. She turned to Signora Volpi quickly, dropping the bracelet back onto the display.

“It’s nice to meet you, Signora,” she said, shaking her hand.

Volpi’s gaze flicked to the bracelet. “That one is an excellent choice, signorina. It adjusts to your body temperature, keeps you warm in the cold, cool in the heat.”

Granger’s eyes widened in honest fascination. “I thought I imagined that when I held it. That’s an incredible enchantment. But honestly, we really came here to buy an owl, and I wasn’t exactly prepared to go shopping.”

Signora Volpi gave a knowing smile. “Another time, then.” She had the gall to lift her eyebrow at Draco when Granger looked away.

He guided Granger away, turning down a side path. But he noticed immediately that her steps had slowed. Her brows drawn faintly, glancing at him like she was turning something over in her head.

“Out with it, Granger. Silence doesn’t suit you,” he said, eyes fixed ahead.

“I didn’t know you spoke Italian,” she said quietly.

Ah. So that was it.

He smirked faintly. “Was that why you looked so surprised earlier? I thought it was the part where Racquel taught me enchantments when I was seven.” He finally looked at her, lifting one brow.

“Wow,” she laughed, and the sound slid far too easily into his chest. “I knew that would go straight to your head. But yes, both, actually.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he said, a touch too sharp. He regretted it instantly, softening his tone. “Then again, I thought we were friends in your timeline. You’d have known by then I spoke several languages.”

Her steps faltered, then hurried to catch up. “Wait…several? Merlin. And yes, we were definitely friends. But… we didn’t talk about a lot of things.”

He glanced sideways. “Oh?”

She nodded, eyes distant as if she was reaching through memories. “The truce… specifically our truce didn’t come until after the battle at Hogwarts. It wasn’t easy. You warmed up to the others first. Even with Harry and Ron… but never me. There was too much history, not just from school. We clashed constantly. You know, we nearly killed each other once.” She smiled faintly, though her hand brushed her left arm in a way that made him frown.

That wasn’t how it had looked in the memories she’d shown him. They’d seemed far too close for his liking.

“It took time,” she went on softly. “We were both the brains, and winning the war was bigger than our pride, so eventually we made a truce. A fresh start. New as we could make it.”

Draco studied her carefully. He hated how badly he wanted to pry more.

“Is that why you had that odd nickname… Pages, was it?”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide. “I—yes,” She cleared her throat too quickly. “Among other things. He said it was easier to separate Granger from his childhood if he gave me that name.”

Her gaze flicked down, a little too fast. “Not that it always worked. Sometimes we broke the truce and talked about school; we couldn’t help it. But… not much. So no, we don’t talk about Hogwarts, we don’t talk about our past, and so I don’t really know your personal life.”

And he didn’t understand why, but he hated that answer. Because in the memories of her timeline that she showed him, she clearly looked like she had known him better than anyone. And here she was, standing beside him, saying she didn’t.

That was clever of her, he supposed, steering the conversation back to something lighter. Draco didn’t really know what else to say, so he filled the silence with memory. “I met Racquel when Blaise’s mother first brought us here. We must’ve been six, maybe seven. I was a sheltered child, and it felt… freeing, I suppose, to walk about without Mother breathing down my neck and correcting every bit of my decorum.”

Granger chuckled, the sound soft and genuine. He found himself oddly relieved she didn’t look so pensive anymore.

“I had tutors by the time I was three,” he went on, “and magical theory bored me senseless. So when we came here, it was my first time seeing artisans mixing spells in their craft. I spent hours pestering shopkeepers. Lady Zabini was too occupied with whichever husband she was on at the time — six, I think — to bother with us. Blaise and I were left to it. Most of the artisans refused to share their secrets, of course. Not that I could blame them. I was a child who barely spoke Italian.”

“I bet that pissed you off,” she said, smiling, “not getting what you wanted.”

“I won’t deny it. I was close to tears, actually.” He remembered it vividly, “Then Racquel appeared. She offered to teach me a simple modification spell if I bought something from her stall. I chose a pair of earrings. She showed me how to add a charm so their colour would change with the wearer’s mood. I paid three times more than I should have, but I didn’t care. I gave them as a gift to my mother.”

Her eyes widened. “How could you do the charm without a wand? You were seven!”

He almost smirked at the question. “This will sound unbearably arrogant, but Father always said my magic was special. I believed him. I tried charming my blanket everyday wandlessly, but it never worked. Until my eighth birthday. I’d snuck Pansy and Daphne into my room. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but I wanted to show off.” He caught her rolling her eyes lightheartedly and pressed on. “Somehow, it worked. The corner of the blanket Pansy sat on turned orange, and the side Daphne touched turned pink. I didn’t understand what the colours meant, but it was my first wandless spell.”

Granger was unusually quiet. He glanced at her. She was staring back, her eyes bright, her expression soft.

“That’s… wow. That’s amazing. It suits you, actually. Dragons like to show off,” she said with a grin.

He gave a short laugh. “And they look brilliant when they do. So I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Their laughter eased something tight in his chest.

They finally reached La Civetta Bianca , the owl shop. Through the glass window, a dozen owls perched inside, feathers gleaming under the afternoon sun. Granger pressed close to the window, peeking in eagerly. 

Draco stepped beside her, but instead of the owls, his eyes caught on her reflection. The light struck her eyes just right, gold threads flashing through the hazel, like caramel laced with sunlight. He turned, unable to stop himself from looking at her directly. 

Circe, when did Granger’s eyes become so…

“Are you sure about this, Malfoy?” she asked suddenly, catching him staring.

His throat tightened. He forced a small scoff, clearing it quickly by looking away and walking abruptly into the shop. “Too late to back out now, Granger. Let’s get you an owl.”

He watched as she listened to the owner explain the traits of each species. She was gentle with feathered creatures. She was patient, letting them come to her instead of forcing it. A Gryffindor, and yet she knew how to wait. She finally settled on a golden masked owl.

Golden, like her eyes. Draco clenched his jaw. Fuck. He needed to get a grip.

Pushing off the wall, he strode over to the owner. “We’ll take that one, please. Two months of supplies, and that cage,” he said, pointing to a gold one on display.

The shopkeeper brightened immediately.

“Wait — Malfoy, how much do I owe you?” Granger started toward him, but the owl launched itself onto her curls, its talons tangled in her hair. She let out a squeak. Draco couldn’t help laughing, loudly.

“Haha, very funny!” she pouted, swatting gently at her hair, trying not to scare the owl.

“Hold still.” He reached in, carefully untangling the claws from her curls. Her hair was ridiculously soft under his fingers. She was so close, her eyes wide as she looked up at him while he worked.

“Is it done?” she asked softly, their gazes locking for a few seconds.

He nodded once and released her. The owl flew into its cage. She fussed with her hair, smoothing it down, and he found himself wondering dangerously what it would feel like to thread his hands through those curls. To tug just enough for her to…

Merlin, he needed wine. A bottle. Maybe two.

“Malfoy, you’ll let me pay for this, won’t you?” she tried again as they walked toward the apparition point.

“Don’t worry about it, Granger.”

“But—”

“I insist. Besides, your parents can’t scold you for a gift. And I’d rather not suffer Potter’s chicken scratches for the rest of the summer. It’s practical.”

She blinked at him, brow furrowed. “You… really thought this through.”

“Comes naturally. Slytherin, remember.” He smirked, though it came out sharper than he intended. He didn’t correct it. He needed space from her. Whatever this was, it needed drowning. Strong wine, Burgundy or Chianti. Anything to quiet his thoughts.

—---

Dear Malfoy,

I hope all of you are fine back at the Manor.

I’m home safe. Harry is back at Privet Drive. He’s already contacted Sirius about the ring, he still feels a bit bad for lying though.

I was hesitant to send this using Aurey because Italy is so far away, but Harry assured me that our owls use magical channels and ministry approved resting spots when they travel internationally. I’ll need to read more on that when we get back to Hogwarts, but could you take a look at her for me before sending her back, just in case?

Have you told Blaise and Theo yet? I’m so worried about telling Gin and Ron, but Harry said we’ll handle it when Dumbledore brings him to Grimmauld Place. I’ll likely follow after.

Please let me know what’s happening when you get home.

Take care,

HJG

Before they all went their separate ways, Draco, Harry, and Hermione had agreed that it wasn’t safe to talk to Dumbledore — or anyone about the time turner yet. They didn’t want the old coot to die, so Draco had suggested that Potter tell Sirius a lie that he had a vision of Dumbledore dying after wearing a cursed ring. 

Potter didn’t like the idea, but Granger and Draco had outvoted him and he relented. It was the best option after all. Potter would reach out via an enchanted two-way mirror he and Sirius both owned, and leave it to his cousin to warn Dumbledore.

“Aurey huh?” Draco fed Granger’s owl a treat and conjured a green ribbon on its leg, enchanted to rejuvenate the owl. He called for his house elf, Deek, to bring the owl to the family owlery. 

“Deek will do so immediately, Master.” The house elf said, guiding the owl to perch on his thin arm, “Mistress also says to remind Master Draco that tonight will be a formal dinner.” 

“How many guests are already here, Deek?” Draco asked.

Deek squirmed. “There are ten already in attendance, Master.”

“Thank you, Deek. I’ll prepare for dinner shortly.”

He cast an invisibility charm on the contents of the letter and kept it in one of the drawers in his desk. He would respond to Granger later. He took a deep breath and set the strongest walls his Occlumency would allow. For now, he would have to survive this dinner.

Chapter Text

Narcissa stood on the balcony, her hands resting on the iron rail. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the gardens below. China roses, French roses, Damask roses. Roses. Always roses. They had been planted generations ago by the Malfoy witches. She had added Black Baccaras to the gardens to continue the tradition. Their blooms were barely visible beneath the moonlight, like ghosts swaying in the wind. She let the cold brush against her skin, her silk dressing gown shifting with every gust.

Behind her, she heard the steady sound of footsteps. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Lucius always moved with the same unhurried certainty. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her into his chest, and his lips pressed lightly against her neck.

“Cissa, love. It’s done. The boy should be safe.”

She leaned back against him, though her heart was still tight. “Lucius. Thank you.” Her hand slid over his.

“I know how much you see that boy as a second son.”

Her throat burned. “Theodore is my godchild. Cynthia is gone. He is as good as mine.”

“I know, love.”

But did he? Did he truly understand the weight of it? Theo had grown up in their home almost as often as his own. He had sat at their table, shadowed Draco through the gardens, and followed him like a brother. She remembered Cynthia’s smile when she had asked Narcissa to be his godmother. The promise she had made that day burned within her still.

A few hours earlier, the peace of the Manor had shattered when the Floo roared and Nott Senior demanded entrance. The wards held. He had shouted, furious, demanding to see his son. She had been quick. She had vanished the traces of blood Theodore had left behind, the thin crimson line on the marble floor, then the soiled handkerchief in the parlor. No one must see weakness within these walls.

Lucius had given her a look, sharp and unspoken. She understood. She left him to deal with it, retreating to the parlor, her hands trembling even as she poured herself tea.

“What did you do to him?” Now she gripped his hand harder, “Show me?”

Lucius turned her gently, his hand sliding to the curve of her jaw as his lips claimed hers. What began as a soft press deepened with a hunger that made her body shiver. His mouth moved over hers with deliberate patience, drawing her in until she could feel his breath mingling with hers.

Narcissa parted for him, lips opening under the insistence of his tongue. The taste of him filled her. She tasted the faint bite of whiskey still clinging to his mouth, the familiar spice of clove he favored on his skin. She let out a quiet sound, one he swallowed greedily, his hand tightening at the small of her back to keep her pressed against the hard line of his chest.

And then, like a tide pulling her under, she felt the shift of his magic. His walls lowered, the cold precision of his Occlumency folding back at her touch. His magic threaded through the kiss, silvery and sharp, wrapping around her senses. Narcissa pressed closer, deepening the kiss, letting herself slip into him, into the memory he was offering. 

Her fingers curled into his robes as she entered the memory, her body trembling from the intensity of both the magic and the wizard holding her.

She saw it as clearly as if she had been in the room. She saw Nott Senior’s red face, demanding his son. Lucius’s calm voice denying it, his excuse that he had locked the Floo because he was spending private time with his wife. Nott Sr. was then ushered into the smoking room, his anger slowly soothed by the lure of Malfoy whiskey. Tippy had poured the drink with practiced hands, lacing it with a sleeping draught that slid down Nott’s throat unnoticed. Sleep followed, then the clean precision of Lucius’ Obliviate.

The story Lucius planted was perfect. Theodore had not been injured on a Muggle hunt. He had not bled across Malfoy marble. He had spent the summer away, in the company of Draco, at the Zabini vineyards, far from his father’s rage.

The memory dissolved, and Narcissa pulled back, whispering, “What about the Dark Lord? Has he summoned yet?”

“Not yet. But I expect it soon.”

Her chest grew heavy. “Must we offer our home, Lucius? Must it be here? You could refuse the bidding. No one would fault us.” She looked up, pleading, knowing he could read every line of worry on her face.

“We’ve discussed this, love. It would be an honor to host him. If we do not offer, when we have the largest estate, what would it look like?”

She turned from him, pressing her palms flat against the rail.

Lucius loved her, she never doubted that. Their marriage had been arranged, yet within a few months of courtship, he had won her wounded, guarded heart. His heritage was faultless, his fortune was vast, his name revered, but it was his devotion that had undone her. Malfoy men adored their wives, and he had adored her indeed. He treated her like a queen within these walls. His only flaw was his insatiable hunger for power. It clouded him. It made him blind.

“Cissa,” his voice softened. “Please.”

“I need to think, Lucius.”

“You know another war is coming. We must be on the winning side. Hosting him will secure our future.” His arms trapped her against the rail, his breath steady by her ear.

Her anger burst through. “I do not wish to place our family in the hands of a half-blood who was defeated by a child barely out of the cradle!”

Lucius’s grip tightened. “That half-blood leads with the bloodline of Salazar Slytherin. His vision will keep our world untainted. We have prepared Draco for this from birth.”

She spun toward him, her eyes burning. “Prepared him for what he should never face! He is still a child!”

“Not for long. Two powerful bloodlines run through him. You have seen his magic. When he is of age, he will—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Lucius Malfoy.” Her voice shook. “Draco will not take the Mark.”

He stared back, his tone cold. “Narcissa, we must be on the right side.”

“I do not care what side is right,” she snapped. “I need you to be on mine !”

Tears pricked her eyes. She forced her voice steady. “I will go to Great Aunt Cassie’s chateau in France tomorrow. It’s the last Black property on my list that needs its wards strengthened. Circe knows we may need a safehouse soon.”

His arms dropped at last. “Cissa, please—”

“Good night, Lucius.” She kissed his cheek lightly, then walked back inside.

For the first time, she retired to the Lady’s Chamber. Normally, when they quarreled, Lucius would take his rest there. Tonight, she wanted the space. She sealed the door with her wand, locking herself away from him, and only then allowed her tears to fall.

How could he? How could he offer their home? They had survived the first war by a fragile thread, pardoned under the pretense of being Imperiused. Did he truly believe they would be spared if they lost once again? She loved him, but she could not follow him into another war. Not when Draco’s life and Theodore's depended on her. She would not lose another child. Not again.

Sleep claimed her at last, and in her dreams, her favorite girl appeared. Her long blond hair and bluish-grey eyes shone like mirrors.

“Please don’t cry, mum.”

It was a warm summer day when Narcissa arrived in Provins. The small town was still as charming as she remembered, its cobbled streets lined with medieval stone houses and overflowing flower boxes. Out of all the Black family’s ancestral homes, Great Aunt Cassiopeia’s French chateau had always been her favorite. In truth, it was everyone’s favorite. Once upon a time, this was where the Black cousins would be sent for the summer. It was the place where laughter echoed, and magic felt more like discovery than duty.

Great Aunt Cassie had never married. She was a wild soul who had lovers scattered across continents but never allowed herself to be tied down. She had travelled the world chasing every form of magic, gathering knowledge and power as though they were priceless jewels. Each summer, she welcomed the Black children here and shared her discoveries — light spells, dark spells, and even ones of her own creation. It was exhilarating, dangerous, and unforgettable.

As Narcissa reached the wrought iron gates, she pressed her palm to the cool metal and whispered, “By my blood, grant your Lady entry.”

The wards stirred instantly, humming with recognition. The gates creaked open, shutting firmly behind her. The change was immediate. The heavy summer heat thinned into a pleasant breeze, and the air within the wards was crisp and comfortable. Flowers along the path bloomed all at once, opening wide as if the house itself was sighing in welcome.

Her chest ached with memory. She could almost hear her Great aunt’s voice, demonstrating some new spell she had devised, her cousins gathered in awe. Andy and Bella always claimed the best seats, being the eldest, while she, Reggie, and Siri sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes wide.

To her right stood the old oak tree. She smiled faintly, running her eyes over the familiar trunk. Three feet up was the hollow where she once hid whenever Bella’s hexes became too cruel. She remembered curling up inside it, sulking, only to fall asleep. Siri had found her at dinner time, his hair full of leaves, laughing as he dragged her out. The thought tightened her chest. A flower bloomed suddenly near the roots of the oak, triggered by the spike of her magic. She crushed the thought at once, and the bloom shriveled.

Inside, the grand doors opened for her. She stepped into the main hall, the marble floor gleaming. The corridors were quiet, the chateau echoing with absence. With Bella and Siri locked away in Azkaban, Andy burned from the tapestry, and Reggie dead, the inheritance of this chateau specifically had passed swiftly and cleanly to her once their great aunt had passed. Guilt had pricked her at first, but she told herself it was right. Tradition gave the house to her, and she had kept it pristine.

The interior was everything a Black property should be, but her Great aunt had added her own flair. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows dressed with pale silk curtains. Chandeliers glittered in the halls, though their crystals were tinted faintly blue, charmed to soften the light. Rich carpets in shades of cream and green lined the floors, paired with carved wood furniture that spoke of old wealth yet managed warmth. For all its grandeur, the house had always felt lived in — elegant, yes, but never cold.

She walked through the corridors slowly, drinking in every detail, until she reached the sitting room. She did not linger. With a sharp crack, she apparated to the back garden.

There, beyond rows of hedges, stood the small mausoleum. Pale stone gleamed beneath the sun. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, the air cool and still. She conjured two bouquets, one of lilies for her Great aunt, and another smaller one for the grave beside it. She laid them down gently, murmuring a cleaning charm before brushing her fingers along the second headstone.

Her voice softened. “Darling, mum’s here.”

Every year, on the thirtieth of March, she came to see her angel. Even now, she could not bring herself to say her name aloud. It was too much, the grief still too sharp.

It was August now, yet her magic had been restless for months. The summer before Draco’s fifth year, she began feeling an insistent pull toward the Black estates. They were not due for ward reinforcement, yet the ache in her head only eased when she surrendered and travelled to each property, strengthening protections one by one. Since the Dark Lord’s return, the headaches had grown unbearable.

There were only two properties left to visit: Grimmauld Place and this chateau. Severus had once confided that after Sirius’s escape, the Order of the Phoenix had taken up residence in the old house. It had become their unspoken secret. She did not know why she chose to spare it from her list. Perhaps it was guilt, perhaps some lingering loyalty to the cousin she had once adored before blood and family pride tore them apart. Whatever the reason, she could not bring herself to visit. So she left it untouched, deliberately forgotten.

This chateau though, she had saved for last. Her favorite, and the resting place of her daughter.

“How are you, my angel? I heard your voice last night.” She brushed her fingers against the carved letters. “It has been so long since I’ve heard from you.”

She expected no answer. She never did. Once, long ago, she used to hear the girl’s voice in her dreams. It was always soft, sweet, and reassuring. The last time had been when she was pregnant with Draco. Since then, silence.

A gust of wind swept through the mausoleum, lifting her hair from her shoulders. Narcissa stilled. Magic throbbed in the air, pulling at her chest until her knees weakened. Then came the visions.

They assaulted her, sharp and merciless: Draco writhing in pain as the Dark Mark burned into his arm. Theodore’s coffin being lowered into the Malfoy crypt. Bella laughing madly as she tortured some nameless figure on the floor. Bella again, hexing Sirius as he fell into the veil.

The force of it drove Narcissa to her knees on the cold marble. She clutched her head, gasping, as the images shifted. Now she saw the chateau itself — its corridors, its rooms, as though she were walking inside. The vision carried her down the second-floor hallway, into a familiar room with an elmwood table. She saw her own wand lying there, and then the hidden door beyond it. A room she had not entered in a while.

The vision stopped. The wind died.

Her whole body trembled as she turned toward the chateau, her breath quick and shallow. With a crack, she apparated inside.

Narcissa stood before the room. The door looked as it always had, yet her magic thrummed insistently, pulling her closer. She placed her hand on the wood, whispering, “What are you trying to tell me?” She did not know if she addressed her daughter or the house itself. Perhaps both.

The hidden door opened under her touch, revealing the secret chamber. The room was lined with artifacts collected by the Blacks through centuries — objects of power, some cursed, some sacred. She remembered each one; Great Aunt Cassie had explained them all when she was a girl. She had always meant to show them to Draco when the time was right.

Her hand drifted over shelves and pedestals until a sudden, sharp pull in her chest made her stop. There, against the eastern wall, stood a tall glass case. She knew at once what it contained.

Her heartbeat quickened. She dispelled the wards one by one, unraveling the enchantments with a practiced hand. The final ward demanded blood, which she pressed without hesitation. The drawer slid open.

Narcissa’s vision blurred as she reached inside. The box was there, but it was empty.

Her breath caught, panic flooding her.

“No…”

She whispered diagnostic charms, one after another, her wand trembling. There was no breach. No trace of forced entry.

The air seemed to close in around her.

The time turner was gone.

Sirius nursed his afternoon tea in silence, the steaming cup balanced on his knee as he slouched in a chair that creaked whenever he shifted. He hated almost everything about this cursed house, yet his taste for proper tea remained one of the few remnants of his blasted upbringing that he hadn’t managed to kill. The habit clung, even after Azkaban.

Not that the tea helped calm him. His mind was too full of Harry pale and shaken in the mirror last night, whispering about Dumbledore dying to some cursed ring. Sirius had done what he always did: brushed it off with a joke, tried to sound steady. But the second Harry’s face disappeared, he’d written to Dumbledore in a hurry. Now he waited, every tick of the clock grating against his skin.

He stood, pacing, the maroon bathrobe swishing at his ankles. He had always found the house too quiet. Too clean. Too wrong. It reeked faintly of gardenias, clinging to every corridor and curtain. The first time he’d come back home to Grimmauld Place, he’d nearly gagged on it. He hadn’t been able to sleep in his old room, not with that smell suffocating him. Too many ghosts pressed in with it, ghosts he refused to name. He had slept downstairs on the sofa instead, jaw tight, pretending it was Kreacher’s way of spiting him. Pretending it was nothing more.

A knock jarred him from his thoughts. The wards stirred, familiar magic brushing against the edges. Sirius muttered a curse and yanked the door open.

“Severus,” he said flatly. “What do I owe the displeasure?”

“Black,” Snape replied, his voice dripping with contempt. “Believe me, it’s a displeasure indeed.”

Sirius stood aside with a mock bow. “By all means then, let’s suffer together.”

Snape entered, but didn’t sit. He hovered, eyes sharp yet restless, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Odd. The bastard looked uneasy. Sirius’s curiosity sparked despite himself. Had Dumbledore sent him? Was this about Harry?

“The suspense is killing me, Severus,” Sirius snapped. “Is this from Dumbledore?”

“No.” Snape’s gaze swept the room. “Is anyone else here?”

Not Order business then. Sirius folded his arms. “No. What is this about?”

“It’s Cissa.”

The name dropped like a curse. Sirius’s hand tightened on his teacup before he set it down deliberately, refusing to let Snape see the way his chest jolted. Anger rushed in to smother it.

“What about my dear cousin?” he sneered. His voice came out sharp.

“She needs help.”

Sirius barked a laugh. “She needs help,” he repeated, his drawl venomous.

“Yes,” Snape said. He hesitated, as though weighing how much to reveal. “She is currently in my home. She refuses to eat, drink, or sleep. She’s seeing visions.”

A cold twist coiled in Sirius’s gut before he could stop it. He shoved it down with a scoff. “Then call her Death Eater husband.”

Snape’s mask cracked. He ran a hand through his lank hair with an exasperated sigh. “Do you think I haven't thought of that? She begged me not to. I even offered to contact Andromeda, but she only cried and refused.”

Sirius froze. Begged? Narcissa didn’t beg.

“What happened?” he demanded, voice sharper than he intended.

“She arrived at my home two nights ago,” Snape said slowly. “She was delirious. The last thing she managed to say before collapsing was, ‘Don’t call Lucius.’ Since then, she has done little but cry and plead for the visions to stop.”

Sirius’s stomach churned. He hated the image forming in his head, hated that he could picture it so vividly — her pale, undone, begging. He forced his face blank, refusing to betray the crack.

“I understand my cousin needs help,” Sirius snapped, “but why drag me into this?”

“Her visions are… disturbing.” Snape’s voice dropped. “Last night, she cried until dawn, begging me to make them stop. I attempted Legilimency. What I saw was you being attacked by Bellatrix and falling through the Veil, then Draco wailing as he was being forced to get the Mark. It was a constant loop.”

For a moment, his throat closed. Fuck. He swallowed hard, anger rising to shield him. “And what do you expect me to do? I’m a shit Legilimens.”

“I am out of options,” Snape said grimly. “She has been in my house for three days. If I don’t return her to her husband soon, he will notice. If Lucius finds her like that, he will tear through her mind. Merlin knows what secrets that witch holds.”

Sirius’s jaw clenched. “What are you getting at?”

Snape met his eyes steadily. “Do you wonder why this house still stands so strongly? All the Black estates are tied to her. She is the official Black Family Warder.”

Sirius furrowed his brows. He had always believed Reggie was the family Warder. That had been the story, the expectation. Had it changed since his death?

“How could it be her?” His voice cracked sharper than he liked.

“I don’t pretend to understand your family’s bizarre magic,” Snape said. “But when she came of age, the gift settled in her. She has reinforced the wards for years... until you returned.”

The explanation hit harder than it should. The smell of gardenias. The house, polished, too alive, too warm when he returned. It hadn’t been Kreacher at all. His chest tightened, bile rising.

“And you knew?!” His voice thundered. “You let her meddle in my home? That compromises the Order! We’ll need to—”

“She knew from the beginning,” Snape cut across smoothly. “She never told Lucius. She swore silence to me as well.”

Sirius’s breath stuttered, though rage kept his words sharp. “Why in Godric’s name would she keep that secret? She sided with them!”

Snape said nothing. Just watched him, patient, waiting.

But Sirius knew. Deep down, in the pit of his chest, he knew why she had done it. Why she had kept Grimmauld safe, why she had never breathed a word. He knew, and he despised that knowledge. He despised how it hollowed him out even as it twisted tight inside.

“It’s not my place to explain,” Snape said at last, his tone cool. “That is something you will have to hear from her.”

Spinner’s End was exactly the kind of pit Sirius expected Snape to crawl into. The outside was dreary brick row houses, all identical, lined with narrow, smoke-stained chimneys. The street stank faintly of soot and stagnant water from the canal. The sort of place that leeched colour out of a man.

Inside was no better. Cramped walls pressed in, lined with dust-coated shelves stuffed with yellowing books and jars of foul ingredients. A low ceiling, dim light, furniture so worn it looked older than either of them. Sirius hated it instantly. It was a place for someone who wanted to disappear, and, Merlin, it had Snape written all over it.

Sirius raised his Occlumency shields as high as he could while Severus ushered him through. He was no Legilimens, never had the patience for it, but when it came to barricading his own mind, Azkaban had taught him well. Godric, he needed the strongest walls when it came to her.

Snape pushed open a door and stepped inside, leaving Sirius in the corridor. That’s when he heard her.

Her voice was ragged, cracked from hours of crying.

“How could you bring him here?! They’ll find him in my mind and kill him!”

Sirius’s chest tightened despite himself. Fuck. He hated that sound.

Snape’s voice was smooth and calm. “Cissa, I don’t know how else I could help you.”

“He can’t help me! He left me, Sev! We hate each other.”

Sirius almost laughed bitterly. At least that much was true. They did hate each other.

“Choose, Cissa,” Snape pressed. “It’s either you talk to Sirius sodding Black, or I call your husband.”

That pulled a chuckle from Sirius, low and humourless. “Good one, Severus,” he muttered.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Narcissa’s voice cracked again. “You promised!”

“I did no such thing,” Snape said coldly. “Now, I’ll leave you here and find what I can about your visions. I need you steady when I return.”

Heavy silence followed. Then the door opened, and Snape brushed past Sirius without so much as a glance. Sirius caught the faintest sneer on his lips before he vanished down the hall. Bastard.

The smell hit him before he even stepped into the room. Gardenias. Overpowering, suffocating, clinging to the whole room. It punched the air from his lungs, dragged up memories he’d sworn never to touch again. He cursed under his breath and shoved the door closed.

She was curled up on the bed, wrapped in blankets like a cocoon. Her hair was tangled, her eyes swollen red, the proud society mask stripped away. She was the picture of ruin. The Narcissa Bla—Malfoy splashed across the Prophet was nowhere to be found.

And fuck, it hurt to see her like this.

His Occlumency cracked the moment his eyes landed on her. It always did with her. He hated it.

“Cissy…” His throat rasped.

Her eyes flicked up. “You don’t get to call me that anymore,” she croaked.

Bitch. Fine. He clenched his jaw. “Cousin, then.”

Silence. Brilliant. Babysitting the ice queen while Snape played hero. He dragged a chair beside the bed and sat, staring at her wreck of a face.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Siri.”

The nickname sliced deeper than he wanted to admit. “You don’t get to call me that either,” he snapped.

“You’ll always be Siri,” she whispered.

His teeth ground together. He wanted to leave, storm out of this suffocating house, find a new safehouse for the Order, then burn every scrap of memory she still had in him. Maybe he’ll ask Dumbledore to obliviate him.

But his magic betrayed him. The longer he sat here, the steadier it felt. Seeing her, hearing her, even in this state, eased something raw inside him. He loathed it. He loathed her for it. He loathed himself more.

He sighed sharply and shifted, perching on the bed beside her. They faced the wall, not each other. That was easier. His magic hummed at the nearness anyway.

“Cissy,” he muttered. She turned, lips parting, but he cut her off. “Sev said you’ve been having visions.”

She curled tighter behind him. “It’s still going on,” she whispered. “It’s not stopping.”

“Bella killing me and Draco taking the Mark?” he asked flatly.

A small nod against the pillow.

“How did it start?”

Her voice cracked. “Lucius and I fought.”

Sirius barked a hollow laugh. “Trouble in paradise?” He crossed his arms, a sharp smile plastered on his face.

Her breath shuddered. “He wants to offer our home to that monster. He wants Draco to take the Mark. After the first war… he promised me no more.”

That shut him up. He turned his head just enough to catch her sobbing into the blanket. His chest pulled tight, but he stayed still, silent. Until her cries deepened, shaking her whole body, her fingers clutching at her hair as if she could rip the visions out herself.

“Help me,” she wailed. “Please… it hurts…”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Sirius yanked the blanket off her head. Her face was wrecked, eyes wild. Instinct overrode anger. He cupped her face with both hands, rough palms against her trembling skin.

“Cissy. Look at me. Focus.”

Her eyes darted, glazed with tears. “Siri… she killed you, again.”

“Shh. I’m here. I’m alive. She didn’t kill me.”

“They’ll take Draco next,” she sobbed. “I can’t lose him… You all left me… I don’t have anyone left…”

The words gutted him. His hands clenched against her skin before he realized. He hated himself for the sting behind his eyes. Hated that her voice still found the boy he used to be.

And then he made the mistake of grabbing her hand. It had been years — more than a decade — since he last held it, but the spark of their magic surging together was unmistakable. She gasped softly, and he knew she felt it too. The bond hadn’t withered. Of all the witches in the world, it had to be her.

Once, he’d been grateful for that pull. Now, it felt like chains.

She writhed with another wave of pain, crushing his hand in hers. He sat there helpless, torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to let her break. A voice in his head spat that she deserved this, that she chose her path. But another softer, traitorous voice whispered that he still needed to shield her. That she was still his.

Minutes crawled by until finally her cries dulled into harsh breaths.

“Water,” she croaked. 

Sirius let go of her hand, and he felt the loss immediately. He grabbed the empty glass of water on the side table,  conjured water with a flick of Aguamenti, and shoved the glass toward her. 

“Sit up, love,” he had said. The petname burned on his tongue. It was instinct, years of habit resurfacing without permission. He prayed she hadn’t noticed. If she had, she gave no sign.

She drained the glass in silence, hands trembling faintly. When she set it back down, her fingers lingered at the rim, delicate even in her ruin. Sirius caught himself watching the way her thumb traced the condensation, and he cursed inwardly. What the hell was he doing, sitting here, letting her unravel him?

“Thank you,” she murmured, voice softer now, almost fragile. 

Her eyes flicked downward, not at his face, but at his hand resting against his knee. He knew the look. 

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and extended his hand. She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers slid into his, cool and familiar, and the rush of magic surged between them again. It thrummed like a heartbeat, ancient and intimate, as though no years had passed at all. Sirius bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. He should have pulled away. He didn’t.

“I didn’t think I’d feel your magic again,” she whispered, gazing down at their entwined hands. “It’s… strange.”

“Strange is a light way of putting it,” he muttered. Strange wasn’t strong enough. It was dangerous. It was a bloody curse.

Her grip tightened. “I don’t know what to do, Siri. Can I still trust you?”

He hated the way she said his nickname. He clenched his jaw, his instinct screaming to lash out, to remind her she forfeited the right to call him that. Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing steel into his voice. “Doesn’t seem like you’ve got many other options. You don’t want your Death Eater husband sniffing around, and Snape’s out of ideas. That leaves me. So talk.”

Her eyes glossed again, but she nodded. She stared at their hands for a long moment, as if the sight of their joined fingers gave her the courage to speak. “The visions started the summer before Draco’s fifth year,” she said quietly. “Lucius had been meeting with the others, and I began seeing… flashes. Small at first. Bella laughing in the manor. The Potter boy flying on Thestrals with his classmates. You… breaking out of Azkaban in your other form.”

Sirius’s chest tightened, but he kept his expression sharp.

“I told myself I was only anxious. That I was imagining things.” She shook her head faintly, blonde hair brushing her cheek. “Then one day, Lucius told me that the Azkaban wards were broken. Bella and the other Death Eater prisoners were freed by the Dark Lord. After that, my visions only grew stronger. My magic turned restless, pulling me to the Black family properties. I checked every one throughout the year. Strengthened every ward.”

“Every one,” Sirius repeated flatly. “Except Grimmauld.”

Her gaze flicked to him, lingering. “Yes, and Great Aunt Cassie’s chateau.”

He didn’t ask why she’d left Grimmauld untouched. He already bloody knew, though the knowledge twisted his gut. She must have seen it in his eyes, because she pressed her free hand lightly over their joined ones. “Severus probably told you. I won’t betray your home’s location. I’d swear it if you wished.”

His jaw ached from the force of his teeth grinding together. “Why?” The word scraped out colder than he felt.

Her eyes softened, unbearably so. “You know why. But I don’t think we should open up that part of our past.” She squeezed his hand again, as if to seal the subject shut. “Find a new safehouse if you must. But Grimmauld will remain unplottable, unless your Secret Keeper is compromised… or another Warder rises to challenge me.”

He forced his voice to stay cold. “And what if you’re the one compromised?”

For the first time that night, the corner of her mouth curved. A smirk that was faint, tired, but still distinctly hers. “I am the Black Family Warder. The family wards bend for me, not against me. Anything tied to those is permanently shielded from intrusion. Legilimency is useless against me when it comes to the wards. Bella could rip my mind apart and still find nothing about the estates I protect.” She tilted her chin, the smirk darkening with something that almost looked like pride. “Even in my state right now, I know the family magic will keep them safe. Sev is worried about my Occlumency being broken though, that my family magic might break too if this doesn't get remedied.”  

Sirius scoffed, but his chest twisted. He wanted to gnaw his arm free like a hound caught in a bear trap, put space between them, crush whatever remnants of old affection still clawed at his ribs. But he didn’t move. His hand stayed, bound by memory and magic alike.

“Go on then,” he said roughly.

Her lashes lowered, shadowing her expression. “The last property was the Chateau in France. When I reached the chateau, the visions assaulted me. They drew me to Great Aunt Cassie’s old artifact room. And there… I found one of her treasures missing.”

Sirius frowned. “Which?”

Her lips trembled. “The Blood Time Turner.”

Ice slid down his spine. He remembered it, vaguely. That was their Great aunt’s proudest acquisition, protected under more wards than the family vaults. “The one from her parents?”

She nodded, eyes glistening. “The same one. I warded it heavier than anything else. Yet the case was empty. No sign of tampering. Just… gone.” Her voice faltered, then softened. “I’m also concerned that the chain it hung on was gone too.”

Sirius’s brow furrowed. “Chain?”

Her throat worked, and she brushed a lock of hair behind her ear in that nervous tic he remembered all too well. “A month before my wedding to Lucius, I was having second thoughts. I spent that time with Great Aunt Cassie. She gave me that time turner as a wedding gift. I… just wanted to move on… so I transfigured the bracelet you gave me into a chain for the time turner. Something symbolic, I guess.”  

The air left his lungs. He felt the room tilt, his grip slackening before she caught his hand tighter. Memories surged… the courtship bracelet, her smile when he clasped it on her wrist, the promises that had rotted in their wake. His gut twisted violently.

“You needed closure,” he muttered, voice like broken glass.

Her eyes shone, guilt and pain mingling. “Yes.”

For a moment, he wanted to scream at her, to spit that she didn’t deserve closure, that she made her bed and deserved to lie in it. But the words lodged behind his teeth. He forced his face blank, forced the conversation back into safer ground. “So someone’s walked off with the time turner. That’s what’s causing this mess?”

Her eyes filled. “I think so. And the chain matters, Siri. If the time turner had been taken by someone from before I ever owned it, the chain should have been left in the case. But it wasn’t. Both are gone.”

The implication hit him like a stunner. His grip slackened before she caught his hand tighter.

“You know how that time turner works,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I’m scared of what it could mean. Who I could have given it to. The visions are horrible. What if I gave it to the wrong hands?”

He very much did. It was a time turner where you travel to a place in time and replace yourself. Only one can exist at a time in each timeline. If the time turner in Great Aunt Cassie’s case is gone, that had meant someone with the same time turner had traveled here and is currently holding the artifact.

Sirius swore under his breath, dragging his free hand through his hair. His pulse hammered, his mind racing through every dangerous possibility. If Cissy from another timeline had given it to someone dangerous like Bella or Lucius… then the impending war was as good as lost.

“After that, the visions only got worse. I saw Bella torturing nameless victims. The Dark Lord feeding muggles to his snake. You falling into the Veil, over and over. Lucius offering Draco to be branded with the Mark.” She hesitated, trembling. “Dumbledore wearing a cursed ring. Severus trying to heal him.”

That made Sirius still completely. He remembered Harry’s warning. The cursed ring. It aligned too closely to dismiss.

He rubbed a hand down his face, swearing under his breath. “Bloody hell, Cissy…”

“I’m scared, Siri,” she whispered. “What if these visions belong to the time traveler? What if they’re showing me another timeline bleeding into ours? I can’t bear to watch Draco being dragged into another war. And you…” Her voice cracked. “Merlin knows how much I fucking hate you. I do. But it’s tearing me apart, watching you die again and again.”

Her body sagged, forehead pressing against his shoulder. Her tears seeped hot through the thin fabric of his robe. Sirius sat rigid, his free hand curled into a tight fist, fury and longing tearing through him in equal measure.

Narcissa had two more vision attacks before Severus returned. Sirius sat uncomfortably on the mattress, watching her curl and writhe like some broken thing while he was useless beside her. He hated it. Hated her for putting him in this position, hated himself for not walking out the door the moment Severus had asked. Yet here he was.

The door creaked open, and Severus swept in, the picture of sullen composure with a satchel of clinking phials dangling from his hand. The room already reeked faintly of gardenias; now the sharp tang of potion ingredients joined it, metallic and sour.

“Are those what I think they are?” Narcissa’s voice was hoarse, cracked from crying, but recognition lit her expression as her eyes fell on the bag.

“What are those?” Sirius asked, suspicion curling his brows.

“Emotional suppressants,” Severus replied, voice flat as parchment. He crouched beside the bed, drawing out a phial as if he were handling something fragile. “You’ll need to take one every twelve hours until we find a way to control the visions. Think of it as Occlumency in liquid form. A cousin to Dreamless Sleep.”

Sirius gestured sharply at the bag. “That seems excessive. You bringing a bloody arsenal?”

Snape ignored him, gaze fixed on Narcissa. “Cissa is well used to it. Her Occlumency is fractured at the moment, these won’t block the visions entirely, but they will dull them. Make them bearable. Although…” his mouth curled faintly, “it has been over a decade since you’ve used these, hasn’t it? How many bags were there before the wedding, Cissa?”

Sirius’s brows shot up, something ugly curling in his gut. He looked sharply at her, but she snapped first.

“You’d do well to keep your mouth shut, Sev.” Her voice carried venom, but her hand trembled as she released Sirius’s.

“And yet, you still crawl back to my home for help,” Snape drawled, unbothered. “You are an exhausting friend to have.”

Sirius nearly barked a laugh at that. Narcissa had always been a handful.

Snape produced a larger phial from the bag and handed it to her. “This is the first dose. Drink.”

Narcissa uncorked it, pressed it to her lips, and swallowed it without question. A wince contorted her face as the taste hit. “What the fuck, Sev!”

The corner of Sirius’s mouth twitched. That tone. It was the same one she’d once used on him when he’d snuck firewhisky into her cup during one of his mother’s summer dinners. For one sickening heartbeat, it almost felt like the years hadn’t happened.

Snape, of course, was unmoved. “That contains the same base ingredients as the rest of the batch. With the addition of a strong dose of Veritaserum.”

Sirius blinked. Impressed despite himself. The bastard had nerve.

Her eyes went wide, fury snapping through her voice. “How dare you drug me!”

“Nothing personal,” Severus said smoothly. “Slytherin practicality. Now—” he leaned in slightly, tone sharpening, “tell me. Have you revealed the location of Grimmauld Place to the Dark Lord or any of his allies? Do you plan to?”

“I told you!” she snarled, back stiff, eyes blazing. “I’ve only ever told you. I have not told anyone else! And I won’t!”

“Are everything you told me and Sirius about your visions and the time turner true?”

“Yes! All of it!” The words burst out of her mouth without hesitation.

“Did Lucius offer the manor to the Dark Lord?”

Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. I begged him not to. I pleaded. But I know him. He would. He said if he didn’t, it would look weak for the Malfoys.”

Sirius snorted bitterly. Exactly the sort of answer he expected. Severus gave a curt nod, satisfied.

“Any questions you’d like to add, Black?” Snape asked, voice smooth as silk, but there was something mocking in it.

Merlin, he had a hundred. Too many. Questions that clawed at his throat, old memories he refused to exhume. Questions about them. About her. About the past. He bit them back like poison. That chapter was closed. Dead. Best left buried.

“No,” he said flatly.

He heard her sigh in relief, soft and almost grateful. A mirror of his own unspoken one. She didn’t want that past dragged into the light any more than he did. Mutual silence, for once, they were on the same side.

Snape inclined his head. “Very well. As an apology for drugging you, Narcissa, I will grant you one favor. Anything you ask.”

She went still, contemplative. Then her gaze flickered first to Severus, then to Sirius. Sirius braced instinctively. And then she nodded.

“I want an Unbreakable Vow.”

Both men stiffened.

Her voice trembled only slightly as she spoke the words. “That you will protect Draco and Theodore, to the best of your capabilities. Whether they take the Mark or not. That if I die, you will stand by them as godfather. In turn, you may also add that I will not reveal the location of Grimmauld Place and its connection to the Order to anyone.”

And then her eyes, luminous and sharp despite the exhaustion, slid toward Sirius. “Siri will be the witness.”

Still always so demanding, this witch. He masked it with a scoff, but his hands felt unsteady as Severus extended his arm.

“Very well,” Snape said coldly.

Narcissa clasped his forearm. Sirius muttered the incantation, his wand raised. Golden threads wrapped around their joined arms, binding the vow. Light glowed and seared the room.

Chapter Text

The tension at the Burrow had been building like storm clouds for days, and tonight it felt ready to break. From the moment Hermione arrived five days ago, she had known that it wouldn’t be easy. She had prepared herself for the conversations she needed to have with Ron and Ginny.

She had rehearsed her words, softened them in her mind so that they wouldn’t sound like betrayal, and told herself over and over again that she was doing the right thing by finally telling them the truth — part of it anyway.

When the moment came, she had told them everything outside the bounds of the Unbreakable Vow. She and Harry had laid out the whole tangled story, starting from the Astronomy Tower, the duel with Umbridge, the plan to search for the Horcruxes, their journey to Italy, and saving Theo using Draco's family magic.

Ginny had been silent, her face pale, her eyes wide with shock. It was not the anger that hurt Hermione, but the deep disappointment in her friend’s gaze. Ginny’s silence was heavy, almost crushing, and Hermione could feel it pressing down on her chest.

Ron, on the other hand, had exploded in a way she had expected but still dreaded. He had shouted, his voice carrying through the walls, accusing her of betrayal, of stupidity, of choosing snakes over friends. His words had struck harder than she thought they would, not because she did not expect them, but because they were aimed so directly at her character.

I thought you were smart, Hermione! How could you trust those snakes?

That was the moment the shouting match had started in earnest. Harry had tried to stand between them, but even he couldn’t stop it. Ginny had joined in when her questions began to circle too close to the Time Turner. Hermione and Harry revealed that they had an Unbreakable Vow with Draco, and therefore, there were things they couldn’t tell them, which had only added fuel to the fire.

It had been Tonks’ knock on the door, announcing dinner, that finally broke them apart. Silencing charms had spared everyone from hearing the shouting, but it didn’t spare Hermione’s headache.

We’ll continue this later, Ginny had said sharply before they had gone down.

Dinner was no reprieve. The long table in the Weasley garden was crowded, the warm summer air carrying the smoke of the grill and the hum of insects beneath the lantern light. Conversations overlapped in uneven waves, but Hermione couldn't concentrate on any of them.

Bill had proudly announced his engagement to Fleur, and instead of joy, there had been a visible split across the table. Molly’s smile had cracked around the edges, Arthur’s comment had been politely cautious, and Fleur had carried on as if there were no tension present, her silver hair shining and her French accent rolling easily through her endless wedding plans.

Hermione barely touched her food. She could feel the weight of Ginny’s silence across the table, see Harry’s hollow eyes and Ron’s stubborn scowl as he shoved food into his mouth. The air felt stifling, the table a battlefield without wands drawn.

Then came the owl.

A shadow swept across the lantern light. Argentum. Draco’s eagle owl was unmistakable, wings catching the glow as it descended. Her heart leapt into her throat. The bird landed on the table with practiced elegance and dropped a package in front of her plate. She reached out with careful hands, stroking its feathers, giving it a piece of steak as thanks. Argentum clicked his beak and lifted off again into the night.

The silence that followed was sharper than any knife.

A loud clatter of cutlery broke it. Ron’s fork hit his plate, and his face twisted in fury. “Tell me that’s not who I think it was from, Hermione.”

There was no denying it. Everyone at Hogwarts knew Draco Malfoy’s owl.

“What is it, dear? Who is it from?” Molly asked, her brows furrowed in concern.

Ron shoved back his chair, rising to his feet. “It’s from Draco sodding Malfoy.”

Hermione felt every eye at the table turn toward her. The judgment was palpable, the suspicion heavy from the eyes around the table. It pressed against her chest until she could barely breathe.

“Ron, not now,” she said quietly. “Ginny already said we could talk about this later.”

“No. I’m not waiting anymore.” His voice rose, shaking with anger. “Really, Hermione? Malfoy? He bullied you for years. He called you a Mudblood! His father is a Death Eater who nearly killed my sister, and you’re sitting here feeding his bloody owl steak like it’s your pet!”

“Draco is not his father!” she shot back, her hands shaking as she gripped the edge of the table. “I told you already. He’s changed.”

“Oh, different, is he?” Ron sneered. “One year of forced proximity and suddenly you’re his greatest defender? You’ve formed some new cozy club with him and the rest of those Slytherins?”

“If you forgot, Ron, he saved your father in the Ministry.” Hermione shot back.

Ron gave a harsh laugh. “And you think that wasn’t a trick? A neat little way to get your trust? You’re supposed to be the clever one, Hermione, but maybe you’re easier to fool than we thought. Or maybe you’re just dazzled because someone finally looked at you like you’re more than a walking textbook.”

“Ron!” Harry pushed back his chair, his voice cutting through, but Ron barely heard him.

Hermione’s chest burned with fury. “How dare you!”

“And your new owl,” Ron went on, his voice bitter, his finger stabbing the air toward her. “That was a gift, wasn’t it? Malfoy gets his own private way to write to you. Isn’t that convenient?”

Hermione’s hand tightened on her wand beneath the table. 

“Stop, Ron. This is not the place.” Harry warned in a low tone.

“No. You need to hear it.” His voice shook with rage. “Even if he’s changed, do you honestly think he’d leave their Dark Lord’s side for you? Do you think he’d abandon his mansion, his status, his pureblood pride for you, a Muggleborn?”

Her heart clenched painfully, but she forced herself to hold her chin high. “You don’t know anything about him!”

“What? Did I strike a nerve?” His voice rose, harsh in the night. “Would Narcissa Malfoy approve of her son’s little mudblood friend? Or would she burn her son right off the Black family tapestry without a second thought?”

The table gasped, forks frozen mid-air.

The words sliced straight through her. The tears she had been holding back finally spilled, hot and stinging. “Stop!” she cried, her voice shaking as it echoed through the garden. “Just stop, Ron!”

The table had gone completely still. Ron stood breathing hard, his face red and furious, while she trembled where she sat.

Hermione wiped at her cheeks, forcing herself to meet his gaze even as her voice quavered. “Draco is my friend. You don’t have to like it, Ron, but you don’t get to twist it either. He was cruel to me because he was raised in his father’s shadow, poisoned by ideals he never chose. He’s trying!”

She took a shaking breath. “The part of him that still knows kindness, that fights against that darkness — that comes from his mother. So don’t you dare reduce him to Lucius’ son. He is also Narcissa’s, and that makes all the difference.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, but she refused to look away from him. Then, before anyone could stop her, she stood, turned on her heel, and fled into the house, her tears blurring the golden light of the Burrow’s lanterns.

Hermione's feet carried her blindly back into the Weasleys’ home until she collapsed onto the wooden floorboards of one of the small upstairs rooms. Her chest was tight, and tears spilled down faster than she could wipe them away. She drew her knees up and buried her face, trying to steady herself, but the sting of Ron’s words still echoed. 

He had cut her down in front of everyone, questioned her loyalty, and questioned her intelligence. Worse, she had defended Narcissa as if she had any right to speak of her at all. As if she knew her. In this timeline, Narcissa Malfoy would likely sneer at her existence, yet Hermione couldn't bring herself to let anyone speak ill of her. 

She had known another Narcissa, one who had become their second mother, the one who comforted them when they felt broken, the one who had been the reason Hermione still believed in second chances.

Narcissa was one of the main reasons she had come back.

She tried to slow her breathing, forcing herself to swallow the ache in her throat, when the door creaked open.

“Hey, kid.” Sirius’s voice was softer than she expected. He leaned against the frame, knocking gently before stepping in. “You alright?”

Hermione sniffed and rubbed at her eyes, knowing she was blotchy and red. “Not really. I half thought Harry would follow first.” She forced a little smile that wobbled at the corners.

“He will. He’s just cooling off,” Sirius said, dropping into a crouch near her. “Punched Ron square in the nose for you, though.” His mouth curled into a grin.

Hermione startled upright. “Oh no, Harry!” She moved to stand, but Sirius held out a hand.

“Better leave them to it. They’ll be fine. Boys will be boys, and all that.” His tone was laced with weary amusement.

She leaned back against the wall, hugging her knees tighter. “Merlin, Ron is such an arse. I meant what I said though. Draco's changed. He’s still insufferably arrogant, still as smug as ever… but he’s a good person. I’ve seen it.”

Sirius’s eyebrows rose, and he gave a low chuckle. “We all heard you. You defended him — and his mother — quite fiercely.”

Hermione froze, heat rising to her face. That last part had slipped, hadn’t it?

“I… It’s just… he talks about her constantly. His mother, I mean. He admires her, and I think that’s where the better part of him comes from. His father taught him cruelty. But his mother gave him something else. That matters.”

Sirius studied her for a long moment before moving himself onto the worn sofa across the room. His eyes were sharp, though not unkind. “Ron was a prat, no doubt. But he wasn’t entirely wrong either, Hermione. You can’t trust them.”

Her back stiffened. She met his gaze squarely, though her eyes were still damp. “If you had told me that two years ago, I would have agreed with you. But he's given me reasons to trust him, and I won’t throw that away.”

“You speak as if you want to save him.” Sirius’s voice had softened, but there was something heavy there too.

Her throat tightened. “And if I do? Is that wrong?”

“Not wrong,” Sirius said quietly, his eyes shadowed. “But you should know…sometimes you can’t save someone who doesn’t want saving.”

His words struck deep. She knew exactly what he was speaking of. Regulus. She thought of Narcissa in her timeline, speaking fondly of summers spent with Sirius, Regulus, and her sisters, of laughter in corridors that had since grown cold. She knew he had regrets about not being able to save Regulus from the darkness. It made him wonder if he felt the same way about Narcissa. 

Her voice was careful when she asked, “Sirius… were you close with her? With Narcissa, I mean. Would she really disown Draco for being friends with me?”

Sirius blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, his mouth twisted, as if fighting something unspoken. Then he gave a low huff. “Yes, we were close as children. And no, she would never cast Draco off. She loves that boy more than her own pride. She’d do everything in her power to stop… whatever this is between you and him, of course. But blast him from the tapestry? No.” His grin turned sly. “Besides, she always did like playing the perfect ice queen.”

Hermione let out a small laugh despite herself, though her chest still hurt.

The door opened again, and Harry slipped in with Andromeda at his side.

“Harry!” Hermione bolted up, hugging him tightly, then smacking his shoulder. “You punched him!”

“I did,” Harry admitted with a tired sigh, though a smirk tugged at his lips. “I’m not proud, but it felt bloody brilliant. He was unbearable.”

Andromeda’s eyes softened as she came forward. “How are you feeling, dear?”

Hermione steadied herself, brushing the last of her tears away. “Better. Sirius and I were just talking about Narcissa.”

That startled Andromeda. Her gaze flicked toward Sirius before she nodded slowly. “Ah. Well… Draco. I understand that you believe he has changed, my dear.”  She cupped Hermione’s cheek with gentle fingers. “But be cautious. I love my sister, I do. But she’s made her choice.” 

The words stung. Hermione thought of the family before her — Sirius, Andromeda — those who had been burned away from their family for walking their own path. And then Narcissa, who had stayed behind in the gilded cage, shackled by her parents’ vision of blood and legacy. Hermione’s heart ached.

“I will,” she whispered. “I’ll be careful.”

Harry slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Hermione. As weird as it is, I support your secret love affair with Malfoy.” He smirked.

Her head snapped toward him. “What? Harry, no! I told Sirius and everyone outside that Draco and I are  just friends.”

Harry grinned mischievously. “Just friends don’t go traipsing around wizarding Italy together. And don’t forget what happened in Zabini’s room.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Harry James Potter, you will shut your mouth right this instant—”

“Or else what?” He leaned back smugly.

She narrowed her eyes, searching for the best comeback, then smirked. “Or else I tell everyone what you and Zabini were saying last week after far too much wine. About your little crush on Narcissa and Blaise’s mother.”

Harry’s face drained of all colour. Sirius nearly doubled over with laughter, while Andromeda’s hand flew to her mouth.

Hermione grinned now, recounting, “You were wine drunk. Malfoy and I were walking back to the gazebo, and we heard you boys talking. And I quote,” She cleared her throat. “Zabini, your mum’s fit… but Malfoy’s mum takes the cake, 1000 points to Slytherin!” 

She raised a brow. “Then, Theo answered Narcissa is an angel amongst us mortals. If Uncle Lucy dies in the war, I’m sure Blaise would line up to be Draco’s stepdad. Then you all clinked your glasses together. I had to pull Draco away from hexing you three.”

The room erupted with laughter. Harry groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, his ears blazing red. “Merlin, kill me now.”

“Wine does loosen tongues,” Sirius wheezed.

Andromeda was wiping tears of mirth. “It has been too long since I laughed like this. Sirius, do you remember Hogwarts?”

“I do,” Sirius managed, grinning. “Though, who do you think won the contest?”

“I think it was me,” Andromeda recalled, “everyone was too scared of Bella.”

“What contest?” Hermione asked, still catching her breath.

Andromeda smiled wistfully. “When we were still at Hogwarts, Cissa drew endless attention. She was bombarded with letters, gifts, and constant admirers. Bella and I had to keep them away as per our parents' instructions. So we made a game of it — whoever confiscated the most letters at the end of every week won a hundred galleons.”

Sirius barked a laugh. “Regulus and I joined in. Every summer at Aunt Cassie’s chateau, we’d set fire to the whole pile. Glorious bonfires.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “That’s… mad.”

Hermione’s heart twisted. “So she never even read them?”

Andromeda’s expression softened. “Not a single one. At first, it broke her heart. But by her third year, she stopped fighting us. By then, she had embraced the role our parents carved for her. And when I left after graduation, I fear she got too used to it. She never truly dated, as far as I know. I was just surprised one day when I read the Prophet, she was already married to Lucius.”

Sirius’s gaze drifted to the window, distant, unreadable.

Andromeda sighed, her voice quieter now. “I loved her dearly, and I still do. But as I said… she’s made her choice.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, chest heavy. She thought of Narcissa again, not the untouchable Black daughter, not Lucius’ wife, but the witch who had lied to Voldemort, the one who had chosen to guide them through the rubble of war. That was the Narcissa she knew, the one she wanted to protect.

Hermione sat on her bed, the parcel opened in front of her like a guilty secret. She turned the ribbon over in her hands, maroon silk catching the lamplight. The quiet hum of the Burrow pressed around her. There were distant voices drifting from the kitchen and the occasional floorboard creak above, but here it was just her, the ribbon, and the weight of everything unsaid.

Ginny slipped into their shared room, closing the door with a soft thud. Her eyes flicked to the ribbon, then to Hermione. “So. What did the ferret give you?” Her tone was sharp, but not quite venomous. More like she was forcing the question out to fill the space between them.

Hermione cleared her throat, fingers smoothing the fabric as though it might explain itself. “It’s for Aurey. I told him once that my parents never let me have an owl, because they hated cleaning up after it. Draco said his owl had a ribbon enchanted to clean droppings instantly. So he sent me one.” Her words trailed off, awkward and small, as she held the thing up like proof of her own foolishness.

Ginny’s face didn't soften. She crossed her arms. “I’m still angry at you.”

“I know.” Hermione’s voice broke around the edges.

Ginny shifted, eyes suddenly glassy. “I’m still trying to understand it all. I get why you kept things secret. But a whole year, Hermione? Did it have to be that long?”

Hermione’s own eyes blurred again. She reached out instinctively, only for Ginny to pull away. That rejection stung sharper than Ron’s shouting had.

“What hurts most,” Ginny pressed on, her voice wavering, “is that Malfoy had the guts to tell his friends the moment he could. He didn’t hide it. I expected more from you. You’re supposed to be my sister.”

“You are my sister.” Hermione’s voice cracked. “You are, Ginny. I’m so sorry.”

“Then why?” Ginny whispered.

Hermione pressed her palms to her face, voice muffled and thick. “I don’t have an excuse. I overthink everything. I ran through a hundred scenarios in my head, all the ways I could tell you and Ron, and none of them seemed good enough. By the time I thought I was ready, the year had already passed. And by then… it felt too late.”

Ginny shook her head. “That’s not how friendship works, Hermione. You don’t have to rehearse life. You just live it. You’ve been carrying too much alone. If Harry hadn’t been there — Merlin, you would have been drowning.”

Hermione knew Ginny was right. She'd had the same fight with Harry early in the year, and she'd done it again. She nodded through her tears. “Will you forgive me?”

“I already have.” Ginny sighed, her shoulders loosening. “I just need time. Promise me you won’t shut me out again. Anything outside that vow of yours — I want to know.”

Hermione nodded fiercely, relief spilling through her. They fell into each other’s arms, clinging as though the argument could be erased if they held tight enough.

“You and Harry were reckless,” Ginny muttered into her shoulder. “But Ron was a complete prat. He owes you a proper apology. He’ll come round.”

“I hope so.” Hermione sniffled. “I don’t expect him to be friends with them.”

“He’s jealous.” Ginny leaned back with a knowing look.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ginny, I don’t see him like that. He’s like a brother.”

“If you say so.” Ginny’s lips curved. “Malfoy, then?”

Hermione groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “Merlin.”

Ginny laughed softly. “Tell me about Italy. The good bits. I don’t want another dark story tonight.”

Hermione peeked at her through her fingers. “Well… Zabini wants to date you.”

“What?” Ginny’s eyes went wide, and the tension cracked into laughter between them. They talked long into the night, weaving from silly to serious and back again, until exhaustion blurred the edges of their hurt. Hermione lay awake afterward, guilt gnawing at her. 

Ginny deserved better than half-truths. So did Ron. She would speak with Harry and Draco soon. If anyone else had the right to know about the Time Turner, it was the two Weasleys who had stood by them through everything.

The next day, Hermione found herself outside with Molly, sleeves rolled up as they tugged stubborn gnomes from the garden. The sun was warm on her back, and the smell of damp earth clung to her hands. She found herself missing Crookshanks — he would have cleared the place in half the time — but he was content at Hogwarts, and Hagrid promised to look after him.

When a flurry of wings approached, she perked up. Two tawny owls swooped down, dropping envelopes into Molly’s hands. Hermione’s heart sank when she recognised the Hogwarts seal. Not Argentum.

Sodding Draco. Who the hell sends gifts without a note? Was it a pureblood thing? Hermione itched to find a book on pureblood customs. Maybe she was overthinking it. He could at least send a bloody note that he was safe.

Molly shuffled through the letters and handed Hermione hers with a smile. “You alright, dear?”

Hermione forced one of her own. “I’m fine. Just… a little rattled after last night.”

Molly cupped her cheek. “Ronald was out of line. Arthur gave him a scolding he won’t forget. Andromeda and Sirius already spoke with you, so I won’t add much more. I know you’re careful.”

Hermione’s throat tightened with gratitude. “Thank you, Molly. Ginny and I made up last night.”

“She loves you like a sister,” Molly said warmly.

“She is my sister,” Hermione whispered, brushing a tear away.

The moment was interrupted by a cough. Ron stood a few paces away, Harry and Ginny hovering behind him. Molly narrowed her eyes at her son before excusing herself with a pointed glance.

Ron shoved his hands into his pockets, shifting from foot to foot. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Hermione folded her arms.

Ron shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunched as though he wanted to disappear into the garden soil. “I… erm… look, Hermione. About last night.” He shifted his weight, scratched his neck, then stared at the grass as if it held the right words. “I went too far. I shouldn’t have yelled at you in front of everyone, and I definitely shouldn’t have said half the things I did. It was—well, it was bloody awful of me.”

Hermione kept her arms crossed, waiting.

Ron blew out a breath. “It’s just… It’s always been the three of us, hasn’t it? You, me, and Harry. And then last year the rumors started — you, Malfoy, and Nott — and I thought, no, that can’t be right. But it was. And then last night you lay it all out, all these things you’ve been keeping, and it felt like you’d shut me out. Like I wasn’t part of it anymore. I felt like some… some idiot on the outside looking in. And I hated it. And I let that hate turn into me shouting like a prat.”

He paused, swallowed, then pressed on in a rush. “I don’t like Malfoy, alright? I’ll probably never like him. But that doesn’t excuse what I said about you, or your choices, or his mother. That was out of line. I was angry, but it wasn’t fair. You’re still Hermione. Our Hermione. And I should’ve trusted you to know what you’re doing. So… yeah. I’m sorry. I was a proper git. Will you forgive me?”

Hermione exhaled slowly, the sharp edges of her anger softening. She had already forgiven him in her heart, but hearing him stumble through the words, tripping over his pride — it mattered. He was trying.

“Of course I forgive you,” she said softly. “I should never have kept you in the dark for so long. Don’t blame Harry — it was me holding him back.”

Ron shook his head quickly. “I’m not mad at him for that. I’m still sore where he socked me, though.” He glared at Harry half-heartedly.

“You deserved it,” Harry muttered with a grin.

“I did.” Ron cracked his lopsided smile, awkward but genuine. “So… we’re good, Mione?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled him into a hug. “We’re good. Just work on that temper of yours.”

“I’ll try,” Ron mumbled into her shoulder. Then he pulled back, smirking despite himself. “Just don’t go snogging Malfoy in front of me.”

“There is no snogging!” Hermione huffed, stepping back. Harry’s mouth twitched, as though another quip threatened to spill, but he wisely kept it in…for a moment.

“I’m just saying,” Ron added. “Harry said you tackled him on Zabini's bed.”

“HARRY!” Hermione spun on him, scandal colouring her cheeks.

Harry lifted his hands in mock innocence. “What? No more secrets!” He ducked behind Ginny, who broke into laughter.

Hermione groaned, but despite herself, the knot in her chest loosened. Things between them were not perfect, but they were mending. That was enough for now.

Hermione sat with the others at the scrubbed wooden table in the Burrow’s kitchen, the morning light streaming through crooked curtains and catching the dust motes that hovered lazily in the air. Their Hogwarts letters lay spread before them, parchment and envelopes scattered amongst mugs of pumpkin juice and crumbs from Molly’s endless breakfast platters.

Ron and Ginny were grinning ear to ear, their new prefect badges gleaming in the light. Hermione forced a smile as they held them up, basking in Molly’s delighted fussing. She pulled her own letter closer, brows furrowing as her eyes skimmed the neat handwriting.

Her chest tightened. No badge.

She read it again, heart sinking lower with every line.

Dear Miss Granger,

Congratulations once again on your excellent standing. Your diligence and curiosity have long impressed both myself and the faculty. As we discussed in June, you have been selected to join a new course of study, Ancient Studies, a subject rarely offered at Hogwarts but one that I believe you are uniquely suited to pursue.

Because this course will demand much of your time, we have decided to relieve you of prefect duties. This choice is not a reflection of your abilities, but rather to allow you to focus fully on this new path. I trust you will see it not as a loss, but as an opportunity to apply your considerable talents where they will matter most.

Enclosed are two lists: your standard Sixth Year requirements and the additional items for Ancient Studies. The password for the latter is Dirigible Plums.

I look forward to seeing all that you will accomplish.

Yours sincerely,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Her arms crossed defensively over her chest as she dropped the parchment onto the table. “They didn’t make me a prefect because of this new subject.”

Ron slung an arm around her shoulder, his badge catching the light with irritating smugness. “Aww, don’t be sour, Mione. You get to be in an exclusive class with Dumbledore. That’s practically better than a shiny badge.”

Hermione knew he meant well, but the words pinched anyway. Prefect had been a post she had been proud of achieving in her fifth year, a symbol of her hard work and diligence. To have it brushed aside — yes, for a unique opportunity, but still — made her stomach twist.

She pressed her lips together, pretending it didn’t sting as much as it did. At least it freed her schedule, more time for Horcrux research and planning. That was the rational way to look at it.

Yet she couldn’t stop herself from wondering if Draco would be as irritated as she was. He had always valued recognition, even if he cloaked it behind arrogance. If only he would bloody owl her back. The silence made her more furious than comforted, even after he’d sent the enchanted ribbon for Aurey.

Harry nudged her with his letter. “Looks like I’m in it too.”

She blinked in surprise, quickly scanning his parchment. It made sense — Harry had a knack for intuitive magic, even if he downplayed it. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that Dumbledore had his own motives, watching Harry closer, tightening the leash.

“That’s brilliant, Harry,” she said warmly, masking her unease. “Did you look at the book list yet?”

Harry scratched his ear, looking sheepish. “Not exactly.”

Hermione fought the urge to scold. She noticed Ron making a face at his own list and wisely decided not to push. They had only just patched things up earlier, and she didn’t want to tug the thread loose again by making him feel like the odd one out.

Instead, she fixed Harry with a pointed look. “You haven’t told us yet what happened when Dumbledore fetched you from Privet Drive.”

Harry cleared his throat, a flicker of understanding passing between them. “He thanked me for warning him about the vision of the ring. He wasn’t wearing it when he arrived. He said he destroyed the Horcrux at Hogwarts. But it caused some… side effects.”

Ginny leaned forward, her brow furrowing. “What kind of side effects?”

“Magical anomalies, he said. Minor things. The house point hourglasses shattered, some of the bells in the clock tower fell, odd stuff like that. He brushed it off as nothing the staff couldn’t handle.” Harry took a long sip of pumpkin juice, as if that could wash down his unease.

Hermione frowned. She had no memory of that happening before — or if it had, it hadn’t reached them. Another ripple in the timeline. Another reminder that their path was shifting.

Harry continued, “After that, we went to visit some wizard named Horace Slughorn. Dumbledore said if he saw me, he’d agree to take the Potions post.”

“And if Slughorn takes Potions, then what does Snape get saddled with?” Ron asked through a mouthful of toast.

Hermione answered too quickly. “Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

The two Weasleys and Harry stared at her. Her cheeks burned. Shit.

“I mean… it makes the most sense,” she amended hurriedly, trying to hide her slip. “There’s no other subject open.”

Ron grimaced. “Merlin, help us all. Snape teaching Defense? That post is cursed enough already.”

Hermione stirred her tea with her spoon, mind already racing. Snape. Another person they had to rope in. 

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley

“Thank you for your purchase. I look forward to your next visit, Ms. Granger.” Mr. Ulias carefully handed Hermione the stack of books she had chosen.

“Thank you, Mr. Ulias.” She passed him the galleons, tapped her wand to reduce the pile to a neat bundle, and slipped it carefully into her satchel. The familiar weight settled against her hip, oddly comforting.

Outside, she could already see Ron, Harry, and Ginny waiting. They were loitering by the shop front, clearly restless, though Hermione knew by now this was their routine. She would linger longer than necessary, running her fingers along the spines and debating the usefulness of each title, while the others waited with varying degrees of patience.

As she pushed open the door, the bell chiming above her, their voices floated toward her.

“I heard Percy saying the other night that Cornelius Fudge stepped down from being Minister,” Harry was murmuring, eyes fixed on the moving front page at the newspaper stand. “He’s been replaced by Rufus Scrimgeour.”

“They’re probably keeping it quiet, but it was obvious the Wizengamot sacked him after Dumbledore fought You-Know-Who at the Ministry,” Ginny added in a low voice.

“Scrimgeour looks like a prick,” Ron muttered, scrunching his nose at the animated image of the grizzled man glaring out from the Prophet.

Hermione slowed as she joined them, her brows knitting together. Scrimgeour. She remembered him all too well. In her other timeline, he had been killed by Voldemort himself, paving the way for Pius Thicknesse to rule under the Imperius curse.

While he was clearly on the side of the light, she had never trusted him. He wore the mantle of respectability but treated Harry as a pawn, demanding loyalty without offering honesty. He had wanted to turn Harry into the Ministry’s poster boy, a symbol for a war they did not know how to fight.

Harry had refused then, stubbornly clinging to Dumbledore, but Hermione knew neither of them had truly been safe in either wizard’s hands. Scrimgeour and Dumbledore both would sacrifice anything, even Harry, if it meant victory.

She exhaled slowly, forcing the thought away.

“Hermione, you’re finally done!” Ginny slipped her arm through hers with a bright smile, tugging her gently.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” Hermione said, returning the smile. “Harry and I need to stop by Borgin and Burkes for the extra class materials.”

“Isn’t that in Knockturn Alley?” Ron frowned, suspicion written all over his face. “What in Merlin’s name do you need from there?”

“It only says it’s a package. Probably books,” Hermione replied lightly, though she swallowed hard. She hoped it was just books.

They began walking down the crowded street, weaving past shoppers and the chatter of bartering voices. The smell of roasted chestnuts mingled with the sharp tang of ink and parchment from the stalls. Hermione was scanning the street when a familiar flash of pale hair caught her eye.

Her heart leapt. Draco.

He was striding across the road with Theo and Blaise at his side. Before her mind could catch up, her feet were moving, quickening into a half-run.

“Malfoy!” she called out.

He turned at the sound of her voice. For a suspended moment, it felt like time itself slowed, then she collided with him, arms thrown around his neck. To her relief, he caught her easily, the familiar scent of spearmint and faint cologne enveloping her.

“Granger…” his voice was quiet, a little stunned.

Reality rushed back. Remembering where they stood — in the middle of Diagon Alley, for Merlin’s sake — she pulled back quickly, but his hands lingered at the small of her back, reluctant to let go.

“Hi. I missed you,” she admitted, looking up into his tired grey eyes.

“Did you?” A faint smile tugged at his lips, though the weariness beneath it unsettled her. He looked resigned, almost like he was carrying the weight of something unspoken. His Occlumency walls were down, which meant this was genuine. He was simply exhausted. From what, she worried.

“Where’s my hug?” Theo demanded, arms crossed in mock offense.

Before she could answer, Blaise slung an arm over her shoulder with a dramatic sigh. Hermione laughed, but her gaze flicked back to Draco, still noting that quiet heaviness in his posture.

The Gryffindors finally caught up.

“Potter!” Theo cried out, sprinting the last steps toward Harry. He spread his arms wide in exaggerated imitation of Hermione’s earlier leap. Harry blinked, startled, then laughed awkwardly as Theo wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck. 

“Er—hi, Theo,” Harry said, patting him stiffly.

“I did not run like that,” Hermione protested, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, you did,” Blaise countered at once.

“You absolutely did,” Ginny added, lips twitching.

“This is disgusting,” Ron muttered, wrinkling his nose as if the whole scene personally offended him.

Theo only grinned wider. He tilted Harry’s chin towards him with theatrical care, smirked, and planted a loud, exaggerated kiss on Harry’s cheek. Hermione’s best friend froze, crimson flooding his face.

“That, Hermione, is what your reunion was missing,” Theo announced smoothly, withdrawing his hand from Harry’s chest with a slow flourish. "Take notes."

Harry seemed utterly stunned, still rooted to the spot.

“Mate, I think you broke the Chosen One,” Blaise said, laughter spilling out of him.

“Harry, mate, you alright?” Ron leaned in, shaking his shoulder.

Everyone burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the bustling street, drawing curious looks from passing witches and wizards.

The bell above the door gave a hollow clang as they stepped into Borgin and Burkes. The shop smelled faintly of mildew and dust, every surface crowded with cursed artifacts and tarnished trinkets that seemed to watch them as they passed. Mr. Borgin looked up from behind the counter, his narrow eyes sweeping over the group with sharp suspicion, lips curling as if he had just bitten into something foul.

Ron wandered to the nearest display, curiosity instantly outweighing caution. His hand brushed against a strange, withered-looking lantern.

“Yeow!” he yelped as the Hand of Glory clamped down on his wrist with a vicious snap.

“Oy! Be careful with the merchandise, boy!” Borgin barked, his voice sharp and rasping.

Harry let out a snicker as Ron jerked his hand back, massaging his wrist furiously. “Stupid, bloody hand,” Ron muttered darkly under his breath.

Hermione, Harry, and Draco stepped up to the counter. Hermione cleared her throat and forced her tone into something polite but firm.

“We were sent here by Headmaster Dumbledore to purchase school items for our subject,” she said carefully.

Borgin’s gaze swept her from head to toe with clear disdain, and his mouth twisted into something cruel.

“I’ve always found it disgraceful that Hogwarts accepted mud—”

Hermione’s blood boiled, her wand hand twitching, but Draco’s voice cut in before she could open her mouth.

“Mr. Borgin,” Draco drawled smoothly, every word sharp as glass. “My friend did not ask for your opinion. She asked for the school items required by our Headmaster for our special subject.”

There was steel in his tone that made Hermione’s chest tighten. Borgin’s lip curled, but he faltered, giving a short, derisive scoff.

“Very well. Password?”

“Dirigible Plums,” Hermione said crisply, lifting her chin.

“Pickled Tangerines,” Harry added, his mouth twitching as though he could barely restrain himself.

“Curry-flavoured tarts,” Draco supplied, his voice flat with boredom.

Borgin checked an enchanted ledger with a flick of his wand. Three small wooden boxes appeared on the counter, no larger than their palms, clearly reducio’d with magic. Hermione took hers, letting it slip into her satchel among her other purchases.

“How much?” she asked.

“No charge,” Borgin sneered. “They’re paid for by Hogwarts.” His voice lowered into a mutter, dripping with venom. “Imagine our taxes being used to prop up an institution that coddles mudbloods.”

The words sliced through Hermione, but Harry reacted before she could. He surged forward, fists gripping Borgin’s collar and yanking the man half across the counter.

“Take that back, you bigoted arse,” Harry snarled.

“Harry!” Ginny snapped, rushing closer.

Ron and Theo pulled at Harry’s arm, trying to steady him, though their eyes burned with fury. “Let it go, mate,” Ron muttered through clenched teeth.

Reluctantly, Harry released him, though his fists still trembled with rage.

Borgin straightened his collar, a wheezing cackle escaping his throat. “Going to hex me, are you? Dumbledore holding your hand to keep you safe, oh chosen one?”

Harry tensed again, ready to lunge, but Draco stepped in front of him, blocking the path with a cold, deliberate ease.

“Mr. Borgin,” Draco said softly, his tone lethal in its restraint. “Do not forget — the only reason this shop still stands is because my family graciously allows it. Don’t forget who this land belongs to.” His eyes narrowed, every syllable laced with the haughty venom of his father. “It would not be wise to disappoint the landlord’s friends.”

A shiver ran through Hermione despite herself. This was the Draco Malfoy she had hated for years, the heir of privilege, wielding his family’s power like a weapon. And yet, now, he turned that blade outward to defend her and her friends. The contradiction made her throat tighten, heat rising unbidden to her cheeks.

“Friends?” Borgin spat. “You call blood traitors and a mu—”

Before he could finish, Draco’s hand darted to the counter display. In one motion, he seized an enchanted dagger and drove it point-first into the wooden counter, the blade quivering as it lodged deep into the counter between Borgin’s splayed fingers.

The entire room went silent.

“I think you should learn to choose your words more carefully, Borgin,” Draco murmured, eyes glinting with icy malice. He released the hilt, leaving the knife wedged deep in the wood. “I will be of age very soon. And this land is my birthright. I can strip it from you in an instant if I so choose.”

Borgin’s face was drained of colour. His breath came shallow and quick, and a bead of sweat rolled down his wrinkled forehead.

Draco’s voice was calm, almost bored, when he finally added, “Do try to remember that.”

Then, with effortless composure, he turned away, brushing his hand lightly against the small of Hermione’s back.

“Let’s go,” he said, and without another word, the group filed out into the busy street, leaving Borgin frozen behind the counter, his hand trembling inches from the knife still buried in the wood.

“Of course Draco had to be dramatic and use a knife to traumatise the old man,” Blaise laughed, the sound carrying easily over the chatter of the street.

“Oh shut up. It was the closest thing I could do without using my wand,” Draco scoffed, though there was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that betrayed a hint of satisfaction.

“Drama should be Draco’s middle name,” Ginny said sharply, folding her arms.

Everyone turned to her. Ginny raised her brows in defiance, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “What? He called us his friends. That gives me the right to use his name now.” The redhead winked at Hermione.

Draco’s smirk widened, slow and deliberate. “Very well then…Ginevra,” he said, dragging out every syllable with aristocratic precision.

Ron and Harry immediately burst out laughing, the kind of rough, unrestrained cackling that drew the stares of passersby.

“Shut up, you two!” Ginny snapped, cheeks pink. “It’s Ginny, unless you want me to call you ferret instead.”

Draco tilted his head, looking like he might take the challenge, but before the exchange could escalate further, they slipped into the warmth of the Three Broomsticks. Hermione caught Madam Rosmerta’s expression as soon as she saw them — her brows arched in mild surprise.

It wasn’t the Slytherins she was startled by; Rosmerta had always liked them, Hermione could tell. Draco carried himself with aristocratic ease, Blaise with his polished charm, Theo with his smooth smile, and Rosmerta seemed more than accustomed to their visits. What gave her pause was the sight of them arriving together with Gryffindors, side by side as though there were no lines drawn between them at all.

Hermione watched Theo lean in, whispering something to Rosmerta that earned one of her quick, amused smiles. Rosmerta’s shoulders relaxed, and she gave the group a knowing look before ushering them to a private booth tucked in the back, out of range of the curious stares already following them.

“Whose turn is it?” Theo asked once they were settled.

“It’s mine,” Draco answered at once, folding his arms as though this were a weighty decision. “Butterbeer for the witches and firewhiskey for the wizards?”

“How assuming of you. What if I wanted a firewhiskey too?” Ginny shot back, smirking across the table.

Blaise’s gaze lit up, amusement written all over his face. He reached smoothly for her hand and brushed his lips over her fingers with a flourish. “Are you certain, Ginevra? I would hate to be the one who sends you home tipsy.”

“Hey! None of that!” Ron swatted Ginny’s hand back and glared at Zabini. “Absolutely none!” He turned to his sister, pointing a finger for emphasis. “And you are not getting a firewhiskey.”

“I can handle myself, thank you,” Ginny snapped, arms crossed and eyes blazing.

“Oh, don’t be a spoiled sport, Weasley,” Theo chuckled. “Draco always carries Sober-Up Potions. Let your sister enjoy herself.”

Ron groaned and dropped back against his chair. “Fine. Just Merlin, Ginny, I didn’t even know you’d tried firewhiskey before.”

“I haven’t,” Ginny said brightly. “It’s my first time.”

Draco snorted and nudged Hermione with his shoulder before sliding out of his seat. “Come on then,” he murmured, jerking his head toward the bar.

Hermione hesitated, then rose to follow. She knew the others would tease them for sneaking off together, but she didn’t care. She needed to talk to him anyway, and if she left it until September, she would only drive herself mad with worry.

Draco gave their orders to Madam Rosmerta, waiting with his usual cool posture, hands tucked into his pockets. Hermione bit her lip, debating how to begin. The silence pressed on her, the clinking of glasses and low hum of conversations filling the gap. She told herself she would just wait until the train, maybe send another owl, but the words burst out of her anyway.

“You didn’t answer my owls,” she said quietly.

His head turned at once, eyes widening slightly. Then he sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. “Sorry.”

That was it? Just sorry?

“Draco Malfoy,” she hissed, frustration clawing at her throat, “if you don’t explain right now what the hell is going on, I swear I am going to lose it. I’ve sent you owl after owl because I was worried, and when I finally ask you face to face, the best you can manage is sorry? That’s the most un-Malfoy response you could possibly give me.”

His lips twitched, and then to her complete shock, he laughed. Properly laughed. His grey eyes were shadowed with fatigue, dark circles etched beneath them, but he still laughed at her indignation.

Her anger melted in an instant, dissolving into reluctant amusement. She found herself laughing too, even as her chest felt tight.

“So,” she said once she could breathe again, “are you going to explain?”

“I’m just tired,” Draco admitted, voice quiet now. His gaze dipped toward where her eyes were looking. She realised with a start that he had caught her staring at his arm, her eyes burning with the fear she had carried for days. She could feel tears threatening to spill. He reached out, his long fingers tilting her chin upward so she could not look away.

“You can stop worrying,” he said firmly. “I don’t have it. Please don’t cry.”

The sincerity in his grey eyes nearly undid her. Her throat closed and she pressed her palms to her face, muffling a half-laugh, half-sob. “I’m sorry for pushing. You could have owled me.”

“I couldn’t. I was occluding constantly. It was draining, and I didn’t have the energy for anything else.”

That explained the shadows beneath his eyes, the weight in his posture. Hermione swallowed, guilt twisting in her chest.

“I don’t have it,” he repeated, glancing down at his arm. “But he’s there. He comes to the Manor. There’s a bidding between the families over who will host him. But he meets there regularly. Summer couldn’t end fast enough.” His voice cracked slightly at the end, and he exhaled as though he’d been holding it in for weeks.

Hermione pulled the charmed galleon from her pocket and pressed it into his hand. Draco turned it over, running his thumb across its surface. His brows lifted.

“Protean charm?” he asked, smirking faintly.

“How did you know?” Hermione tilted her head.

“I felt it. Ever since Italy, my magic has been… more active.”

“Oh.” Her mind whirred. “Tell me more about it soon? Umm, the galleons, it’s just you, Harry, and me. We can use it to meet when we’re back at Hogwarts.”

Draco nodded and slipped the galleon into his pocket just as Madam Rosmerta arrived with their drinks. Hermione easily levitated the trays with a flick of her wand. With a wandless wave, Draco guided them back toward the booth, floating the glasses with ease.

The conversation in the booth was livelier than Hermione had expected. For once, the lines between Gryffindor and Slytherin seemed to dissolve beneath the clatter of glasses and the warm hum of conversation. The topic hopped easily from Quidditch — where she was hopelessly out of her depth, since every single one of them except her played for their house team — to grades, where Draco endured a round of merciless teasing after Harry and Ron reminded him that Hermione had bested him yet again.

“Tragic,” Theo lamented in a deep, theatrical voice, throwing himself back against the bench. “All that Malfoy pride and still outscored by a Gryffindor.”

Blaise snorted into his drink, and even Ginny smirked.

“Oh shut it, Theo,” Draco drawled, but Hermione caught the twitch of his lips, the restrained smile he tried to hide behind his glass.

When the laughter died down, Theo launched into an exaggerated retelling of Umbridge’s downfall in the Headmaster’s office, his gestures so flamboyant that Harry nearly choked on his Firewhiskey. By the time Harry jumped in, recounting how they dragged Umbridge’s limp form to the forest and nearly dropped her twice, everyone was laughing so hard that their sides ached.

Hermione realized hours had slipped by, the table littered with empty Butterbeer mugs and a few abandoned glasses of Firewhiskey.

It was then that she felt it. A brush of fingers at the edge of her hand under the table. Her eyes flicked sideways. Draco, lounging beside her with the same aristocratic ease he always carried, was leaning ever so slightly closer, his pale lashes lowered as though he were listening intently to Harry’s story. Yet his hand inched toward hers with unhurried precision, as if he had all the time in the world.

At first, it was only the faintest brush, a whisper of contact at the edge of her hand where it rested against her lap. She stiffened, unsure if she had imagined it. He stopped moving, waiting for her consent. She didn't pull away.

Then his fingers began moving again, deliberate this time, tracing along her knuckles as though he were sketching invisible lines only she could feel. Her pulse thudded in her ears. She sat very still, fighting the urge to pull away and the stronger urge to lean closer.

He lingered, fingertips sliding over each of hers one by one, unhurried and maddening as if he were getting to know each of her fingers. Her breath grew shallow. It was only a touch, yet it felt illicit, intimate in a way that made her stomach coil with heat.

Draco never looked at her. He kept his gaze fixed on Theo’s theatrics, his face smooth, his posture lazy. 

She tried to focus on Harry laughing across from her, on Ginny teasing Ron, but Draco’s hand had already claimed her attention. His fingers slipped into her palm, exploring the delicate lines there, tracing slow circles that made her shiver. He dragged his cool ring against the soft skin of her wrist, and she nearly bit her lip through.

Her thighs pressed together beneath the table. Merlin, what was happening to her? It was only his hand, only his touch, and yet every stroke sent heat pooling low in her belly. She felt achingly aware of her own body, of the sharp contrast between the innocent laughter around them and the secret, sinful pressure of his fingers against hers.

Merlin, thank every star in the sky that she had moisturised her hands that morning. She would have died if they had been dry. The urge to laugh at herself hovered for a heartbeat, but it vanished the instant his touch changed again. 

His middle finger slipped deliberately into the soft web of skin between her fingers, stroking back and forth with slow pressure, a rhythm that made her stomach drop. His thumb dragged lazy circles over her palm, grounding her. Her head swam, and the sensations were too much. Every inch of her felt alive, every nerve lit with awareness.

She risked another glance at him. The faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him, subtle but deliberate, as if he knew precisely how undone she was becoming and relished every second of it.

She snatched his glass with her free hand, nearly knocking it over, and refilled it just for something to do. She took a long gulp, Firewhiskey burning down her throat, as if the heat could steady her. It didn’t.

“Hermione, are you okay?” Ginny’s voice cut through her haze.

Hermione stiffened. She tried to slip her hand away discreetly, but Draco tightened his grip. His fingers slid between hers, lacing firmly, deliberately, until their hands were entwined. She gasped, a small sound that she immediately regretted.

“I’m… fine,” she squeaked, her voice much higher than she’d intended.

Ginny tilted her head, suspicious. Harry’s brows furrowed. “I dunno, Hermione. You’re awfully red.”

Her smile wavered as Draco gave her hand the faintest squeeze beneath the table. The absolute nerve of him. “I said I’m fine, Harry,” she ground out through her teeth, forcing a bright expression onto her face. “It’s just a bit warm in here.”

Harry shrugged, seemingly satisfied, and turned back to Theo, who was now making dramatic hand gestures about centaurs with spears. Hermione tried to listen, but her thoughts were miles away. She was painfully aware of every inch of skin pressed to Draco’s, every teasing stroke of his thumb against the back of her hand, every secret pulse of heat that traveled up her arm.

Draco leaned back with calculated ease, his face the very image of nonchalance, as if his hand wasn’t hidden with hers at all. The faint smirk tugged again at his mouth, daring her to give him away.

What in Merlin’s name was this?

Malfoy Manor

After the eventful meet-up at Diagon Alley, Draco floo’d directly into his own bedroom. Normally, he would have travelled through the manor’s main floo room, but he wasn’t sure who was currently visiting. He wasn't about to risk stumbling into the parlour half-drunk only to be summoned by his father and his guests, or by that noseless monster for some impromptu meeting. He’d already given his spare sober-up potions to Ginevra and Granger, which felt like the right thing to do, even if it left his own head pleasantly fogged.

The wards hummed low and steady, no telltale ripples of visitors. Thank Salazar. He didn’t think he could bear to slam Occlumency walls back into place tonight. His mind was too frayed.

He shrugged off his coat and tossed it across the arm of the sofa, then peeled off his shirt and let it fall to the floor. The air was cool against his skin as he dropped onto the four-poster, limbs spread wide in exhaustion.

Ever since Italy, Draco’s magic had been unsettlingly active. It simmered beneath his skin as if it no longer belonged wholly to him, as though it was spilling out and demanding to be used. It reminded him of when he was five, when uncontained bursts of magic had flared uncontrollably at his fingertips. Only this was sharper, heavier, more insistent, and infinitely harder to restrain.

At the manor, it was nearly unbearable. The place was steeped in ancient wards, humming with centuries of his family’s power, and his own magic resonated with it far too eagerly. He had always known Malfoy Manor was sentient, but he had never realised how much until now. He felt its emotions now.

The wards recognised him, wrapping around him like a loyal beast, ushering him home with a whisper of welcome. His bedroom almost purred when he stepped inside, steeped in smug satisfaction at its master’s return. Even the neglected corridors — the west wing with its shuttered windows, the long hall by the library — called out when he passed, restless, begging to be used again. It unsettled him as much as it strangely comforted him.

He had tried to siphon off the excess magic by flying. The wind had whipped across his face, his broom cutting sharp lines through the summer sky, and though it had helped a fraction, the weight of his magic had not abated.

On a restless afternoon, he’d marched to the fields several miles from the manor and loosed spell after spell into the open air, determined to burn through the pressure. His wand barely kept pace with him; sparks tore from its tip far more viciously than he intended. Frustrated, he abandoned the wand altogether, casting wandlessly in great, surging waves.

He had always been precise with this form of magic, his control something he prided himself on, but this time it was like grasping a storm. Every spell came stronger, harsher, his magic firing as though it had been waiting years to be unleashed. And though it was exhausting, though it left his muscles trembling, it also felt good.

Then the Dark Lord had arrived.

Draco could still recall the moment his mother caught his eye across the dining table, her hand poised on her wine glass, her expression calm but her gaze piercing. The look said everything.

I have prepared you for this, my dragon. Raise your walls. Protect yourself. And he had.

For the entire week, he held his Occlumency shields like iron bars, walling off every thought, every flicker of fear, every trace of defiance. It became a cycle. He allowed his magic to pour out to sustain those unyielding walls, only to surge back into him, filling him to bursting again.

The strain on his body had been brutal. His muscles felt taut, his skin hot, his veins burning as though the magic itself was forcing his body into constant use. Even when he collapsed into bed, sleep offered no peace. His magic would wake him, restless, pressing for release, pulling him back to consciousness. In desperation, he turned to Dreamless Sleep. The potions dulled it somewhat, though even then, he woke with the faint sensation of magic clawing at his insides, demanding more.

He rubbed his face with his right hand, trying to will away the tension, and froze when a faint, sweet scent clung to his palm. Peaches. 

Granger.

He cursed under his breath, but the sound was hollow. What in Merlin’s name had possessed him to toy with her hand like that? Firewhiskey, perhaps. Or the way his nerves had been strung tight all week, forced to live under the same roof as the Dark Lord, who stalked the halls of the manor with his predatory eyes, as though measuring every room for its potential to host carnage. The moment the Hogwarts owl had arrived, Draco had dragged Theo and Blaise to Diagon Alley just to breathe something that wasn’t poisoned air.

He hadn’t expected to see her there. He certainly hadn’t expected her to hurl herself into his arms recklessly. But she had. She was warm against him, soft, and carried that faint, maddening blend of parchment and peaches. She should have looked ordinary in her Muggle jeans, a maroon jumper, a mustard peacoat, her hair loose in wild curls that tumbled past her shoulders, that satchel tugging at her side as though weighed down with a small library.

Yet the sight of her stole his breath. She glowed with a quiet brilliance that drew his eyes and held them, as though her very presence pulled at his magic. She was radiant, beautiful, and utterly arresting. She looked perfect in a way that was anything but ordinary.

And then she’d looked up at him and said she missed him. Just like that… without hesitation. Her golden-brown eyes had shimmered with unshed tears when she admitted it. Merlin, he hadn’t known how much he’d needed to hear those words until they’d been spoken. He’d been drowning in silence all week, holding Occlumency shields like a lifeline, refusing to think or feel too much. But the moment she said it, he realised he’d missed her too.

He replayed her face at the Three Broomsticks, when she nearly cried again at the thought of him being branded. That worried, stubborn, lioness expression. She made him feel guilty for not answering her owls, guilty for leaving her in silence while she waited for word. And the way her laugh sounded: soft, radiant, and unguarded around their friends.

It had been impossible not to reach for her. His magic was aching for him to reach out, and before he knew it, his hand was searching for hers.

His hand still carried her warmth. The memory of her slender fingers tangled with his, her breath catching when his ring pressed to the inside of her wrist. She hadn’t pulled away. She had trembled, yes, thighs clenching, lips parting, but she hadn’t pulled away. Responsive. So damn responsive. He had to bite back a groan at the thought of it.

Draco lifted his hand to his face again, inhaling the faint trace of her on his skin, and a low chuckle escaped him. His cock was already straining against his trousers, hard and demanding, as though his body had been waiting for permission all along. He unfastened his belt, tugged down his zipper, and freed himself, hissing softly when his hand — her hand — closed around his length.

He moved slowly at first, deliberately, as though retracing every motion from earlier. His thumb circled the sensitive head, slicking the precum already leaking there, just as it had circled her palm. He let his middle finger slide along his shaft, imagining it pressing into the soft, wet heat of her, mimicking the way he had teased the delicate space between her fingers. Merlin, the way she had gasped at that. The thought made his hips buckle, his breath catch.

He imagined her sitting beside him at that booth, cheeks flushed, trying to pretend she wasn’t falling apart while he fingered her hand. Except in his head right now, he wasn’t teasing her palm — he was teasing her cunt, stroking slow and deep, coaxing every gasp, every whimper. She’d tighten around him, trembling, thighs clamped, nails digging into his wrist. She’d probably try to muffle her cries with that clever hand of hers, always too aware of being overheard. And he would take her apart anyway.

“Fuck…” he groaned, stroking harder now, faster, his chest rising and falling as his mind filled with the scent of peaches, the sound of her gasp, the heat of her gaze. His muscles tightened, every nerve on fire, and he spilled across his stomach with a strangled moan, shuddering with release.

For a long moment, he just lay there, catching his breath, his hand slick and still wrapped around himself. He glanced at his palm again, as if the memory of her touch still lingered there, and smirked tiredly. Granger. Bloody hell.

For the first time that week, he didn't need Dreamless Sleep.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts Train

“Mione, are you really sure about this?” Ron slouched miserably into the corner of the seat, legs sprawled and shoulders hunched. “I mean, Horcrux hunting with Malfoy and his lot? I can’t wrap my head around trusting them.”

Hermione kept her eyes on her satchel, hands busy rearranging books and parchment that never seemed to sit properly. “You didn’t seem to mind at the Three Broomsticks,” she said without looking up, her tone brisk.

Where did I put that bloody quill—

“That’s different.” Ron tore the wrapper off a chocolate frog with unnecessary violence, crammed it into his mouth, and was already reaching for another. “That was drinks, Hermione. Laughing, pretending. This is You-Know-Who. This is life and death. We don’t even usually tell Ginny and the family the details, and now suddenly we’re dragging Slytherins into the middle of it?”

Before he could rip open the second frog, it sprang from the packet and launched itself straight into Hermione’s bag. She squeaked, startled, and dove after it.

“You’ll have to live with it, Ron.” She snatched the frog, grabbed his hand, and pressed it into his palm with more force than was necessary. “They’re part of this now. We need to learn to work together. Plus, Harry and I have an Unbreakable Vow with Malfoy.”

Ron muttered something unintelligible, rolling his eyes in frustration.

The cabin door slid open. Harry stepped inside with Theo and Draco at his heels. Harry dropped onto the bench across from Ron, reached for a chocolate on the table, and the moment his fingers closed around it, Theo leaned over and plucked half of it for himself.

“Don’t you two have your own cabin?” Ron snapped, glaring at the Slytherins.

“Ron!” Hermione scolded, sharper than she meant to be.

Theo gave an unbothered smirk. “We did, but Blaise called dibs.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry asked, still holding the other half of his sweet.

“It means Blaise is in there… preoccupied with someone.” Theo made a performance of licking chocolate from his thumb after popping the bit into his mouth.

Harry looked scandalised, cheeks colouring as he realised Theo was staring him down while he licked his fingers. Honestly, Theo lived for theatrics. Hermione bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“All the other cabins were full,” Draco added lazily, as if explaining the obvious. “So we’ve ended up here.”

Harry coughed into his fist. “Right. Okay.”

“Who’s the unlucky witch?” Ron raised his brows, voice dripping with suspicion.

“Unlucky?” Theo’s grin spread. “I’d hardly say unlucky. Blaise has a reputation for taking very good care of his partners.”

“Disgusting.” Ron wrinkled his nose. “Mione, where’s Ginny anyway? Prefect induction for the fifth years should’ve been finished by now.”

"Oh, right. She should —" Hermione froze. Her eyes widened as the truth struck her. Blaise. Ginny. Oh my. She covered her already grinning mouth before she could stop herself.

“What’s with that look?” Ron asked. Then he glanced at Theo, at Draco, and the dawning horror on his face was almost comical. “No. Absolutely not.”

He shot to his feet. “You bastards!”

“Ron!” Hermione and Harry both shouted at once. Harry grabbed his shoulder, forcing him back.

“That’s my sister!” Ron barked, face red.

Hermione drew in a steadying breath. “Ron. Do you honestly think Ginny can’t handle herself?”

“That’s not the point!” His voice cracked with the effort of holding it back. “I trust her, but I don’t trust them.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t rise, but the warning in his voice was sharp as steel. “Watch yourself, Weasley. Blaise is a gentleman. He doesn’t cross boundaries uninvited.”

“Ron, mate,” Harry tried, his voice firm but calm. “It’s just like with Dean last year, yeah? Ginny can take care of herself. If Zabini tried anything she didn't like, she’d hex him before he blinked.”

Ron’s breathing was heavy, his jaw clenched tight. “If he hurts her,” he said, voice low and shaking, “she’s got six brothers who’ll come after you three.”

Theo leaned forward, clearly ready to retort, and Draco’s smirk flickered as though he’d quite like to say something cruel. Hermione stood quickly before the whole thing exploded.

“Enough. All of you.” She pushed Ron back down onto the bench and leveled a glare that had silenced the Gryffindor common room more than once. “Ronald, Harry's right. Ginny can look after herself.” Then she turned on the Slytherins, wand raised, “But hear me clearly. If Blaise hurts her, I’ll tie your precious pureblood cocks together so tightly you’ll be begging me to hand you over to her brothers instead.”

Draco’s mouth curved, that little smirk that always meant he was entertained even when he shouldn’t be. He folded his arms and stayed quiet.

Theo, however, leaned back with a grin, plucking another sweet from the table. “Feisty Granger. How delightful,” he said, tossing the sweet into his mouth with a wink. “Threat received, darling.”

The cabin was quiet for several minutes, only the hum of the train filling the silence, when Harry cleared his throat.

“Oh—I forgot to give you this.” He reached into his robes and pulled out an envelope, holding it out across the table. “It’s from Professor Slughorn. Some club he’s putting together. Tea later this afternoon, second cabin from the front.”

Hermione blinked, taking the envelope. All eyes shifted to her, as though the thick parchment contained something explosive. She ran her thumb across the seal but did not open it. In her other timeline, she had enjoyed the Slug Club meetings. It had felt validating then, to be sought after for her intellect, to mingle with promising young witches and wizards. Yet the idea no longer carried the same thrill. Every extra commitment pulled time away from the Horcrux hunt, away from the true reason she was here.

“Thanks, Harry,” she said quietly, slipping it into her bag. “I’ll go with you later.”

When she glanced up, she caught Draco studying her, his gaze too sharp, too curious. Heat crept into her cheeks, and she quickly looked away.

Ron’s voice broke the tension. “Why’s it only you two? What’s this club supposed to be?”

“No idea.” Harry shrugged, sounding weary. “Dumbledore said I should go along with it. Observe Slughorn. Whatever that means.”

“Didn’t Blaise get one too?” Theo asked. “Saw a Hufflepuff give him the same letter earlier.”

Draco leaned back in his seat, his tone cool and matter-of-fact. “Mother was part of that club. Slughorn collects people. Talented ones, famous ones, anyone useful for networking.”

Ron smirked, seizing the opening. “Funny. Neither of you seems to have an invitation. Not talented enough?”

Draco scoffed, unimpressed. “It’s because we’re the children of Death Eaters, Weasley. Try using that pea brain for once. The old man probably didn't want to have any relations with Death Eater families.”

Before Ron could spit back, Harry interjected. “So Zabini’s family isn’t connected to Voldemort?”

Everyone flinched at the name. Harry only shrugged.

“No,” Draco said flatly. “Zabini’s family came from Italy. They’ve never been tied to the First War. He and his mother moved here after it was over.”

Hermione felt a warmth stir in her chest at the way he defended Blaise. His protectiveness was the sort of thing people overlooked in Draco. Her mind began to wander. In her own timeline, Blaise had fled after the battle of Hogwarts, disappearing into Italy with his mother. He had taken Parkinson and the Greengrass sisters with him. She remembered asking Future Draco once if he, Harry, and Ginny could escape that way instead, and he had scoffed at the thought. Endanger Blaise's family? No. We’ll be fine, Pages. Just one more outpost, and we’ll get to my deranged aunt.

Her chest tightened at the memory. If they lost, she at least had this second chance. But what about them? What about the ones she left behind? Were they still alive? Had they defeated Bellatrix? Or had she left them to die?

“Granger?” Draco’s voice cut through her thoughts, low and concerned. His brows furrowed.

She startled, realizing her cheeks were wet. She wiped her tears quickly, embarrassed. “I’m fine. I’ll be right back.”

Before anyone could stop her, she hurried from the cabin, her satchel bumping against her hip. She walked until she reached the very end of the train. The prefects’ compartment stood empty, and she slipped inside, shutting the door behind her.

Breathe, Hermione. Just breathe.

She tried to steady herself, but her vision blurred, the walls seemed to press closer, and her chest grew unbearably tight. She clutched the edge of the bench, struggling against the dark haze curling at the edges of her mind.

Then a voice, sharp and insistent: “Granger. Wake up.”

She felt arms lifting her, steady and firm. A scent filled her nose — spearmint and pine — and she reached out instinctively, her hand meeting solid muscle before she was lowered onto the bench lying down.

“There we go,” Draco murmured.

Her eyes fluttered open. Grey eyes stared down at her, stormy and piercing.

“You alright?”

“I… I just felt faint.” Her voice was shaky, and she hated it.

"That looked like a panic attack.” He extended his hand. She hesitated only a moment before taking it, letting him pull her up to a seating position.

The touch jolted her. His hand was warm and steady. Her mind betrayed her with the memory of that afternoon at the Three Broomsticks, the way his fingers had played against hers. Heat rushed to her face. Judging by the smirk tugging at his mouth, he was remembering it too. Smug bastard. She pulled away, trying to regain composure.

“You want to talk about what just happened back there?” He jerked his head toward the cabin they’d left.

She exhaled slowly. “It’s nothing. Just… my past. Or my future, rather. It’s stupid.”

“What about it?”

“It doesn’t matter. It has nothing to do with Horcruxes. Just me… reminiscing.”

Draco lounged back on the bench across her, elbow braced on the armrest, his eyes fixed on her like he wasn’t about to let her wriggle free. “We’ve got a few hours until Hogwarts. Theo’s busy flirting with Potter, and I can’t stand the Weasel. So go on, Granger. Out with it.”

Her throat tightened. Then she took a deep breath. Fine. “We were talking about Blaise earlier, right? In my timeline, after the war, he escaped to Italy. He took Parkinson and the Greengrass sisters with him. It was… the sensible choice.” She paused, then pressed on. “Future Draco told me once that he, Harry, and Ginny could never follow, because it would endanger Blaise’s family. The plan was to strike Bellatrix at Marunweem Coast after I left. And now I wonder… did they win? Did they even survive?”

Tears blurred her eyes again. She bit her lip hard. “I’m sorry. I told you it was nothing. But it feels like I abandoned them.”

Draco studied her silently, his expression unreadable. She sniffed, fumbling for composure, but he only exhaled slowly before speaking.

“You didn’t have to come here,” Draco said suddenly, his voice low.

Hermione froze, his words slicing through her. She blinked at him, feeling almost offended. “I… of course I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Her brows knit, irritation prickling up her spine. “What are you trying to say—”

He leaned back, folding his arms with that pureblood composure, storm-grey eyes fixed on her like he was dissecting her thoughts. “You could have stayed and fought alongside them. But instead, you accepted the Time Turner my future self offered, and now you sit here drowning in guilt for leaving them behind.”

Hermione’s throat constricted. He had stripped her bare in two sentences, like he had reached straight through her ribs and peeled the truth from her bones. She wanted to scream at him, tell him it was more complicated than that—but was it? She couldn’t deny he was right.

Her lips trembled. “Well… yes. I feel guilty. Every night. Every time I close my eyes, I wonder if they survived. I wonder if Bellatrix is still alive. And I—” her voice broke, raw and unsteady, “I just left them.”

Draco tilted his head, unrelenting. “Then answer me this. If it had been Potter, would you say he abandoned you?”

The question struck her like a hex to the chest. Her stomach twisted, her hands curling into fists in her lap.

“Of course not!” she exhaled hard, words spilling out faster than she could control, “because we were the only ones left. You, me, Harry, Ginny, and Narcissa. Everyone else was gone. Using the Time Turner meant at least one of us would be saved.”

It was true. It didn’t matter who had traveled. Even if the war was already lost, the rest of them would have kept fighting. She would have been glad, at least, that one of them had survived somewhere else.

“Either of us could have traveled,” she whispered, “and the others would have kept on battling.”

Draco’s gaze sharpened. “Then why here? Of all the times and places, why this one? Why not escape the war entirely?”

She scoffed, her voice climbing with anger and grief. “How could I just run Malfoy? How could I live quietly, safely, while the people I love were still here — making the same mistakes, dying the same deaths? How could I abandon you to it?” Her words rose to a near-shout before splintering into a whisper. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

Her chest heaved, hot tears cutting down her cheeks. She hated that he was watching her unravel, hated the rawness he pulled from her, but there was no stopping it. Guilt and fury and grief from two lifetimes collided inside her, and she could not hold them back.

For a long moment, he was silent, eyes fixed on her with that frustrating, unreadable calm.

Then, at last, he rose from his seat, stretching like it was the easiest thing in the world, and smirked.

“There’s your answer, Granger,” he said, softer now, though still edged with his usual arrogance. “By your own words, any of you could have traveled, and none of you would call it abandonment. So stop wasting your strength on guilt. You chose to return to this time because it mattered to you. ”

Hermione stared up at him, cheeks wet and pulse racing, irritated that he could stand there so steady while she was coming undone. He had taken something tangled and unbearable inside her and laid it out as if it were simple, as if it had always been clear. It infuriated her that he could see it so easily, and yet despite herself, there was relief in it too. He was right. He just had to twist her into admitting it, the insufferable, brilliant prat.

Before she could think better of it, Hermione surged forward, wrapping her arms tightly around his torso.

"Thank you." She whispered. She refused to look up, her forehead pressed firmly against him, as if lifting her gaze would shatter the fragile courage that had pushed her into his arms.

He stiffened at first, surprised, but she only clung harder, burying her face against his chest. His taller frame loomed over her, his chin brushing the crown of her head, and her curls spilled wildly against his shirt and throat, tangling everywhere.

For a moment, he didn’t move, and she thought she had made a mistake, but then she felt his chest rumble with a low chuckle, his hand coming up to pat her head with amusement.

“You know,” he murmured, voice warm against her hair, “we always wondered how Potter and Weasley survived your hugs with all this hair suffocating them.”

She kept her head down, hiding her flaming cheeks against his chest. “Shut up, Malfoy. You’re ruining the moment.”

Dinner in the Great Hall carried on as it always did, though Draco found himself restless beneath the hum of voices and the clatter of plates. His housemates were cheering as the Sorting Hat sent a few more wide-eyed first years slinking toward the Slytherin table.

He plucked a green apple from the silver platter, polishing it against his robe before taking a slow bite. Sweet and crisp. He relished in the mundanity and wondered briefly how long before something as ordinary as this would feel foreign again.

“Look at the new baby snakes. They’re adorable,” Pansy murmured beside him, elbowing his side.

Draco gave her a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching, but he was saved from answering when Daphne appeared. She leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, then did the same to Blaise and Theo before slipping neatly into the seat at his other side.

“How was London?” Daphne whispered, her voice light.

He bent slightly, whispering back close to her ear. “Eye-opening. Their desserts are… dangerous.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, I know! We went to this café with Ernie. They had these strange drinks. Fapuchino?”

“Frappuccino,” Draco corrected smoothly, fighting a smirk.

“Yes! Merlin, it tasted divine.” She clasped her hands dramatically against her chest.

Before Draco could reply, Pansy tugged sharply at his sleeve. “And what exactly are the two of you whispering about?”

“Sorry, Pans. Didn’t you know? Daphne and I are dating now. We had a summer romance, full of scandal and moonlight.” He cupped Daphne’s cheek in exaggerated tenderness, and Daphne played along, tilting into his hand as if they were caught in some theatrical tableau.

Pansy stared blankly for a heartbeat before walloping him across the head with her handbag.

“Ow—!” He winced, rubbing at his skull.

“Don’t be absurd, Draco. Daphne is hopelessly smitten with Macmillan. Get your hands off her before he thinks you’re poaching.”

“Violent witch,” he hissed under his breath.

“Now tell me what you were actually talking about.”

Daphne covered her laugh behind her hand, leaving Draco to sigh. “Fine. I went to Muggle London last summer.”

Pansy gasped so loudly that heads turned. “You? Muggle London?” she whispered, making sure no one else heard. Her gaze darted to Daphne. “And you! You helped him!”

The blonde witch nodded, still half-giggling.

“Oh, sweet Circe,” Pansy crowed, eyes gleaming. “You met Granger, didn’t you? I knew the rumours were true!”

Draco choked mid-bite on his apple, hacking into his napkin. Subtle as ever, Pans.

“Are we talking about Granger?” Blaise drawled, clearly delighted. “At the train earlier, I saw her leaving the prefect's cabin with Draco.”

“Oh, do shut it, Blaise. You’re one to talk,” Draco shot back, rolling his eyes. “You were the one locked in a cabin with a witch.”

Blaise’s answering smirk was infuriatingly smug, arms folding across his chest like he’d just won a silent argument.

“Why is no one telling me the details?” Pansy huffed, lower lip jutting in a pout.

“I’ll fill you in later, Pans. Every sordid detail,” Theo promised with a wink.

Draco resigned himself to silence. They’d twist it however they pleased, no matter what he said. Instead, he glanced across the hall. At the Gryffindor table, Granger was leaning toward Longbottom, listening to him. He was moving his hands wildly, probably explaining about some mind-numbingly dull plant. Yet she laughed, bright and unguarded. A few seats down, Ginevra was in animated conversation with Potter and her Weasel brother, while Blaise…

Draco followed his friend’s gaze. Blaise was watching the redhead too intently, as if dissecting her with his eyes. Blaise always denied it, saying it was just some fleeting fancy, but Theo and Draco had seen the way he lingered after every Quidditch practice, eyes trailing her as she walked off the pitch.

—

The feast carried on, and with it came the tradition every Slytherin witch secretly waited for: the annual gift-giving. It was a Slytherin custom older than any of them, a point of pride and pageantry where the wizards of each year presented tokens to the witches of their house every start of the term.

It began with the second years, awkward and clumsy as they slid little parcels across the table, and built year by year into more elaborate gestures. By the time it reached their year, all eyes were on Draco, Theo, and Blaise — because everyone knew their gifts were always joint and always extravagant.

Tonight was no different: owls swooped down, dropping emerald boxes before each Slytherin witch, each box containing glossy French dark chocolate truffles from Draco, delicately sculpted candied flowers from Theo, and a bag of rare Italian sugar quills from Blaise.

Gasps, sighs, and delighted squeals rippled through the table, a chorus of thanks and fluttered lashes. Even the younger wizards groaned, half jealous, half admiring.

But it was Theo’s snap of fingers that truly stirred the hall. Three maroon boxes drifted down the Gryffindor table, landing neatly before Potter, Ginevra, and Granger. The trio looked utterly gobsmacked.

Granger’s gaze snapped to Draco, her mouth falling open in a stunned, delighted smile. Draco smirked and offered her a playful wink. She shook her head at him, curls bouncing, but he didn’t miss the warmth lingering in her eyes.

—

Later, the common room buzzed with the usual chatter as Montague droned out the rules for the new first years. Draco leaned against the sofa, the firelight flickering across his features. Normally, he might have found comfort in the traditions — the secret handshakes, the mocking songs, the smug solidarity of their house. Tonight though, exhaustion pressed down on him hard. His magic had become restless again, surging beneath his skin like an untamed current, begging to be used.

It was becoming unbearable. Earlier, Regina Selwyn had cornered him in one of the alcoves, eager to thank him for the gift. The seventh year witch was pretty enough, lip caught between her teeth, eyes wide as she knelt and glanced up at him for permission. Draco might have considered it — who was he to turn down a thank you blowjob — but the instant she drew close, his magic revolted.

Her magic suddenly became visible to him. It shimmered around her in a dull, murky brown, and everything inside him recoiled. His magic rejected her even as his mind told him he should be interested. It was like oil repelling water, ugly and wrong.

He had pulled her gently to her feet instead, kissed her hand with as much grace as he could muster, and told her she owed him nothing. She left teary-eyed, and he had felt like a bastard for it.

Now, sprawled on the common room sofa, he tested it again, willing his vision to shift. Pansy and Daphne were across the room, heads together in hushed gossip. He found them both very attractive witches, and he wondered how his magic perceived them. Their magic glowed differently—Pansy’s a vivid pink, Daphne’s a warm orange — bright, steady, and comfortable. Like Blaise’s and Theo’s, there was no resistance.

Crabbe and Goyle, on the other hand, carried dull blue edges, rough and jagged, but still tolerable. His magic didn’t fight against theirs.

Draco let his eyes fall shut, mind racing. Was this some form of magical compatibility? An instinct buried deep in his bloodline? Or something triggered by whatever was happening to him since Italy? He ought to look it up in the library. Or, perhaps… he’d ask Granger. Future him must have told her something, surely.

The thought was oddly comforting. His magic hummed with the idea. With a long exhale, he tilted his head back against the sofa and surrendered, for just a moment, to the quiet chaos inside him.

"I can’t believe we took the wrong staircase," Hermione muttered, practically speed-walking across the suspension bridge, the wind tugging strands of her hair into her face. Her satchel bounced against her hip with every hurried step. "I can’t believe I’m going to be late! Me!" The shame of it already burned hot in her chest. Punctuality was her thing. Being early, being prepared. And now here she was, about to show up late to the one class that mattered most.

Harry rolled his eyes, trying to keep pace beside her. "I told you the instructions meant near the West Tower. But you insisted it was exactly at the West Tower."

Hermione groaned, adjusting her bag strap on her shoulder as they pushed through another door. "Ugh, I know what I said, Harry. But why couldn’t Dumbledore just make the map clearer? Honestly, would it kill him to use labels instead of riddles?"

They hurried up the last few steps toward the Astronomy Tower, her chest tightening with every beat of her heart. Other students were already gathered. Malfoy stood with Daphne Greengrass, looking insufferably calm as though he hadn’t rushed anywhere a moment in his life. He also looked somewhat resigned. There was a subtle tiredness in his eyes, just like that time in Diagon Alley. He caught her gaze and smirked.

At the sides, Padma Patil and Lisa Turpin leaned over the map, conferring with Susan Bones and Ernie Macmillan, who was glancing at Greengrass. Hermione recalled Dumbledore mentioning it would be a small class. She counted six others besides her and Harry. That must be all of them.

"Potter." Malfoy’s voice cut through the hum of chatter as he stepped forward. Daphne followed like a shadow of grace.

"Malfoy," Harry replied shortly, giving a stiff nod.

Before Hermione could add anything, Daphne turned to her with startling warmth. "Hi, Granger!" she said, catching Hermione’s hand in both of hers, her dark green eyes bright with interest. "We’ve never really talked before. I’m so excited to get to know you."

Hermione froze, caught off guard. She had always thought Daphne beautiful—like one of those models in Muggle magazines — with her refined features and eyes that seemed to look straight through you. They had shared classes for years, and Daphne’s name had always hovered in the top five rankings. Of course, she would be here.

"Umm. Hello, Greengrass," Hermione managed, cheeks warming.

"Oh, please, call me Daphne. When you’ve got a younger sister in the same school, it’s strange being called by your family name all the time."

Hermione nodded quickly. "Alright… Daphne. You can call me Hermione then."

"Hermione," Daphne repeated, as if testing the sound. She gave her hand a final gentle squeeze before letting go, and Hermione, absurdly, was reminded of Narcissa's etiquette lessons, of how even the smallest gestures mattered.

"And Potter," Daphne added with a playful curtsy.

"Um. Hi," Harry said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

Daphne giggled, the sound light as bells.

Before the moment could stretch too far, Dumbledore arrived, his presence commanding the air itself.

"I trust you’ve all found the path here easily," he said, a twinkle in his eye.

"Good morning, Headmaster," they chorused.

"Good morning," he echoed warmly. "Now, let's move along, shall we?"

They trailed after him, leaving the Astronomy Tower and stepping into a small, forgotten classroom across the hall. Dust floated thick in the air, the scent of old wood and mildew pressing into Hermione’s senses.

Padma coughed delicately and, with a flick of her wand, vanished the layer of dust, revealing carved desks and benches that looked like relics from the 1800s. Hermione’s eyes flicked around the room. It didn’t look like any sort of classroom fit for learning.

"Apologies," Dumbledore said mildly, as though reading their thoughts. "It was only recently decided that this would be the best place for our lessons."

They exchanged wary glances, all clearly suppressing remarks. Hermione’s heart thrummed with anticipation though, always eager to learn something new.

Dumbledore moved to the far end of the room and opened a cabinet door. "Come now, class," he said, crouching low and stepping inside.

One by one, they followed. Hermione’s pulse quickened as she ducked into the shadowy cabinet, the air cool and dry as stone. The passage opened into a spiraling staircase leading downward. She whispered a lumos, her wand tip flaring with light, and the others followed suit, tiny orbs of illumination bobbing like fireflies as they descended.

The stairs seemed endless, winding into the earth itself, until at last they came upon a massive door. Dumbledore conjured a book into his hands, pressed his palm against the stone, and the doors creaked open with ancient groans.

"Wait here," he instructed gently.

They lingered at the threshold, watching as he strode into the vast chamber beyond. The hall was cavernous, round, and echoing, its air charged with old enchantments. At its heart stood a pedestal. Dumbledore placed the book upon it, and in an instant, the room came alive. Torches flared to life, their flames an eerie blue, licking against the walls and casting their faces in ghostly glow.

"You may enter," Dumbledore’s voice carried back to them.

Hermione stepped forward first, awe prickling over her skin. The hall was circular, immense, with a central tower of flame that rose like a beacon. Behind the headmaster stretched four great empty portraits, their gilt frames towering, waiting.

The heavy doors shut behind them with a resounding clang, sealing them inside. Hermione’s breath caught. It felt less like entering a classroom and more like stepping into the heart of a living spell.

Then, with a sweep of motion, eight desks and chairs appeared around Dumbledore. "Please, take your seats," the Headmaster instructed.

Hermione’s feet carried her forward automatically, though her mind still reeled. What was this place? What were they about to learn? She sank into her seat, quill in hand, her heart racing with the thrill of it.

“Welcome to the Map Chamber.”

Map Chamber. She looked at the floor under her feet. The floor itself shimmered, transforming into a spectral mirror of the night sky. Stars spilled across the stone, forming the outlines of Hogwarts and the grounds surrounding it, glowing faintly and silver like a map of the heavens.

Dumbledore raised his arms gracefully, his long sleeves falling like banners, drawing their attention to the vast circular chamber around them. His voice carried effortlessly, resonant without being harsh, and the blue flames flickering on the walls seemed to lean into his words.

“First of all, it is an honor and a privilege to teach the brightest witches and wizards of your age. Each of you was chosen to be a part of this class because of your own magical merits.”

A hum of pleased whispers rippled through the group, students exchanging small smiles at the rare praise. Even Harry, so often skeptical, looked faintly surprised. Hermione, however, felt a prick of resistance. Praise was pleasant, yes, but she had learned too much of Dumbledore’s manipulation in her other timeline to take his words at face value.

Still, she reminded herself, Harry and Draco had both said that it was better to keep him close, better to use him if they could. She pressed her lips together, deciding she would observe carefully, weighing every word. After all, even if she resented him, he was still Dumbledore. Still considered the greatest wizard alive.

“Kindly bring out the parcels you procured from Borgin and Burkes,” he continued. “The password is: Flight of the Bumblebee.”

Hermione blinked, startled. A Muggle reference? Their Headmaster gave her a knowing wink, and warmth flickered in her chest despite herself. Around her, students whispered the password, and thin leather-bound journals shimmered into existence on each desk.

“Headmaster,” Padma raised her hand, already riffling through the pages. “The journals are blank.”

Hermione flipped through hers as well. Page after page of clean parchment, untouched by ink. Beside her, Draco raised his eyebrows, turned a few pages, then shut the book with a look of bored disdain as though he had already lost interest.

Dumbledore’s smile deepened. “All of our lessons will appear only at the start of class. They will vanish when the period ends. You may, of course, take your own notes on separate parchment.”

That sent a ripple of unease across the desks. Hermione frowned. No advance study? Her quill stilled, the itch to prepare ahead tugging at her. She had always felt steady when she could plan, research, and master material before a teacher even spoke. The thought of being denied that comfort twisted uneasily in her stomach.

As if sensing the collective worry, Dumbledore’s tone gentled. “The subjects we will learn here are not ones I wish you to explore unsupervised. There are dangers in untempered knowledge. Within these walls, I can guide you safely, and once you understand the foundations, you may research further with caution.”

Hermione’s fingers relaxed slightly on her quill. That made sense. And, though she would never admit it aloud, the idea that knowledge here was considered dangerous made her pulse quicken. This was exactly the kind of subject she had always craved after all.

Dumbledore paced, his voice carrying warmth that filled every corner. “Many of you may expect Ancient Studies to be dry, full of brittle parchment and tedious recitations.” His eyes landed uncomfortably on Hermione, as though he had plucked the thought from her own mind. “But the past is never silent. Every rune carved into stone, every forgotten incantation, every toppled temple still speaks, if one is patient enough to listen.”

Her chest tightened with anticipation.

“This subject is not about memorising dusty facts,” he continued softly. “It is a dialogue with those who came before us. A chance to learn from their brilliance—and their blunders. If we listen carefully, the past may whisper truths that the present has overlooked.”

Beside her, Harry muttered under his breath, “Sounds like Divination with more rubble.”

Hermione shot him a sharp glare. “Shush. This is important.”

Draco leaned lazily toward her, voice pitched low and amused. The touch of tiredness still there, “Careful, Granger. The way you’re scribbling, your quill might burst into flames.”

She arched a brow, lips twitching. “Does ink ever touch your parchment, Malfoy, or do you use it purely for decoration?”

His smirk sharpened. “I was waiting for you to look at me before I began. Inspiration doesn’t come cheap.”

Her cheeks flushed; she tightened her grip on the quill. “Perhaps you should learn to find inspiration in books rather than witches who can outpace you in every subject.”

He leaned closer still, grey eyes glinting. “Books don’t bat their eyelashes at me when they’re exasperated.”

Hermione’s lips quirked upward against her will. “I don’t bat my eyelashes.”

“You just did,” he whispered smugly, and she very nearly smacked him with her quill. Instead, she bit back a smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Dream on, Malfoy.”

“Careful, Granger,” he murmured. “Keep talking like that and I might think you enjoy it.”

Her pulse skipped before Dumbledore’s voice reclaimed the room.

“Today,” he said, “we turn our gaze to the hearthstones of wizarding civilisation: Family Magicks. For as long as our kind have walked the earth, magic has shaped not only individuals, but entire bloodlines. Some families carry enchantments so old they are as natural as eye colour.”

He paused, the air heavy with something ancient. Hermione’s quill faltered.

“Consider the noble House of Black, famed for their mastery of blood magicks. The Ollivanders, whose bond with wandlore runs as deep as the wood and core they shape. The Potters, once celebrated for potions of elegance and potency. The Malfoys, architects of enchantments, weaving glamour and influence into the very air. The Macmillans, blessed with the gift of tongues, are able to bridge words across people and creatures. Even—” his eyes glimmered “—the Weasleys, whose spirited virility ensured their line thrived.”

The room erupted with laughter. Even Harry’s lips curved, though Ernie Macmillan swelled with pride while Susan Bones tried and failed to hide a grin.

“Virility?” Daphne murmured, brows arched. “Well, that explains the Weasleys.”

Draco leaned toward Hermione. “And explains why they keep multiplying like puffskeins.”

“Malfoy!” Hermione hissed, swatting his arm, though her glare faltered into reluctant amusement. “It’s a perfectly decent legacy.”

He gave a languid shrug, but the smirk lingered.

Unbothered, Dumbledore pressed on. “Family magicks are not curiosities of pedigree. They are living testaments to how magic entwines with blood, shaping reputations, shaping destinies.”

The word destinies snagged in Hermione’s chest, prickling uncomfortably. She loathed the idea that ancestry could bind futures. Her quill scratched harder against the parchment, fury and fascination twined together.

Padma raised her hand. “Professor, do all families retain their magicks? Or can they fade?”

“A wise question, Miss Patil,” Dumbledore said warmly. “Not all endure. Some weaken through neglect. Others fade when blood mingles too thin. And some vanish when too few heirs remain.”

Hermione’s stomach knotted, bracing for the inevitable.

“And now,” he said gently, “we must consider those without such legacies. Our muggleborn students arrive untethered, with no ancestral magicks whispering behind them.”

Hermione stiffened, spine rigid. She felt Draco’s glance slide toward her, heat prickling her neck.

Dumbledore’s voice softened. “It is true, they stand apart from traditions. Family magicks are carried down branches of magical bloodlines, and muggleborns emerge from lines where magic has long been dormant, or from squib branches where it faded into silence. But this separation is not a deficiency. It is inheritance, not ability. What they lack in ancestral magicks, they often make up for in innovation, in a certain freedom unbound by the weight of tradition.”

Relief spread through her chest, but the sting lingered. She hated that ancestry mattered at all. Still, he had reframed it not as a lack but as a difference.

In her peripheral vision, she noticed Draco staring intently at her as if studying her. Her quill faltered for a heartbeat. Blast him. She bent lower to the parchment, cheeks aflame.

Susan Bones cleared her throat. “Professor, does that mean Muggleborns can develop family magicks? Over time?”

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore said. “Indeed. A line begun with a muggleborn may, with centuries of practice, forge its own. Inheritance is not only received — it is created.”

Hermione’s chest swelled, her pulse quickening. Perhaps one day, a Granger line would be known for something enduring. The thought felt like planting a seed she might never see bloom, but still…it mattered.

Ernie puffed up. “Well, if the Macmillans have the gift of tongues, that explains why my great-aunt can charm the trousers off anyone.”

Harry snorted. “Shame you didn’t inherit that, then.”

Lisa Turpin giggled. “Maybe Ernie’s just a late bloomer.”

The room burst into laughter. Hermione smiled despite herself, though she bent quickly back to her notes.

Dumbledore lifted a hand, and silence returned like a tide. “Remember: family magicks may shape, but they do not define worth. History may whisper, but it is you who must answer. What you inherit matters less than what you choose to build.”

Hermione’s quill stilled. His words rang inside her, heavy, unsettling, yet oddly hopeful. She did not trust him — not fully — but she could not deny it. She was brought back to her memories once again. She remembered how Narcissa had taught her and Ginny some of the Black Family Warding spells like they were daughters of the Ancient House. The memory made her smile. For a moment, Dumbledore had made even her feel as though the future was not bound to the past.

“Granger, are you sure you’re able to read all of these before our next lesson?” Draco’s voice was low, tired, as he watched her float her fifth book toward their shared table in the library.

She ignored him, running her fingers across the spines of the shelves.

“Dumbledore said that what Muggleborns lack in ancestral magicks, we often make up for in innovation, in a certain freedom unbound by the weight of tradition,” she recited, summoning another tome with a flick of her wand. “So I’d like to study different branches of magic, see what could grow into something lasting. If family magicks are built across centuries, then best to begin now.”

She meant every word. Hermione loved being well-rounded, capable in every field, but this felt different. Dumbledore’s lecture had struck a chord, pressing against her need to prove that magic was not only inherited, but it could be forged. She wanted to leave something behind, too — if she ever survived this timeline's war, that is.

Draco slumped into the chair beside her, cheek against his arm, simply staring. At first, she let him, continuing to copy passages with neat flicks of her wand, parchment filling with replicated pages. But after a while, his gaze pressed too heavily against her skin, becoming distracting and unsettling.

“Malfoy?” she asked, not looking up.

He hummed in response, half-lidded eyes still on her.

“Care to explain why you’re staring at me like I’m a curious specimen in a cage?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He lifted his head slowly, stretched his neck, and turned to look at her fully. His eyes were shadowed, ringed with exhaustion, but fixed on her with unsettling intensity. “Your magic.”

That startled her into stillness. “What about my magic?”

“It… steadies me.” His voice was rougher now, almost reluctant.

Hermione frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve looked drained since this morning. Did something happen?”

He rubbed both hands over his face, pressing his palms hard against his eyes as if trying to block something out. “Since Italy,” he said at last, with a heavy sigh, “my magic hasn’t been still. It’s stronger now…somewhat sentient, always clawing to be used. If I fight it, it gnaws at me until I can’t think. And lately—” he broke off, lowering his hands, his grey eyes fixed on hers, “I can see people’s magic at will, like aura wrapped around them.”

Hermione waited for him to continue, sensing he wasn’t finished, but he fell silent, only watching her. His gaze lingered like he was weighing a choice, deciding whether to step forward or retreat.

She watched him blink slowly, then she felt it — the faintest brush against her consciousness. His magic pressed carefully, asking permission. It was tentative, yet heavy. She swallowed, hesitated only a moment, and then let him in.

The library vanished. They were standing in her mind palace.

Tall shelves rose around them, stacked with memories and knowledge, her sanctuary laid bare once more. Draco stood before her, hands in his pockets, posture deceptively casual. His usual stormy grey eyes were now close to a dark ashen color. He wasn’t just observing her. It looked like he was on the brink of a decision.

Her throat felt tight. “Malfoy? Why did you want to come here?” Her voice wavered.

His gaze flicked over her shelves, but he didn’t move. “Your magic calms mine for some reason. Maybe you hold something I don’t.”

Hermione’s pulse stuttered. Oh.

“I don’t recall future you ever mentioning this,” she said, almost too quickly. “You already had these abilities when we worked together in the war. Maybe it’s just… early in this timeline. We might find something in a book.”

She turned toward the far shelves, the ones filled with theoretical magic, desperate to put space between them because she could feel something in the way he spoke. His magic seemed to brush against her skin, warm and heavy, and she had no idea what to do with it.

But she could hear him behind her, his footsteps unhurried, each one a steady beat that echoed along with her heartbeats. She forced her attention to the shelves, dragging her fingers across the bindings — The Nature of Wandless Spells, Arcane Energies of the Soul, Magical Resonance and Auras. Anything to give her hands a task, anything to steady her racing pulse.

“You said you can see others’ magic,” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost tentative.

“I did.” His reply came closer, close enough that the air shifted around her. He was standing right behind her now.

Hermione froze when his fingers brushed the ends of her hair. The light tug of a curl caught between his fingertips made her breath falter. He toyed with it, slow and unhurried, as though weighing the texture, feeling the coil stretch and slip.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. Every soft pull of her hair felt far too intimate, sending a ripple of awareness down her spine. It was the same way she felt when he played with her hand at the Three Broomsticks.

She stared at the row of books in front of her, pretending to read their spines, but all she could think of was the steady rhythm of his touch and how close he was standing behind her.

“What do you see exactly?” she managed, though her voice caught at the end.

“Colours,” he murmured, his tone lower now, carrying a heat that pooled in her stomach. “Theo’s is bright blue. Blaise, a deep green. Daphne’s warm orange. Pansy’s a sharp pink. All vivid. All alive.” His fingers lingered in her curls again, stroking, testing, sending shivers down her arms. “Do you want to know what I see when I look at yours, Granger?”

Her hand stilled on a book’s spine. She swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. She gave the smallest nod, whispering, “What?”

His breath warmed her ear as he leaned in, his chest close enough that she could feel his heat at her back. “Gold.”

Her pulse skittered erratically.

“Golden wisps that shimmer when you move.” His voice slid over her, velvet and hot, and she felt the edges of her control unravel. Her lungs burned as she tried to breathe, but she remained rooted, trembling, caught between the need to step away and the magnetic pull that held her still.

“Turn around for me, Granger.”

The command wasn’t loud. The quiet certainty in it sent another shiver racing down her spine. She didn’t want to obey. A part of her wanted to run, to break the moment before it swallowed her whole. But her body betrayed her, and slowly, with her heart hammering against her ribs, she turned.

He was too close. One arm braced against the shelf, boxing her in. His other hand lifted, brushing her chin, tilting it upward until her gaze locked with his. His grey eyes were dilated, filled with something she couldn’t name — something fierce, something hungry.

“I see gold when I look at you,” he said, softer this time, but no less intense. “Golden, like your eyes.”

Her knees felt weak. Her breath came shallow and uneven. His face dipped closer, his mouth a whisper from hers, and she could almost taste the kiss waiting between them. Her eyes fluttered, half-lidded—

Until sudden heat flared against her thigh, sharp and scalding.

Draco jerked back with a curse, his hand flying to his own pocket at the same time hers did. For a heartbeat, they only stared at each other wide-eyed, and in that instant, Hermione's mind palace shattered, dragging them both back into their seats at the Hogwarts library.

Hermione blinked, the familiar rows of shelves rushing back around her, the taste of the moment still clinging in her chest. She fumbled with trembling fingers, pulling free her enchanted Galleon.

Harry’s message glowed hot across their coins: D, H, Meet me at the Room of Requirement. Now.

Her cheeks burned, and her lungs felt tight. She risked a glance at Draco, whose expression had darkened, his jaw tense.

“Fucking Potter,” he muttered, snapping his satchel shut with a sharp flick of his hand.

Hermione gathered her books in silence, her hands still shaking. Her lips tingled, her heart thundered, and she couldn’t stop the thought pressing in on her mind.

She had almost kissed Draco, and her traitorous heart had wanted to.

Chapter Text

“This better be important, Potter,” Draco sneered the moment they entered the Room of Requirement. His tone was clipped and defensive.

Hermione stumbled in right behind him, panting. Her hands braced against her knees as she bent forward, trying to catch her breath. Her chest heaved as if she had sprinted the entire corridor, which, in a way, she had.

Circe, his pace. His ridiculously long legs ate up the distance, and she had practically been jogging to keep him in sight. She glared at the back of his head. “I would have been fine,” she wheezed, “if Mr. Long Legs here hadn’t decided to bloody march his way up the seventh floor.”

Draco didn’t even turn. He crossed his arms like a sulky boy denied his favourite toy, jaw set in that stubborn way she knew too well. Was he actually sulking? Hermione had the absurd urge to laugh. He looked petulant in a way that seemed almost pointed, like he wanted them to notice.

Harry ignored him. “You okay, Mione?” His concern softened the edge of her irritation.

“Yes,” she huffed, straightening, “apart from having to run after him like some bloody house elf.”

Harry’s lips twitched, though he wisely said nothing.

“Well,” he said, clapping his hands together with purpose, “since you’re both here, we’d better get started.” He walked toward one of the conjured sofas, its shape and cushions eerily reminiscent of Grimmauld Place’s sunroom. The last time they’d sat like this, Hermione had confessed the truth about the Time Turner. The air had been tense, the weight of secrets pressed down on her.

Now, the same layout appeared again, as if the Room itself remembered.

Hermione and Draco took the other two seats, her skirt brushing against the upholstery. She forced herself to still her fidgeting fingers and asked, “What’s happened, Harry?”

Harry leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Dumbledore showed me memories of Voldemort’s ancestors.”

That caught Draco’s attention instantly. His arms unfolded, and his expression sharpened, the pout vanishing. “Go on.”

“The Gaunts,” Harry said gravely, “and some of the Horcruxes you mentioned — the ring and the locket. Since Hermione already knows, I thought I could show Malfoy the memory.”

Hermione’s hand twitched against her skirt. She already knew the story, but she had never seen it. “Show me too,” she said firmly. “I know about it, but you never showed me in the future.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to hers, then to Draco.

Draco scowled. “Why are you both looking at me like that?”

Hermione exchanged a look with Harry before saying carefully, “You can draw people into memories. Like a Pensieve. Harry thought maybe—”

“Maybe we could make it a threeway,” Harry finished with a grin.

Hermione gasped. “Don’t call it that!” She shoved him with her hand.

“Call it what? A threeway?” Harry grinned even wider. “Better than a threesome.”

Draco actually laughed at that. Hermione froze.

“I swear Harry, Theo is rubbing off on you,” Hermione muttered, her cheeks hot. “Malfoy! Can you do it with Harry, with me—” She stopped, but too late. Her words were already hanging in the air. “—watching?”

The two of them erupted. Draco nearly doubled over, and Harry clutched his stomach. Hermione buried her face in her hands. Why do I keep saying the wrong thing?

Draco cleared his throat, though his grin betrayed him. He intentionally lowered his voice into something sultry, so silky it slid straight down her spine. “To answer your question, Granger,” he drawled, “yes, you can watch while I do it with Potter. I'll be gentle as this is your first threeway.”

Hermione’s entire face went crimson.

“Merlin, that sounded filthy,” Harry gasped, wheezing with laughter.

“You’re both incorrigible!” she squeaked, her voice strangled with embarrassment. Circe, he was using that same voice he’d used on her earlier in the library. The one that curled hot and heavy low in her belly. She shifted in her seat, her thighs tightening of their own accord.

Malfoy caught the movement and smirked, the bastard.

Get a grip, Hermione. Stupid, thirsty brain.

“Let’s get it on, then,” she blurted. The moment the words left her mouth, she froze. “I mean—”

Harry collapsed in fresh laughter. Draco grinned like he’d won a prize.

“I need to shut up, don’t I?” Hermione groaned, burying her face in her palms.

“Never change, Mione,” Harry chuckled, pulling his chair closer. Draco followed, their seats tightening into a circle.

Draco’s voice was suddenly businesslike, still grinning. “Close your eyes. Rest your arms on the chair, and connect hands.”

Hermione obeyed, though her pulse raced as Draco’s fingers slid around her arm. He didn’t simply grip. His thumb brushed, lingered, and caressed. The absolute flirt! She bit her tongue to keep from reacting, forcing herself to stay still.

There was a strange tug in her mind, like a thread being drawn loose. Darkness swallowed her. Then, all at once, a silver thread shimmered before her. Tentatively, she touched it — and was instantly yanked forward.

The darkness peeled away, revealing a forest.

Harry’s mind palace was a forest.

She gasped softly. The air was clear, and it smelled of pine and damp moss. The canopy stretched endlessly above, the light shifting green and gold. It was vast, wild, and open. She turned and found Draco and Harry waiting.

“Welcome to Potter’s mind palace, Granger,” Draco said, his tone laced with wry amusement.

Hermione’s chest swelled. It made sense. Harry, who had been caged in a cupboard confined by tight walls, would imagine freedom as endless trees and winding paths. A place where no one could box him in. A place full of hidden trails to keep secrets safe.

“It’s perfect, Harry,” she whispered, unable to stop the admiration from spilling out.

Harry ducked his head, scuffing his shoe against the dirt. “Snape said it was typical. Whatever that meant.” He snickered awkwardly.

“Lead on, Potter,” Draco said briskly.

They followed him deeper, where the forest thickened into tangles. The branches knitted into grotesque shapes, twisted and strangled together. The air turned damp and rank, smelling of mildew and rotten foliage.

In the centre of the thicket stood a hollow tree stump, its roots clawing from the soil like broken fingers. Harry reached inside and withdrew a glowing orb of smoke.

“I’m not gonna lie, Potter. Your mind palace is fucking eerie.” Draco held a hand over the orb.

Harry shrugged, unbothered. Hermione moved beside Draco, mirroring his stance.

The orb pulled them forward into the memory.

A ramshackle hovel appeared. The Gaunt shack. Its walls sagged, the roof caving inward, weeds overtaking the broken stones. It was the portrait of neglect, of rot made into a home.

“That’s Marvolo Gaunt,” Harry said, pointing to the scowling old man on the chaise. “Voldemort’s grandfather.”

Hermione followed his gaze. Marvolo clutched a ring and a locket like holy relics, his knuckles white around them.

Draco shifted beside her, almost imperceptible, but she felt it. His chin lifted, his posture rigid. His eyes flicked to the locket and the ring with something unreadable. Pride? Revulsion? Both.

Hermione knew that look. She’d seen him wear it when confronted with his family’s darker legacies. His jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

“That’s Merope and Morfin,” Hermione murmured, filling in the rest. Harry smiled faintly, as if he had expected her to.

They watched as Bob Ogden, a Ministry official, arrived. The scene spiralled quickly into chaos. Marvolo spat slurs, his voice thick with hate and pride. Morfin hissed in Parseltongue, wand twitching with violence. Merope shrank into herself, trembling as though she might vanish under their contempt.

Ogden’s eyes fell on the locket. Marvolo wrenched it away, snarling about Salazar Slytherin, about sacred bloodlines, about how their family was the purest of the pure. Hermione’s stomach turned. The obsession was sickening, a rot passed down like inheritance.

The confrontation ended with hexes and violence, with Ogden fleeing battered and shaken.

The memory collapsed, drawing them back into Harry’s forest. Harry returned the orb to the stump with careful hands.

“That’s the memory,” he said quietly. “Dumbledore said they’re descended from Salazar Slytherin through the Peverells.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself. “I knew the story, but seeing it…” Her voice faltered. “Merope must have lived in terror. Every single day.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “She fell for a Muggle named Tom Riddle Sr. Her brother cursed him. She… she used a love potion. That’s how Voldemort was born.”

Hermione swallowed hard and nodded. A union built on lies and fear. No wonder he had grown into something monstrous.

The forest faded. The trio blinked back into the Room of Requirement, and the sofas conjured once more around them.

Draco said nothing. His arms folded, his expression guarded, his mind clearly spinning. He always went quiet after moments like this, pulling everything inward to examine. Hermione admired it.

Finally, he spoke. “So. What do we do now?”

Hermione drew in a breath. “We need to start looking for the Horcruxes. And we need to rope in the adults we can trust.”

“There are seven,” she said, counting with her fingers, steadying herself. “Riddle’s diary. Peverell’s ring. Slytherin’s locket. Hufflepuff’s cup. Ravenclaw’s diadem. His snake. And…”

“And?” Harry prompted.

Hermione met his eyes. “You.”

Harry froze. Draco’s gaze snapped to her, sharp and unflinching.

"Me?" Harry's brows furrowed.

Hermione took a deep breath. “When You-Know-Who tried to kill you as a baby, he accidentally created a seventh Horcrux. That’s why you see through him sometimes. It's why you can speak Parseltongue.”

Harry opened his mouth, but she pressed on. “In the final battle, he struck you with the Killing Curse. But you lived, because he killed his own Horcrux. One that he never knew existed.”

Silence. Harry sat back, the weight of it pressing visibly onto his shoulders.

“So Potter has an extra life?" Draco said flatly. "Like a cat?”

Hermione’s lips twitched awkwardly despite the heaviness. “I… I guess? Something like that.”

Draco gave a short, sharp laugh. “Fuck, Potter. You're the luckiest unlucky bastard alive.”

Hermione reached for Harry’s hand. “Are you alright?”

He squeezed back, his eyes searching hers. “That’s… a lot. I’ll need to think. Can I ask you more about it later?”

“Of course. Anything.”

He nodded, grounding himself, and then asked, “And the adults?”

“Yes.” She inhaled deeply. “We need to tell Snape, Narcissa, and Sirius. In the future, we decided Narcissa's Chateau in France was the safest place to gather them all.” Her gaze drifted to Draco.

His grey eyes met hers, steady. He said nothing, but she could feel him brewing the decision in the set of his jaw, the way his hands tightened against his arms.

Suddenly remembering something, Harry asked them both, "Dumbledore also said I need to improve my duelling skills. He told me to ask you two about it."

Hermione looked at Draco, who just smirked back. "It's a school activity," She felt the magic of the Duelling Club contract constricting her throat, "But we can't tell you about it because there's a contract. So you'll have to find it on your own."

Harry gaped, "There's such a thing?! How did you find it?"

"I found it by accident, last year," Hermione laughed.

Hermione tilted her head back, staring at the night sky. There were no Muggle lights staining the darkness where they were, only stars. They looked cold and sharp against the black, and for a moment she let herself breathe in their stillness. She had spent the day trying to busy herself into exhaustion.

First, she accompanied Narcissa to the supermarket since they needed to stock up on flour, dried fruit, and tins of soup. Then she followed Ginny to the wards, both of them layering protections over the perimeter. She had done everything she could to avoid him.

But suddenly, the strong scent of pine assaulted her senses.

Her stomach clenched. She jerked upright, her body already telling her to flee.

“No use trying to hide from me, Pages.” His voice came low and rough, cutting through the night.

Her chest burned. “I was just about to go to sleep.” She pushed herself to her feet, refusing to look at him, desperate to retreat. But his hand caught her wrist.

“We need to talk.”

She forced herself to meet his eyes. His grip wasn’t harsh. In fact, the look he gave her wasn’t his usual shield of arrogance or wit — it was pleading. That was worse. He didn't know how fragile she was against him.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Draco. I’m fine. We’re fine.” She exhaled too quickly, too harshly, but her chest tightened anyway. Her throat burned with the pressure of unshed tears. Not now. Please, not now.

“Please.”

She hated how much that one word unravelled her.

She sank back down onto the grass, hugging her knees to her chest, building a wall of limbs because words would fail her. He lowered himself beside her, close enough that the heat of him pressed against her, but not quite touching. The silence stretched on, and each second felt unbearable.

And then, his voice broke it.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t return your feelings, Pages. Hermione.”

Her name on his lips. Her heart twisted so hard she nearly gasped. She pulled her knees tighter, burying her chin into them as if she could keep herself from shattering. She didn’t answer.

“It’s not that I don’t want to try,” he said quietly. “I do. But…”

Each word was a knife, digging deeper, deeper still.

“We can’t. There’s just too much history between us. History that we haven’t addressed. Hogwarts. The start of the war…”

Hermione’s head snapped up, desperation cutting through the pain. “But I’ve already forgiven you, Draco,” she whispered, the words tumbling out, raw. “We can work through them.”

He shook his head, eyes still trained on the endless stars above them. “I can’t accept your forgiveness. Because I haven’t forgiven myself yet.”

Her chest splintered. He sounded so resolute. So final.

“That’s the other reason I call you Pages,” he murmured. “There are just too many ghosts tied to Hermione Granger. Ghosts I’m not ready to face.”

She swallowed hard. “I know.”

And she did. She hated that she understood, because she felt the same way.

Because no matter how many times she told herself she had forgiven him, she could not erase the memories. She could still feel the sting of his words when they were children, the venom in every insult.

She could still feel the cold marble floor of the Manor beneath her cheek, her own blood slick against her skin, and him standing there, frozen, not moving, not saving her.

She hated that she could recall it all and still want him anyway.

His hand moved, hesitant, before it wrapped around hers, where it clung to her knees. His palm was warm, firm, steady. The squeeze was gentle, but it anchored her.

“This is going to sound selfish,” he whispered. “But Pages… we have the best partnership in the Order. You’re my best friend. The one person I could trust my life with.” His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly. “We’re at war. I can’t risk that if we don’t work out. I’m sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Hermione’s heart caved in. She had braced herself for rejection before, but not like this. Not this tender, devastating honesty. It wasn’t cruelty that kept him away from her. It was fear. It was his inability to forgive himself. And somehow, that hurt so much more.

Her throat closed, her lips parted, but no sound came. All she could do was hold on tighter to her knees with one hand and his with the other, clutching as if both could keep her from drowning.

… … …

In the future, Narcissa had told her and Ginny that the shower was the best place to cry. The water would wash everything away, the sting of tears hidden, the redness softened. Hermione stood beneath the spray now, chuckling bitterly at the memory of Future Draco turning her down the first time.

And only yesterday she had nearly kissed Draco in her mind palace. She had wanted to — Merlin, she wanted to — and that truth unsettled her more than anything. Was she only reaching for him because he reminded her of the man she had loved in another lifetime? She couldn’t reconcile the two. This Draco was not him, and yet he was. They were shaped by different events, different choices.

She pressed her palms to her face, hot water streaming down. Should she let herself fall again?

Potions Class

The classroom smelled faintly of ash and pearl dust when Hermione stepped inside. Four cauldrons sat bubbling at the front, their pearly liquid catching the candlelight like shimmering silk. Professor Slughorn leaned over each one, sprinkling in a final pinch of crushed pearl. The air shifted, and a sharp, familiar scent of pine slid into her lungs. Her stomach sank.

Morgana strike her now. Amortentia. Of all days, it had to be today.

She edged into the middle of the crowd, careful to tuck herself between taller students. She had no desire to be anywhere near those cauldrons. Across the room, she caught sight of Draco leaning toward Theo, lips curled in a quiet laugh at some private joke. He looked far too relaxed, while she was trying to keep her pulse steady.

When the class had fully gathered, Slughorn’s booming voice carried over the chatter. “Now then, who can tell me what potion this is?”

Every head seemed to swivel toward her, expectant. Of course. She always had the answer. This time, she kept her gaze fixed on the flagstones, silently willing the professor to look elsewhere.

“How about you, Mr. Wigby?”

Ron startled. “It’s Weasley, sir. And… er… Amortentia. It's a powerful love potion.”

“Very good, Mr. Wissby!” Slughorn beamed, raising a phial. “Not only powerful, but the most powerful in the world. Five points to Gryffindor. Its aroma is unique to each witch or wizard — what you smell is what you find most alluring.” His eyes scanned the room before fixing, to Hermione’s dread, on her. “Ms. Granger, there at the back, why don’t you give us a demonstration?”

Shit. Perfect. Just perfect.

She forced a polite smile and stepped forward, every stride heavy with reluctance. In another lifetime she had done this, it smelled like Ron. But now, she knew exactly what would rise to meet her.

The cauldron’s steam curled against her face, warm and cloying. She inhaled, and the world seemed to narrow to three distinct notes: pine, sharp and clean; spearmint, fresh enough to sting; and, almost hidden, the sweet crispness of green apples. Her throat tightened. She already knew it was him.

“I smell pine… spearmint… and…” her voice faltered to the barest whisper, “green apples.”

“Thank you, Ms. Granger!” Slughorn clapped his hands, delight ringing in his voice. “Now, who’s next?”

Hermione stepped back quickly, cheeks burning, and melted into the line of students. Across the room, the Slytherins stood in a neat row. She avoided looking up, avoided the inevitable storm-grey gaze she knew would be fixed on her. The air felt charged, as though the potion’s steam had followed her, clinging to her skin.

Defense Against The Dark Arts Class

“I smell pine… spearmint… and… green apples.”

Her voice wouldn’t leave Draco's head. The words replayed, circling endlessly, each one digging under his skin. Slughorn had called her first, his beady eyes landing on her. She’d looked reluctant, hesitant in a way Hermione Granger never was in class. Not eager to impress, not even lifting her hand. Resigned, almost.

She hadn’t wanted to participate. That much was obvious. Draco suspected she already knew what she would smell. Which meant she’d dreaded this moment. Which meant… she’d dreaded admitting it.

And then she had.

Pine. Spearmint. Green Apples.

Salazar help him, she’d as good as confessed in front of the entire class that she fancied him. The way she refused to look at him afterward had been bloody adorable, almost as sweet as the blush on her cheeks. He remembered the way he had nearly kissed her in her mind palace yesterday. Nearly. That small gap still gnawed at him.

So why did this feel so complicated? Was it really his attraction, or was it his erratic magic steering him, shoving him toward her? His magic craved her presence, calmed around her, even sought her out like it had a will of its own.

And then when they brewed their own Amortentia, the scents had hit him with devastating clarity. Peaches. Jasmine. Ink. Fuck. That was her.

Draco had never felt anything like this before. He’d fancied witches, sure, but never like this. Never with this gnawing ache in his chest, this restless need to watch her, to unravel her, to touch her.

Across the classroom, she stood beside Potter and the Weasel, their heads bent together in some conversation about Quidditch. Granger, of course, wasn’t paying them the slightest attention, nose buried in her Defense book, her lashes dark against her skin. She’d tied her curls back, exposing the pale line of her neck. Merlin, her nape looked too bloody tempting. That faint blush still clung to her skin, reminding him of what she had admitted moments earlier.

“Wands out,” Snape entered the classroom, his voice smooth and icy, silencing even the scrape of chairs. “Today you will begin a discipline far beyond the childish flicking and chanting you have grown accustomed to.” His gaze drifted over them, lingering long enough to make each student feel flayed open.

He raised his wand and, without a word, sent a jet of light snapping across the room. A boy yelped as his ink bottle exploded, drenching his notes in black rivulets. Snape’s mouth curved — not in amusement, but in disdain.

“This is the art of non-verbal spellwork,” he continued. “A skill that separates the mediocre from the competent. Some of you may even prove adequate. Most will not.”

He set them into groups of three, each huddled around a battered mannequin. Draco found himself with Theo and Blaise.

Snape prowled between the groups, speaking as if each word carried the weight of inevitability. “Non-verbal magic requires precision. Fifty percent intent. Forty percent visualization…” His gaze landed on Potter, sharp as a curse.

Harry whispered sideways to Granger, “What’s the other ten?”

Snape’s voice cut through the air. “Ten percent sheer, dumb luck,” he drawled, the words curling with quiet contempt.

The class snickered under their breath, though no one dared let the sound rise above a murmur.

Snape flicked his wand toward one of the mannequins. It stiffened, posture locking as if waiting for battle. “You begin with clarity of will. Think of the effect, not the word. Picture it, feel it. A spoken incantation guides you. A non-verbal spell demands you guide yourself.” He gestured toward the mannequins, his dark eyes glinting. “Begin.”

Draco found it surprisingly easy. He lifted his wand and, without a word, sent a sharp flippendo. A neat burst of purple light struck the mannequin squarely, flipping it onto its back with a loud thud. The students nearby let out impressed murmurs, and Theo and Blaise clapped him on the back. Draco smirked, pretending he hadn’t expected anything less.

Theo went next, attempting a silent Depulso. The mannequin only wobbled a few inches off the ground, hovering awkwardly before settling down again. Draco frowned, wondering why it faltered. Then his own magic stirred again, pressing insistently against his chest like a restless animal. With a sigh, he gave in and redirected his magic to his eyes.

Threads again. Thin, white wisps of threads stretched across the room — every student’s magic spilling from their wands like spider silk. Normally, one only saw the glow of a spell as it landed, but this… this was different.

He glanced at Blaise, who had aimed a non-verbal Glacius at the mannequin. The thread leaving his wand was there, but faint, hardly visible. The spell hit well enough, coating the mannequin in frost, but Draco knew Blaise could have done better aloud.

Theo tried Depulso again, but the mannequin floated uselessly in the air. His thread fizzled halfway before even reaching the target.

“Your aim’s fine,” Draco muttered, folding his arms. “It’s the way you’re picturing it. Try this instead: imagine you’re a Beater. You’ve got a bat in your hands, but the bludger’s a ball of Depulso. See it flying, see the colour of it, then picture the mannequin smashing into the floor.”

Theo eyed him sceptically, then squared his shoulders and tried again. The thread shot forward, clear and forceful, slamming the mannequin off its feet. It hit the ground with a cracking thud, breaking into pieces. The class gasped, a few clapped, and Blaise let out a low whistle.

“That was bloody brilliant.” Theo folded his arms, smug.

Blaise raised his wand, ready to repair the damage, but Draco stopped him. “You’re holding back. It’s not your technique — it’s your will. You don’t believe it’ll work.”

Blaise arched a brow, lips twitching. He knew Draco too well. “And you’d know that how?”

Draco smirked. “Remember when I mentioned I can see raw magic? Yours looked faint. When you cast like you mean it, it’s stronger, brighter. Try again.”

Blaise scoffed, but aimed anyway. His wand flicked. The thread surged forward, solid and glowing, knitting the mannequin back together in an instant. The thing stood taller than before, straighter, as if it were brand new.

Draco’s smirk widened. “There you go.”

Blaise barked a laugh and nudged him with his elbow. “It’s like we've got a bloody cheat code.”

Then the three of them exchanged a look — no words, just that familiar spark of mischief — and moved into place, shoulder to shoulder, wands lifted.

“On three,” Blaise said, grin tugging at his mouth. Both Draco and Theo nodded. “Aaand… three.”

Blaise flicked his wand first, sending a silent Levioso that carried the mannequin high into the air. Draco followed in quick succession, his wand snapping as he layered a wordless Stupefy and an Accio, forcing the target taut and suspended in midair like some doomed puppet. Theo grinned wickedly, raising his wand, and ended it with a vicious Reducto. The mannequin exploded in a spectacular burst, fragments raining down in a scatter of wood and fabric.

The classroom erupted in gasps and whispers, admiration thick in the air. Even Snape approached, his dark gaze gleaming with something dangerously close to pride.

“As expected,” he drawled, voice laced with smugness. “Twenty points to Slytherin… each.”

Theo clapped them both on the back, laughing. Blaise smirked like a cat who’d found the cream. Draco let himself grin, chest still buzzing with that rush of magic, the addictive high of being better, sharper, untouchable.

“Show-offs,” Weasley scoffed somewhere near the back.

Draco’s tongue curled, ready with something scathing, when a sudden tug of magic stole his attention. He turned, narrowing his eyes. Across the room, bright white threads shot from Granger’s wand. He could see them clearly — strong and radiant, tugging at the mannequin — and yet the thing only shuddered, refusing to fall.

Intrigued, he drifted toward her, weaving through their classmates until he was right beside her. He bent close, his voice low at her ear.

“What are you trying to cast?”

Granger startled with the sweetest little squeak. The sound went through his chest. Her curls brushed his cheek, wild and soft, and she smelled — Merlin, she smelled incredible. His magic thrummed in his veins, urging him closer, begging him to touch, to take. He forced it down. Not now.

She didn’t look at him, but her cheeks burned crimson. “I wanted to cast an Avis, followed by Oppugno,” she said, brisk as ever, as though rattling off an essay.

Draco blinked, then allowed a slow smile. A conjuring charm paired with an attack? Clever and ambitious for a non-verbal spell. So very Granger.

“What kind of birds?” he asked.

“I… just birds. Canaries, maybe. It doesn’t matter.”

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a whisper, his lips a breath from her curls. “It matters. Try again. Picture them clearly. Are they yellow? White? Claws ready? Visualize them swarming the mannequin, tearing it apart. Would it be the head first? The arms next?” His gaze stayed locked on the target, though he could feel her flinch at his nearness. “Now — Avis. Then Oppugno.”

She closed her eyes briefly, drawing the picture in her mind, then lifted her wand. A shimmer of white burst forth, and suddenly a flock of yellow canaries exploded into the air, circling with furious energy. Another flick, and she commanded them forward — half diving at the mannequin’s head, the rest clawing its arms until wood splintered and fabric tore. The mannequin collapsed, headless, limbless, and utterly ruined.

Granger let out a delighted squeal. “Malfoy! It worked!” She turned toward him, face lit with triumph, curls bouncing.

Draco tilted his head, allowing a lazy smile to spread. “You’re welcome, Granger.” He held her gaze a moment too long, grey locked on gold. She smiled, biting her lip. His eyes moved towards her lips, his chest tightened, and his magic roared in approval.

The rest of class passed in a blur of spellwork. But by the time Snape dismissed them, Draco felt the weight pressing in again. His magic was restless and demanding, and it insistently clawed at the edges of his focus.

His vision sharpened and blurred in turns, threads of light spilling from every wand in the room until he had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to stay upright. He tried to push the magic away from his eyes before he hurled all over the classroom.

Snape’s eyes flicked to him once, sharp and curious, before sweeping away as though he hadn’t noticed. But Draco caught it. The Professor was watching. Evaluating.

Draco spun his quill between his fingers, eyes fixed on the half-finished Runes translation that had sat untouched for the better part of an hour. The words on the page swam uselessly, his mind entirely elsewhere. His magic had calmed somewhat, the sharp ache behind his eyes finally dulling, but there was a different kind of restlessness gnawing at him now.

With a frustrated sigh, he dropped his head onto the desk, pressing the heel of his palm against his brow. He could hardly stand another moment of this damned jitter in his chest. He spelled his parchment and ink into his satchel and stood, dragging himself back to the Slytherin dungeons.

But halfway down the Grand Staircase, he faltered. A familiar head of curls caught his eye, bobbing along in the opposite direction. His chest tightened.

Granger.

Her book was pressed tightly against her chest as though she were shielding herself. Their eyes met, and she looked instantly guilty.

“Oh. Hi, Malfoy…” Her voice wavered as though she had been caught out.

“Granger? What are you doing here?” He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening into suspicion.

“I was just passing by. I’m on my way back to Gryffindor Tower.” She glanced down at her shoes, avoiding his eyes.

He almost laughed. Hermione Granger was outstanding with almost everything — but she was a dreadful liar.

“Passing by?” He smirked, folding his arms. “Near the Slytherin dorms? That’s quite the detour.”

Her lips parted as though to defend herself, then closed again. Her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink. Draco’s smirk deepened. She had been hoping to run into him. Just as he had been hoping to find her earlier in the library.

“I can walk wherever I please, Malfoy.” She pouted, chin tilting up.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, though his pulse quickened at her defiance. There was the fiery witch he knew. “Come on, I’ll walk you back.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

She gave a little sigh that told him she knew she had lost this one. When she smiled, just faintly, it undid him more than he cared to admit.

They walked together in silence. His gaze drifted down, catching how petite she was beside him. He could lift her without effort. His magic thrummed at the thought, humming its agreement, stirring inside him as though it too had made its choice.

What was happening to him? His attraction to witches had always been simple. If he wanted them, he pursued them, had his fun, and let go when the fire burned out. But with Granger, it was entirely different.

His magic wanted her. His body wanted her. And something deeper — a gnawing, terrifying feeling — was clawing at him too. He felt that if he touched her, if he gave in, there would be no stepping back into safe waters. He would drown.

They passed the Faculty Tower. His thoughts drifted, heavy with obligations. He wasn’t meant to fall into anything lasting at Hogwarts. His future had been arranged since birth. Marriage alliances, Political power, the Malfoy legacy. That had been the rule of his life. Yet everything had shifted now— with the war, his imminent betrayal of the family’s cause, the new path carved under his feet. His future was no longer secured by tradition. It was tied to this new mission. To her.

Was it reckless to want her when they had Horcruxes to find and a war to win? What if it ruined their partnership? What if she pulled away and he lost the one witch who matched him step for step in every plan, every battle?

But what if he did nothing and let her slip away?

They passed the Hospital wing. One more staircase would bring them to Gryffindor Tower. His chest constricted. He slowed, then stopped altogether.

She turned, golden eyes wide with a question. “Malfoy?” Her voice was soft, threaded with curiosity. Not the sharp tone that used to grate on him in class, when she corrected every answer or snapped back at his jabs. This voice was gentler, warmer. And he thought, with a sting of regret, that if he had only abandoned that blood purity rubbish years ago, he might have heard her speak to him this way much sooner.

She brushed a curl behind her ear, that wild hair she tried to tame but never could. He had touched it before, in Italy, and again in her mind palace. Silken and warm between his fingers. He longed to sink his hands in fully, to feel the weight of it, the softness threading between his knuckles. The thought pressed painfully against his ribs.

Before he could think better of it, he stepped down a stair so he stood closer to her, and she lifted her face to look at him. He wanted this. He wanted her. Damn the doubts, damn the rules, damn the war.

He reached for her wrist, the fine bones beneath his fingers startlingly delicate, and tugged her away from the Gryffindor corridor.

“Malfoy, where are we going?”

“Trust me, Granger?”

She faltered, then whispered, “I… yes.”

That was all he needed.

He pulled her up the clocktower staircase, higher and higher until they reached the interior balcony, the vast pendulum swinging in front of them, air sweeping in through tall windows. He dropped his satchel with a dull thud. She looked at him in question, her curls framing her face, lips parted slightly.

“Do you know what you do to me, Granger?” His voice was low, almost a growl, as he plucked the book from her arms and sent it floating down onto his satchel.

He stepped closer, closing the last of the distance. She didn’t move. She didn’t answer.

“You’ve been driving me mad, and I don’t know what to do with you.” His fingers caught a curl, winding it slowly around them, savouring the texture, the nearness. His heart pounded in his throat, his breath shallow.

He wanted her. And this time, he was done running from it.

Her curls brushed against his cheek as he leaned closer, his thumb grazing the curve of her jaw. He had imagined this moment, but nothing could have prepared him for the way his chest constricted as her golden eyes met his. He lowered his forehead to hers, his breath mingling with hers.

“Tell me you want this too, Granger,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Her hands trembled where they rested on his chest. She swallowed, lips parted, and whispered, “I do… but I’m scared.”

“That makes two of us,” he breathed…

…and then he closed the space between them.

The first touch of her lips was tentative, a brush, testing — then the restraint shattered. She melted into him, and he devoured her. Their mouths crashed together with a hunger that stole his breath, her lips parting beneath his, their kiss deepening until he was lost. She tasted of heat and sugar quills , and he drank her in like he had been starving for years.

Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he angled his head, kissing her harder, deeper, until every coherent thought slipped away. He buried a hand in her curls, silken strands sliding between his fingers, tugging her even nearer as she pressed against him with surprising force. She was matching him, answering him, gasping softly, only to kiss him again with equal desperation.

And then his magic surged.

It wasn’t just a kiss anymore — it was fire spilling through his veins. Her magic twined with his, golden threads wrapping around silver, and the air between them shimmered with it. His skin tingled where she touched him, every brush of her mouth sparking light that burned through his chest. He couldn’t stop, and fuck, he didn’t want to.

He broke only for a ragged breath before he pressed her back against the cold stone wall of the clocktower, caging her in. One hand cradled the back of her head, shielding her from the stone, while his lips found the delicate line of her neck. He had imagined this countless times, dreamt of the taste of her skin, and now that it was real, it was intoxicating. She arched toward him, a soft gasp escaping as his mouth traced her throat, his tongue soothing where his teeth had grazed.

Her scent flooded him — peaches and jasmine, threaded with that faint ink scent he always seemed to catch when she was near. It was dizzying, overwhelming. He wanted more. He wanted everything.

Her nails dug into his shoulders, her head tilting back, and his control trembled on the edge of breaking. His magic roared with hers, demanding more, begging him to go further. For a terrifying, blissful moment, he nearly surrendered.

But he forced himself back.

With a groan torn from deep in his chest, Draco wrenched his mouth from her neck and pressed his forehead to hers instead. They stood there, breaths ragged and uneven, lips swollen, both stunned by what they had just unleashed. His thumb stroked her cheek as he tried to steady himself, but the truth pressed hard in his chest.

He had finally kissed Granger, and it felt like drowning — only he had no desire to be saved.

Draco felt as though he were gliding, weightless, as he made his way back to the dungeons. His body moved through the corridors, yet his mind was still back in the clocktower, pressed against warm lips and riotous curls. Was it normal to hear your own heartbeat in your ears? His pulse was beating so loudly he half expected portraits to lean forward and complain about the racket. His magic was humming too, low and steady, as if it had finally been fed after being starved. It coiled around him in satisfaction, like it was… happy. Content. Merlin, what a strange feeling.

He rounded a corner by the Faculty Tower and immediately stilled when he saw the tall, dark figure approaching.

“Draco. A word,” Snape called, his voice slicing through the quiet like a whip.

Draco straightened, pulse faltering. “Uncle—Professor Snape,” he corrected quickly, though the slip had already been heard.

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve noticed something about your magic in class.”

Draco’s stomach tightened. Shit. Did he notice? He wasn’t supposed to reveal anything, not yet. Not until the gathering in France, when they could do it properly, safely. He schooled his face into confusion, though inside his thoughts raced. “I’m not sure what you mean, Professor.”

One dark brow arched, unimpressed. “Do not insult me, Draco. I’ve known you since you were in nappies. I could tell when you were lying before you could string a proper sentence together.”

Draco groaned, scrunching his face. “It’s nothing, alright? My magic’s just been… unstable lately. That’s all. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Unstable?” Snape’s voice sharpened.

Draco forced a shrug, casual. “Maybe I’ve been overusing it. Practising too much. I’ve been working on Occlumency and Legilimency with Theo and Blaise, pushing further than usual in the Undercroft. I probably overdid it.” The lie slipped out smoothly. He could only hope it sounded convincing.

Snape’s gaze lingered on him, black eyes cutting deep as though they might strip the truth straight from his mind. Draco held steady, kept the wall in place.

At last, Snape exhaled through his nose. “Have I not taught you the dangers of overusing mind magic?” His tone snapped like a whip. “Even a natural Occlumens and Legilimens such as yourself risks damaging the magical core if one pushes too far. Recklessness is no virtue.”

Relief flickered through Draco’s chest. He had bought it. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I’ll be more careful.”

“See that you are,” Snape bit back. Then, after a pause, softer but no less stern: “Do not use either discipline for a week or two. Meet me tomorrow after your classes. I’ll prepare suppressants for you.” He sighed, muttering, “Like mother, like son.”

The mention of his mother cracked through his relief like a stone to glass. “Mother?” His throat tightened. “What do you mean? Is she alright?”

“She’s fine,” Snape said quickly, though he avoided Draco’s eyes. “Merely… unsettled. Visitors at the manor have been pressing her. She is strong enough to handle it.”

Draco swallowed hard, fists clenching at his sides. “Is she safe?”

“Your mother is a powerful witch,” Snape answered, meeting his gaze finally. “She can protect herself.” The words were meant to reassure, but they only half-settled the dread crawling in Draco’s chest.

Snape flicked his gaze toward the dungeon stairs. “Now go. It’s past curfew.” He swept past, robes flaring behind him, leaving the faint scent of potion smoke in the air.

Draco stood rooted for a heartbeat, the echo of his godfather’s words gnawing at him. He forced himself to move, shoulders tight, feet dragging toward the dungeons.

As he turned the last corridor, a flash of red streaked past the shadows ahead — quick and gone in an instant. He stilled, eyes narrowing. Probably just Weasley skulking about, or one of the castle’s strange tricks. He shook his head and pressed on, the weight of too many thoughts dragging behind him as he descended into the Slytherin halls.

Chapter Text

The Room of Requirement felt unbearably tense. Hermione sat stiffly, and the silence pressed on her chest. Blaise lounged with his arms folded, studying his fingers as if the faintest speck of dirt there were of far greater interest than any of them. Theo stretched out on the chaise, yawning as he dragged a hand lazily through his dark brown hair. Draco paced the length of the rug, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

Between her and Harry, Ron sat like a shield, shoulders rigid, his sneer aimed squarely at the Slytherins. Hermione felt a pang of sympathy for him; he looked so out of place, cornered in a room that seemed to be laughing at him.

The Slytherins had been the first to arrive, and of course, they had chosen to make the room resemble their common room — green tapestries and silver accents. It was a jab, obviously, but Hermione couldn’t help finding it a little funny. Even Harry, rather than scowling, was glancing around curiously as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

“You know,” Harry said at last, breaking the oppressive silence, “I was supposed to be sorted in Slytherin.”

Theo’s eyebrows rose with genuine interest. “Really? And how did you end up with the lions, then?”

Harry shrugged, though Hermione noticed the slight grin tugging at his mouth. “I met a bigoted blonde arse before the Sorting started, so I asked the Hat to put me anywhere else.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. Draco stilled in his pacing, his head snapping toward Harry with a sharp glare, though his composure remained mostly intact.

“And look where you both are now,” Theo drawled, smirking. “Friends under an Unbreakable Vow.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Blaise’s laugh broke the room’s tension, though it only earned an exasperated eye roll and a scoff from Draco.

The door opened then, letting in a faint wave of perfume before Ginny appeared. Hermione exhaled softly in relief. At last.

“Sorry, everyone,” Ginny said, cheeks flushed. “There was a bubotuber pus explosion in Potions. I had to shower before coming.”

Her smile lit the room, and Hermione didn’t miss the way Blaise instantly straightened, moving to greet her with feline grace. He tucked a strand of her copper hair behind her ear, his voice low enough that Hermione couldn’t hear what he said. Ginny’s answering blush was unmistakable, and she giggled before slipping onto the chaise between Theo and Blaise.

“Why are you sitting there, Gin? We saved a seat for you here,” Ron snapped, pointing furiously at the empty chair beside Hermione.

Ginny’s patience cracked at once. “Oh, quit it, will you, Ron? I’m perfectly fine here.” Her arms crossed, and her glare was sharp enough to cut.

Blaise made a show of draping an arm over her shoulders, only for Ginny to tilt her head and arch a brow at him in warning. “Are you really trying to piss off my brother?”

Blaise held up both hands in mock surrender, his grin never faltering. “Fine, I’ll behave.”

Ron gave an indignant scoff, which only made Theo smirk and Blaise chuckle. Hermione pressed her lips together, trying and failing to hide her own smile.

“Alright, everyone. Now that we’re all here, we need to search for the first Horcrux — the Lost Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw.” Hermione rose to her feet, the weight of the task grounding her as every pair of eyes turned toward her.

In her timeline, the diadem had been found here, buried among the forgotten furniture in the Room of Hidden Things. But this time, she, Harry, and Draco had searched all morning and came up empty-handed. Something had shifted. She remembered Dumbledore telling Harry at the start of summer how magical anomalies had rippled through Hogwarts ever since he destroyed the Ring. If the diadem had slipped from its hiding place, it might have been pulled elsewhere by that disturbance.

And so here they were, because Draco had suggested that they ask for help. She had been surprised at how firmly he had pushed for it. She and Harry hadn’t argued.

“Wait—” Theo leaned forward, brows furrowed. “That’s a real artifact? I thought it was just some House myth.”

“It’s real,” Hermione answered, steady and sure. “And Voldemort used it to house a piece of his soul. He favoured old family relics. Some of the other artifacts he chose are outside Hogwarts, but the Diadem… that one we have a chance of finding.”

Ron frowned, arms crossed tight. “So how are we supposed to find something that’s already Lost?”

Ginny, who had been quiet until now, spoke up. “We could ask the Grey Lady. She’s Rowena Ravenclaw’s daughter. She’s always drifting around Gryffindor Tower. If anyone knows where it ended up, it’s her.”

Draco stopped pacing, hand brushing his chin as he considered it. He turned, his grey eyes catching Hermione’s for a fleeting moment. “Good one, Red,” he said with a faint nod before shifting his attention back to her. “And you know how to destroy it, right?”

Her throat tightened. She looked up at him but only for a second; the memory of his mouth on hers a few nights ago made her cheeks burn. “I… yes. We could use the Sword of Gryffindor, but sneaking it out of Dumbledore’s office is far too risky. The safer option is the basilisk fangs in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Bloody hell, we have to go back there?” Ron’s voice cracked, fear flashing across his face.

Hermione noticed Ginny go still, her posture tightening. Blaise leaned closer, whispering something against her ear, and Ginny gave a small nod, lips forming the words, I’m fine. Hermione’s heart ached. She glanced at Harry and saw the quiet understanding in his eyes as he nodded back.

Theo tilted his head, noticing the discomfort of the Gryffindors. “Can someone explain the basilisk fangs and this Chamber of Secrets business?”

“A story for later,” Harry cut in quickly, sparing Ginny further discomfort.

Theo grinned, unbothered. “Looking forward to it, Potter. It's a date.”

Harry rolled his eyes, already used to Theo's antics, but his grin betrayed him. The blush creeping up his neck did the rest. Hermione almost laughed at how easily Theo could unravel him.

Harry cleared his throat loudly, trying for authority. “We’ll split into teams. Hermione, Ginny, Theo, and I will search for the diadem. Ron, Malfoy, and Blaise will go after the basilisk fangs.”

Hermione caught Ron’s expression instantly — the rising flush, the twitch in his jaw, the protest forming on his lips. She, Harry, and Draco had planned this, anticipating Ron’s reaction. He had been sulking lately, feeling edged out, and this was meant to give him purpose. Draco had grumbled about trusting Ron with anything more complicated than holding a broom, but when Hermione had pressed him, pleaded with him, he had relented.

Only because you asked, Granger. His voice had lingered in her mind ever since, warm enough to spread through her chest even now.

“Why do I have to be stuck with them?” Ron pouted, the words tumbling out anyway. He was wonderful, but subtlety had never been in his nature. He wore his emotions on his sleeve, his temper most of all. But he was trying, she reminded herself. He really was trying.

“Because there’s a chance I can sense the diadem, since I'm somewhat connected to Voldemort,” Harry explained patiently. “And Mione knows exactly what it looks like. Ron, you know your way to the Chamber. I taught you the password, remember? We’re counting on you, mate.” Harry smirked, clapping him on the back.

That did it. Hermione saw Ron’s indignation soften. He would rarely bend for her reasoning, but for Harry? Always. Her red-haired best friend ducked his head, ears pink, lips curling in a shy little smile that was so unmistakably Ron.

Hermione handed out the charmed Knuts, pressing one into each palm. “If anything happens, use these to contact the others.”

Team Diadem

"She always passes by here after Quidditch practice," Ginny said as they waited by the West Tower staircase across the Flying Class lawn. "Let's wait a few more minutes."

Hermione knew when Ginny was nervous. She tapped her fingers nervously on the wall as they waited. In the future, she had the same mannerisms whenever she anxiously waited for Harry to come back from a mission.

She clasped Ginny's hand and entwined it in hers. "They'll be fine, Gin."

"I know." She said, leaning her head on Hermione's, "I… It's just hard, you know, remembering what happened. I thought I was going to die." She whispered.

"I'm glad Harry found you in time," Hermione whispered back, nudging her. She felt Ginny squeeze her hand.

A few moments later, they felt a cold sensation pass beside them. Harry and Theo walked towards them. They spotted the Grey Lady gliding silently outwards from the tower, the faint shimmer of her gown catching the moonlight that scattered through the lawn. They hurried forward before she could vanish through another wall as she so often did when students pestered her.

"Excuse me—Helena Ravenclaw," Harry called. The ghost turned, her expression cool, eyes like pools of pale smoke.

The ghost looked at the group. "It has been a while since I have been called by my birth name. Hello."

"Um, Hello." Harry looked at Hermione, who nodded at him. “We're sorry to bother you,” he continued quickly, lowering his voice so it wouldn't be heard by wandering students on the lawn. “But we need your help. It’s… It’s about your mother’s diadem.”

Her gaze sharpened, and for a moment, he thought she might sweep away without a word. Ginny then continued, words tumbling out more quickly now.

“We know it was lost. We believe You-Know-Who used it to hide something terrible inside it. If we can find it, if we can destroy it, it might be the only way to stop him.”

Ginny stopped, realising how raw and pleading her tone had become. The Grey Lady drifted closer, her voice low and edged with bitterness.

“My mother’s diadem has brought nothing but folly and ruin,” she murmured. “What makes you think you are worthy of it?”

Harry swallowed. He had no clever answer, only the truth. “I don’t care about being worthy. I only care about ending him. Please. If you know where it is… tell me.”

Hermione's palm felt damp despite the chill in the air. Helena drifted closer, her pale form shimmering faintly, her expression one of guarded disdain. But then unexpectedly, her gaze softened, just barely, and for a moment she looked less like a spectre and more like the frightened daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw.

“Before this school year began,” she said, her voice lilting like an old hymn, “I kept it hidden, safe, away from grasping hands. But when the castle shuddered beneath a surge of dark power, I knew… I knew the foulness of men would reach for it again, to bind their ambitions with ancient wisdom. I could not bear to see my mother’s relic defiled once more.”

She hesitated, and Hermione thought she saw the faintest tremor in her hands.

“So I placed it in the custody of one who could never escape the memory of his own cruelty. I bade the Baron guard it — as penance for the blood he spilt when he took my life.”

Hermione’s stomach clenched. “The Bloody Baron has it?”

Her eyes glittered with a sharpness that might have been triumph or despair. “Yes. My murderer carries my burden now. Whether you can wrest it from him… that is between you and the one who drips with chains of blood.”

She drifted back, her expression closing once more. “Go, then. Seek him in the shadows he haunts.” Then she drifted back into the castle

—

The dungeon corridor was colder than Hermione expected, the torches sputtering as though even fire didn’t want to linger here. At the far end, the Bloody Baron hung in the air like a shadow made flesh, spectral chains dragging softly against stone.

He fixed them with hollow eyes, his face a mask of sorrow. “So the Grey Lady has loosened her tongue,” he said, voice like iron dragged across stone. “She has told you my shame… and my charge.”

Harry swallowed but held his ground. “Helena said you’re keeping the Diadem. We need it. Voldemort has corrupted it. If we don’t destroy it, he’ll never be stopped.”

The Baron’s face darkened, a terrible, silent fury rolling off him. He drifted forward, so close that the chill of his presence pierced Harry’s skin. “You dare speak her name to me?” His voice was a blade, sharp and cruel. “You, a Gryffindor child, who knows nothing of honour or penance? I owe you no answers.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “You don’t understand, this isn’t about—”

But the Baron swept past him, voice like a hiss of steel on stone. “Be silent. I will not be commanded by a boy who flaunts bravery without wisdom. Leave me.”

For a moment, it seemed the conversation was lost. Then Theo Nott, who had been lingering at the edge, stepped forward. He placed a palm on Harry's shoulder and cleared his throat. His tone was quieter than Harry’s, smoother, his Slytherin drawl deliberate and respectful.

“My lord Baron,” Theo said, inclining his head slightly, “Potter speaks rashly, but not without cause. The Grey Lady entrusted you with her mother’s relic, did she not? And in that trust, you found a purpose fitting for the burden you carry. None of us here doubts the weight of it. We only ask… not to ease ourselves, but to honour her decision.”

The Baron’s cold gaze shifted. He studied Theo for a long, withering moment, the faint rattle of his chains filling the silence. At last, a brittle sound escaped him — half laugh, half groan.

“Ah. At least one tongue among you has learned to speak with care. You wear your House like a second skin, boy. Perhaps it is Slytherin’s legacy in you that stays my contempt.”

Theo didn’t flinch. “Then let us prove that loyalty to Slytherin’s legacy is not lost in our generation. Show us the way, and we will bear the cost that you cannot.”

The Baron drifted back, a spectral shudder rippling through his form. When he finally spoke again, it was in that hollow cadence when doing rituals, words that echoed against the stones as though the castle itself were repeating them:

"Down the spine of the castle where steps grow weary,
Follow the echoes where laughter does not tread.
Seek the serpents etched in stone and silence,
Where fire awakens what the living call dead.
Three flames in unison shall bear the passage,
To secrets sealed by blood and tongue long lost.
Enter if you dare, child of fleeting breath,
But know—Slytherin’s gifts are never free of cost."

The Baron’s face hardened again, but his voice dropped to a whisper. “Do not mistake this for mercy. I reveal the path because the Grey Lady’s torment is mine, and mine alone. Fail, and the castle will devour you. Succeed, and you may yet wish you had not.”

His chains rattled once more, and he vanished into the stone, leaving the dungeon colder than before.

—

The Bloody Baron’s riddle clung to Hermione’s thoughts long after his chilling presence had vanished into the stone. Each syllable echoed in the corridors, carrying that dreadful warning: Slytherin’s gifts are never free of cost. She could still feel the unnatural cold where he had hovered, and though she told herself to shake it off, her skin prickled as though he lingered still.

Theo walked a half-step ahead, his expression sharper than usual, his eyes glittering with some private recognition. Harry, beside her, was muttering under his breath, frustrated at the Baron’s cryptic refusal to simply hand over the truth. Ginny kept close to Harry, her jaw tight, fiery temper held in check but burning behind her eyes. Hermione knew all three of them were waiting for her to puzzle it out, but Theo’s posture said otherwise. He knew something.

“The words,” Theo began at last, his voice calm, “aren’t just a riddle. They’re from a song. An old one… a Slytherin chant. My father made me memorise scraps of it once, when I was younger. He said it was tradition.” He smirked bitterly. “Never thought it would matter.”

Hermione turned to him sharply. “A song? About what?”

“About Slytherin’s private study. The one hidden in the foundations of the castle. The place he worked when he wanted no eyes upon him. What he called his Scriptorium.”

Her chest tightened. “Then that’s where the diadem must be.”

Harry frowned, running a hand through his hair. “And the Baron just… sang us directions?”

Theo nodded once, grimly. “It’s not just directions. It’s instructions. A trial.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Her mind was already ticking through the lines, piecing them together as if she were lining up Arithmancy equations. Down the spine of the castle… follow the echoes where laughter does not tread… serpents etched in stone… fire awakens the dead… three flames in unison… The pieces fell neatly into place. She could almost see the path unfurling before her.

“We start at the Grand Staircase,” she said. “All the way down. The dungeons. That’s the spine. Where students don’t wander unless they belong there.”

Theo’s mouth twitched into something like approval. “Correct. And the serpents carved in stone — that’s near the old dungeon passage. Few ever notice them.”

Harry shot him a look. “Lead the way then. You’re the one who can actually make sense of this.”

And so they descended, their footsteps carrying them deeper into the chill belly of the castle. The light shifted with every floor, torch-glow dimming until shadows stretched long and uneasy across the stone. Hermione’s thoughts sharpened. Each detail of the Baron’s riddle pressed at her mind like a hand urging her forward.

At last, they came to it: the wall marked with three faintly carved serpents, scales barely visible in the low light. “Here,” Theo whispered.

In front of the wall stood three tall iron braziers, cold and empty, exactly as the riddle had promised.

“Three flames in unison,” Ginny murmured, eyeing the metal bowls. “Sounds like they want lighting.”

Harry raised his wand instantly. “Incendio?”

Hermione shook her head quickly. “Not one at a time. In unison. If we don’t time it right, it might not work.”

She lifted her wand. “Harry, Ginny—on my count. Aim carefully. We light them together.”

They raised their wands, and for a brief second, Hermione’s nerves trembled. If they failed — if she misread this — what would happen? But there was no choice. She steadied her voice. “Now.”

Three jets of flame burst forth, striking each brazier almost simultaneously. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then fire roared to life, bright and fierce, and the carvings of serpents along the wall glowed faintly green. With a grinding groan of stone, the wall split open, revealing a narrow, downward corridor.

Ginny breathed out. “10 points to Gryffindor.”

The boys chuckled, but Hermione only felt her stomach knot tighter. If this was the beginning, what waited deeper inside?

They stepped into the passage, the door sealing behind them with a sound that made Hermione’s skin crawl. She cast a Lumos, the tip of her wand spilling pale light over damp stone. The air grew colder still, heavy with the scent of mildew and something older, something stale, as if the walls themselves had been sealed for centuries.

The corridor wound sharply, ending at a set of gates marked with twin symbols etched into the iron. A snake-shaped lock crouched beside it, its dials etched with unfamiliar runes.

Harry scowled. “What now?”

Hermione crouched before the lock, studying it intently. “The riddle mentioned serpents etched in stone and silence. This must be one of them. The lock has to match the gate.”

She examined the symbols, mind racing, then spun the top dial until the rune aligned with the first mark, and the lower dial until the second clicked into place. The snake’s eyes glowed faintly, then uncoiled, the gate shuddering open.

Ginny gave her a sidelong grin. “Show-off.”

They pressed onward, solving two more locks in turn. Each time, Hermione’s wand shook slightly as she aligned the runes, nerves buzzing in her fingertips. Each successful click echoed in her chest like thunder. She hated to admit it, but the Baron’s warning had burrowed into her thoughts. Slytherin’s gifts are never free of cost. What price were they walking toward?

The final gate opened with a reluctant groan, spilling them into a larger chamber. Its walls loomed high and oppressive, the air thick with centuries of secrets. At the far end stood a great stone door, its surface carved with serpentine patterns. But what struck Hermione most was the writing across the arch: a command, chilling in its simplicity.

Only through pain shall you pass.

Hermione’s breath caught. The inscription was carved into the stone as if the words themselves bled from it. The Baron’s warning thudded through her skull again, relentless and cold.

Beside her, Harry leaned closer to the door. The serpents etched along its arch seemed to writhe faintly in the torchlight, their mouths half-open. Hermione knew before he spoke that the door would demand more than a written command.

“Parseltongue,” Harry muttered, grimacing. He hissed the word for open, his voice sliding into that dreadful tongue, and the serpents shifted, stone uncoiling with a grating groan.

The door swung inward, revealing not a chamber but another passage, narrow and suffocating. On its walls gleamed more words, shimmering faintly green:

One must bear the Cruciatus to proceed.

Hermione’s stomach clenched. She could not breathe for a moment, her mind scrambling for loopholes, exceptions, anything but what those words demanded.

Theo’s voice broke the silence. “I’ll take it.”

Her head snapped to him. “No.” The word tore from her throat harsher than she meant. “We’ll find another way. There has to be—”

But Theo only gave her that calm, weary smile. “Hermione, stop. There isn’t. This is how Slytherins built their wards. It's straightforward. There’s no deeper meaning than what you see.”

She began pacing, her wand clutched so tightly her knuckles ached. “There must be another solution—another spell—”

Theo shook his head, tone maddeningly even. “It wants suffering. Nothing else will open it. Better me than any of you. I'm used to it.”

Ginny’s voice cracked. “You can’t ask us to—”

Theo cut across gently, turning to Harry. “It has to be you, Potter.”

Harry stared at him as though he had grown another head. “Absolutely not.”

Theo tilted his head, the faintest sad smile quirking his lips. “You have to mean it. Intent matters. No one else could fake that as well as you. Go on. Think of all the times you’ve wanted to hex Draco into the floor.” His eyes softened, almost apologetic, and he gave Harry a small, crooked wink. “I’ll survive. Probably.”

Hermione’s throat burned. She wanted to scream at them both, to rip the inscription from the wall and tear down this whole cursed place stone by stone. But Harry’s face was set, grim, furious, and desperate. Slowly, he lifted his wand.

Theo straightened, arms loose at his sides, chin tilted slightly as though resigned to the inevitable. “Remember, Potter,” he murmured. “It has to hurt.”

Harry’s lips twisted. “Crucio"

Theo collapsed instantly. His body arched in a grotesque spasm before crashing against the stone floor with a sickening thud. The sound ripped through Hermione’s chest.

The door groaned and swung open, but none of them cared. All three of them dropped to their knees beside Theo.

Ginny’s hands fumbled at his throat, her face white. “He’s not — he’s not breathing.”

Hermione’s vision blurred. She shoved Ginny’s hands away, wand trembling as she cast Rennervate. Once. Twice. Again and again, her voice breaking with every incantation. Nothing.

“No, no, no—”

Suddenly, Harry shoved them both aside. “Move!” He dropped down, pressing his hands against Theo’s chest, forcing sharp compressions, then sealing his mouth over Theo’s pushing breath into his lungs. Hermione froze, her mind racing with disbelief. Of course — Muggle medicine.

Again and again, Harry breathed life into Theo, desperate and relentless.

At last, with a ragged choke, Theo’s chest heaved. His eyes flew open, wide and unfocused.

Hermione nearly sobbed with relief, her hands shaking violently as Harry pulled back.

Theo blinked, disoriented, then focused on Harry still hovering over him. A faint grin tugged at his lips. “If I knew all it took to get a kiss from Harry Potter was dying, I’d have tried this years ago.”

Harry let out a strangled laugh, sagging with relief. “Sorry, welcome back,” he muttered, helping Theo sit up.

Theo’s smile sharpened, though his face was still pale. “You can pay penance with a date.”

Harry chuckled again, shaking his head. “Merlin, you’re impossible.”

But Theo didn’t laugh. He only arched a brow, waiting. “I’m serious.”

The silence stretched, thick and uncertain.

Harry hesitated, then exhaled with a crooked grin. “Alright. A date.”

Theo’s smile softened, and he leaned into Harry’s arm for support. “Knew I’d find a way to win you over eventually.”

Hermione sat back on her heels, her heart pounding painfully. The Crucio door stood open, waiting, but she could hardly tear her eyes from the boy who had just been writhing lifeless on the floor.

Hermione noticed, just faintly, the flicker in Ginny’s eyes. The redhead’s lips pressed thin, her arms folding across her chest for a moment too long. Was it discomfort? Jealousy? Hermione could not tell, and Ginny’s face was far too composed for her to be certain. Still, something lingered there.

Then Ginny drew a steady breath and spoke gently, her voice calm as she cleared her throat. “We need to get moving. We don't know if the doors will close up again.”

Hermione swallowed her unease and nodded, rising with the others. Together, they stepped past the archway into the Slytherin Scriptorium.

The air changed immediately. It was laced with the musk of old parchment and faint traces of moldy ink, as though the chamber itself had been steeped in secrets too dark to keep clean. Green torches flickered along the walls, casting their light across carved serpents and runes etched in patterns that seemed to shift if one looked too long.

At the center stretched a long chamber, lined with shelves bowed under the weight of heavy tomes. Ink-stained tables sat in uneven rows, though most were cloaked in dust thick enough to dull the wood.

At the far end, raised upon a dais, stood a desk of black stone — unmistakably Slytherin’s.

Harry stopped abruptly, his hand pressed to his scar. His face had tightened, eyes distant. “I can feel it,” he murmured. “The Diadem. It’s here.”

Hermione’s stomach clenched, but she forced herself forward, her eyes scanning the desk. And there it was. Perched as though it had been waiting all along, the silver circlet gleamed faintly even in the dim torchlight. Its sapphire shimmered with a ghostly brilliance, as if mocking the dust that dared to cling around it.

Harry reached out and lifted it with care. Hermione’s chest tightened at the sight. The delicate filigree, the graceful curve — it was exactly as she remembered from her own timeline. “Yes,” she breathed. “That’s it. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem.”

Ginny let out a slow exhale, tension draining from her shoulders.

Hermione pulled the beaded bag from her robes, hands steady despite the rush of triumph thundering in her veins. Harry slipped the diadem inside, and she drew the strings shut, the faint shimmer of protective enchantments sealing it away.

She slid her hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around the charmed Knut, the warmth of the metal pulsing against her palm. With a subtle flick of her wand, she spelled the message across its surface, letting the magic carry the words to the other team.

We got the diadem.

Her thoughts flickered briefly to the others — Draco, Blaise, and Ron — down in the bowels of the castle, wading through the Chamber of Secrets. The sooner they procured the fangs, the sooner this cursed relic could be destroyed.

Hermione exhaled slowly, glancing once more at her companions. Ginny’s eyes remained sharp and unreadable. Theo leaned faintly against Harry’s shoulder, pale but alive.

Team Fangs

“Why would Salazar Slytherin hide the Chamber of Secrets in the Girls’ Lavatory?” Draco asked with a curl of his lip as they made their way down the second-floor corridor. His tone dripped with disdain, though beneath it sat genuine bafflement. The great Salazar Slytherin had a thing for plumbing.

“I don’t bloody know, do I?” Weasley snapped back, red already climbing his ears. “Maybe he had some fetish.”

“Don’t be disgusting, Weasley,” Blaise cut in with a look of disgust. His voice held that usual calm lilt, as though even filth had no business reaching his ears.

Weasley muttered something else, too low for Draco to catch. The sound alone was enough to set his teeth on edge. He reminded himself that Granger had pleaded for this partnership, insisting the Weasel could be trusted. Reliable when it counts, she had said. Draco had nearly laughed in her face. Reliable. He rolled his eyes at the memory. If reliability wore freckles and had the table manners of a troll, then perhaps she was right.

They slipped into the deserted lavatory, Blaise casting one last glance over his shoulder to make sure they had gone unseen. The lavatory sinks sat clustered together, cold and grimy, but one tap stood out. A serpent was carved into the metal, its fangs glinting faintly in the dim light, as though mocking them.

“Go on then, Weasley,” Draco drawled, folding his arms.

Ron shifted uncomfortably, looked between them, then bent toward the tap. He cleared his throat and hissed. The sound was clumsy, but it worked. The sink shuddered and pulled away into the floor, revealing a gaping chute that yawned like the throat of some beast. Draco stared, momentarily thrown off guard.

“You can speak Parseltongue?” The question escaped before he could stop it, and he hated the small flicker of surprise in his tone.