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Chapter Text

Hermione released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding as she stared down the length of the Hogwarts Express. Once upon a time, standing on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters had filled her with excitement— her heart fluttering at the promise of books, lessons, and magic waiting beyond the castle walls. Now, the only thing stirring in her chest was dread.

Perhaps it was because she was returning alone, without Harry and Ron flanking her as they had for seven years. Or perhaps it was because the castle itself loomed like a battlefield scarred by memory, its shadows heavier now that so many voices would never return. Whatever the reason, Hermione found herself regretting— just a little— that she had declined Kingsley’s offer of a Ministry position.

Ron and Harry had leapt at the chance to train as Aurors, throwing themselves into the Ministry’s service with reckless eagerness. Their choice had driven a fissure through what she’d once believed was an unshakable friendship.

Well— steady with Harry, at least. Ron was another matter.

Their attempt at romance had lasted barely a fortnight after that impulsive kiss in the Chamber of Secrets. Hermione had quickly realized she felt nothing more than brotherly affection for him. Ron, true to form, had not taken the revelation gracefully. His fury and heartbreak had been loud and public, followed by a sheepish apology days later that left their friendship brittle and uncertain.

Hermione had told him, truthfully, that she was returning to Hogwarts because she wanted her education completed on her own merits, not because the world owed her something for being a war heroine. Yet beneath that sensible explanation lingered a nagging pull, some deeper reason she couldn’t yet name.

“Boarding Express happening now,” a magically amplified voice echoed across the platform, jolting her back to the present.

Adjusting her grip on Crookshanks’ carrier, Hermione stepped up into the train. The warm, familiar smell of polished wood and smoke enveloped her. As she moved down the corridor, her gaze snagged on a shock of pale hair that gleamed under the carriage lights.

Malfoy.

He looked thinner than she remembered, haunted almost, though his platinum hair remained as immaculate as ever. His expression was shuttered, his posture stiff as Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott herded him toward a compartment.

Hermione froze. He glanced at her just before disappearing through the compartment door. To her surprise, his grey eyes held no malice. If anything, they flickered with something that looked like reluctant respect.

Her pulse quickened. She turned quickly, pretending not to notice him, and scurried further down the train.

“Mione!”

The familiar voice of Ginny Weasley cut through her thoughts. Relief rushed through Hermione as she spotted Ginny waving her over. Inside the compartment, Luna Lovegood sat serenely, already lost in her own world.

“Hello, Hermione. My, you’ve got a cloud of wrackspurts swirling about your head,” Luna observed dreamily, tilting her head. “Daddy always says that means there’s something troubling you.”

Hermione smiled faintly, though her chest tightened. Luna’s harmless comment struck too close to home. Since the battle, Hermione had noticed worrying gaps in her memory— small moments missing like ripped pages from a book. A mind healer had explained it as her mind protecting itself, blocking things too painful to hold. They assured her the memories would return in time. Still, the thought unnerved her.

Ginny leaned forward, her voice hushed with excitement. “Did you hear? Malfoy’s on the train.”

“I didn’t hear it,” Hermione admitted, “but I saw him.”

Ginny gasped. Luna hummed thoughtfully, as though the news explained something only she could see.

“That would explain the wrackspurts,” she said with a faraway smile.

“But why?” Ginny frowned. “Why would he even come back?”

Hermione folded her hands in her lap, thinking carefully. “It’s most likely part of his parole. Perhaps the professors have been asked to observe him— to see if he’s changed.”

It made sense. The Ministry had tried to make examples of the Malfoys after the war, but with limited success. Lucius had been sentenced to life in Azkaban. Narcissa, spared by Harry’s testimony of her role in saving his life, was confined to a single year of house arrest. Public opinion had turned her into something resembling a tragic heroine rather than a villain.

Draco’s trial had been the fiercest. The Wizengamot had wanted him imprisoned for life, painting him as his father’s son. But Harry had intervened again, offering memories of that terrible night atop the Astronomy Tower, proof that Draco had not killed Dumbledore. He had also spoken of Malfoy’s hesitation at Malfoy Manor, when Harry’s life had hung in the balance. Reluctantly, the Wizengamot had granted parole, though the rest of his sentence remained sealed.

“Sending him back to Hogwarts is probably their test,” Hermione mused aloud. “To see who he becomes when he’s given the chance.”

Ginny nodded thoughtfully, though her eyes still sparkled with suspicion. Luna, meanwhile, stared dreamily out the window, her fingers twirling absently through her hair.

“So,” Ginny asked after a pause, her tone gentler, “how was your summer?”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “I went to Australia. I restored my parents’ memories.” Her voice wavered. “But they didn’t want to come back. They said they’d write. And… that was that.”

Ginny’s face softened with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Mione.”

Hermione nodded, blinking quickly to push back tears. She forced herself to change the subject. “And you? How are you and Harry?”

Ginny hesitated, then gave a sheepish smile. “We’re not together anymore.”

“What?!”

“We gave it a try,” Ginny explained, “but it turns out what I felt was just… well, fangirl feelings. Not real. And I realized I like women. Harry and I are still friends, though.”

Relief warmed Hermione’s chest. “I’m glad you stayed friends.” She thought briefly of Ron, of how their own bond had fractured, but pushed the thought aside.

The compartment fell into an easy quiet. Ginny and Luna soon launched into chatter about their summers, their voices weaving together into a comfortable backdrop. Hermione absently stroked Crookshanks’ fur, her mind wandering back to the image of Draco Malfoy in the corridor.

His features had sharpened since she’d last seen him, the haunted look softening his once-arrogant face. She startled at her own thought— handsome? Was she truly thinking that?

With a quick shake of her head, Hermione resolved to push the notion aside. She had bigger plans. This year, she intended to take steps toward true unity between the houses. And perhaps, just perhaps, that first step would begin with Draco Malfoy.

Chapter Text

The train’s whistle shrieked as the scarlet engine slowed, steam curling against the windows. Chatter swelled in the compartments as students stirred and gathered their belongings.

Crookshanks leapt from Hermione’s lap, stretching luxuriously before padding toward the door. Hermione smoothed her robes and glanced at Ginny and Luna, who were likewise straightening their things. The compartments always seemed smaller at the end of the journey, as though the train itself was eager to disgorge its passengers.

“Ready for this?” Hermione asked softly.

Ginny gave a long, determined sigh and shoved the door open. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

They spilled into the corridor, following the tide of younger students toward the exit. Crookshanks disappeared into the crowd with a flick of his tail, off to whatever mysterious route carried him to the castle each year.

“Firs’-years, this way! Over here, yeh lot!” Hagrid’s booming voice carried across the platform, his massive hands waving like beacons over the crowd of small, nervous children.

His beetle-black eyes swept over the older students, and then he spotted Hermione. His face split into a wide grin.

“Well, if it ain’ Hermione! Good ter see yeh, it is!” he called, raising a huge hand in greeting.

Hermione smiled and lifted her hand to wave back, warmth flickering in her chest at the sight of him. For a brief moment, with Hagrid’s cheerful voice filling the air, she could almost pretend things were the way they had been before the war.

They pressed onward until the line of carriages loomed ahead. Luna lingered at a thestral, laying a gentle hand against its silken black hide. Ginny, never one for hesitation, opened the nearest door and climbed inside. Hermione followed— only to freeze.

Draco Malfoy was already there, lounging with cool precision beside Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson.

She nearly stumbled backward, but Ginny’s hand shot out and steadied her, tugging her firmly inside. Luna glided in after them, unconcerned as ever. The carriage gave a lurch and began to roll toward the castle.

“Well, well,” Draco drawled. “Look what fate’s dumped into our lap, Theo.”

“The Gryffindor princess herself,” Theo grinned, eyes glinting.

“Malfoy. Nott. Parkinson.” Hermione inclined her head, schooling her face into neutrality.

“Hello, I suppose,” Ginny huffed, crossing her arms. Luna simply smiled dreamily, gaze drifting between the three Slytherins as if she could see something the rest could not.

“So, Malfoy,” Ginny said bluntly, “why are you here?”

Pansy let out a delighted snort. “Honestly, Weasley. You’ve the subtlety of a flobberworm.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Well? What’s the answer?”

Draco’s grey eyes slid from Ginny to Hermione. The weight of his stare prickled along her skin.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he said lazily, “my parole requires it. And even if it didn’t, my mother would have dragged me back. Rebuilding reputation and all that.” His lip curled in distaste at the last words.

“Aha! Called it!” Ginny exclaimed triumphantly. “Hermione guessed the same.”

Heat rushed to Hermione’s cheeks. “I wasn’t guessing. It was the logical conclusion.”

Theo leaned forward with a smirk. “Interested in Draco, are we, Granger?”

“No!” Hermione’s protest came too quickly, too fiercely. Her cheeks flamed as she fixed her eyes firmly on the window.

Pansy cackled, delighted. “Oh, this year is going to be fun.”

“The carriage is full of wrackspurts,” Luna said serenely, breaking the tension.

All eyes swiveled toward her. She gazed back with mild amusement, offering no explanation.

“Right,” Pansy muttered, bemused. “Of course.”

Theo cleared his throat, reclaiming attention. “How about this? A truce. Between us and you lot. There’s no telling how they’ll house us eighth years, and we’d be better off prepared.”

Hermione blinked at him. Of all people, Theo Nott extending an olive branch was not what she had expected. He extended his hand, waiting.

Hermione’s instinct screamed to hesitate, but something in his expression— wry, but not mocking— pushed her forward. She clasped his hand.

“Agreed,” she said firmly.

Pansy sighed as though inconvenienced but eventually thrust her hand out as well. Hermione shook it. Across from her, Draco and Theo shook Ginny and Luna’s hands in turn.

When Draco’s palm closed around hers, Hermione felt it again: a strange jolt, as though the air itself had recognized their touch. His eyes flickered briefly in surprise before shuttering again. He released her almost at once, but the faint charge lingered in her fingers.

Luna tilted her head, gaze lingering curiously between them. Then she smiled and said nothing.

The carriage jolted to a halt before the castle gates. Theo hopped down first, gallantly gesturing. “Ladies first.”

Pansy swept past him with a toss of her hair, Luna following with her usual unearthly grace. Hermione exchanged a look with Ginny before stepping down. The boys trailed after them as they crossed the familiar stone steps into the castle.

McGonagall waited in the Entrance Hall, her sharp gaze sweeping across the students.

“Eighth years, over here, please.” She gestured crisply to the right. The rest of the students filed into the Great Hall, laughter and voices echoing as they passed.

Hermione fell into line, counting heads. Only fourteen of them had returned. The number hit her like a stone in the chest. Hogwarts had always felt haunted, but this was different— these walls carried screams that would never fade.

She shivered.

“As you know, your circumstances are slightly different,” McGonagall addressed them. “Instead of your individual common rooms, you’ll share one. Curfew remains midnight. No leaving the grounds except on weekends. Understood?”

A chorus of assent followed.

“What about classes and meals?” Lavender Brown piped up.

“They remain as usual,” McGonagall replied. “You will attend with the seventh years. After dinner, I will escort you to your new quarters. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Headmistress.”

“Good. Off you go, then.”

Hermione followed Parvati and Lavender toward the Gryffindor table, settling beside Ginny. The Great Hall felt both unchanged and utterly different. Candles floated above, the Sorting Hat sang in the corner— but the air was heavier, more fragile.

As Ginny launched into a lively retelling of their “truce” with the Slytherins, Hermione only half listened. Her eyes strayed toward the Slytherin table where Draco sat.

Something nagged at her. The way his hand had felt in hers, the flicker in his eyes— familiar in a way she couldn’t place.

A memory just out of reach.

She pressed her lips together, heart quickening. Whatever it was, her mind refused to yield it.

For now, she told herself, it was enough to wonder.

Chapter Text

Hermione was jerked out of her drifting thoughts when Ginny gave her arm a light shake.

“McGonagall’s called the eighth years to meet in the Entrance Hall,” Ginny said gently. Concern flickered in her brown eyes. “You all right, Mione?”

Hermione forced a small smile. “I’m fine. Just… lost in my head. It’s strange, being back.”

Ginny’s expression softened, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she gave Hermione a brief squeeze before they joined the others gathering near the great oak doors.

“Okay, you lot,” McGonagall said briskly, her tone carrying the kind of no-nonsense warmth that had always steadied Hermione. “I’ll take you to your new common room. As I’ve said, curfew is midnight. If you fancy a stroll, fine, but keep it sensible. I don’t want Madam Pomfrey sending word that any of you turned up half-frozen because you thought you were above rules.”

There were a few chuckles— mostly from Theo, whose smirk suggested he might test the curfew within the week.

McGonagall spun on her heel, tartan robes flaring, and set off up the marble staircase. The group followed. Hermione caught snippets of chatter behind her: Lavender and Parvati whispering excitedly, Dean and Seamus walking close together— and holding hands.

Parvati gasped softly. “Did you expect that?”

“Not really,” Lavender whispered back, “but I’m not surprised.”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder just long enough to confirm it— their fingers laced together, Seamus looking sheepish but happy, Dean looking fiercely protective. The sight tugged unexpectedly at her chest. After everything, maybe love could survive the war after all.

The corridors twisted and turned as McGonagall led them deeper into the castle. Finally, she stopped before a portrait of a serene-looking witch Hermione only half remembered seeing before. The woman inclined her head politely as McGonagall addressed the group.

“This here is your common room. Password is sicut familia. Remember it. The library will remain open until midnight exclusively for eighth years.” McGonagall’s gaze swept the group, sharp as a hawk. “I expect you’ll behave like the adults you claim to be. Goodnight.”

And with that, she swept away, her tartan vanishing around the corner.

“Sicut familia,” Pansy said crisply. The portrait swung open, revealing a broad, warm room.

Hermione stepped inside with the others, inhaling deeply. It smelled of polished oak and old parchment, with rich brown furnishings accented by golden lamplight. Paintings of the four founders hung along the walls, each eye following them with silent curiosity.

Two doors branched off— left for the girls, right for the boys.

“Everyone’s got their own room,” Pansy announced, waving a parchment she had clearly been quick to claim. “Bathrooms are the same as usual. Girls left, boys right.”

The others nodded, though the room remained stiff with unspoken tension.

“Well? Shoo,” Pansy said with a dismissive flick of her wrist at the boys. Theo only grinned, but he and Draco filed obediently toward the right-hand door.

Lavender’s voice sliced through the silence. “And who put you in charge, death eater?”

Parvati reached for her arm, but Lavender shook her off, eyes locked on Pansy.

Pansy’s dark eyes narrowed, though her voice came out like velvet over steel. “Someone had to, Brown. And no offense, but Granger looks about five minutes from keeling over.” She gave Hermione a tight, knowing smile. “So that leaves me.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. She was exhausted— more than she wanted to admit. The gaps in her memory had gnawed at her all day, leaving her head aching. Still, it startled her that Pansy had noticed.

Turning away from the brewing argument, Hermione slipped out into the corridor. She could already hear Lavender and Pansy’s voices rising, sharp as knives. She wasn’t going to spend her first night back in a shouting match.

The library was calling.

******

The familiar smell of ink and vellum enveloped her as she stepped into its cavernous hush. Shelves stretched away into the shadows, promising solace. Hermione let herself breathe for the first time all day.

She wandered the stacks, fingers brushing spines, until she gathered a few promising tomes. Her steps carried her almost unconsciously toward her favorite nook, tucked between high windows and half-hidden behind shelves.

But the chair was already occupied.

Draco Malfoy sat with an ancient, battered book open in his hands. He looked up at her intrusion, grey eyes cool.

“Granger.”

“Malfoy.”

Hermione hesitated, then sat opposite him, hugging her books to her chest. “I didn’t expect anyone here.”

He smirked faintly. “Don’t worry, Granger. I won’t bite. Unless you ask.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “Obviously I don’t assume you’d bite, Malfoy. It’s just… no one usually sits here.”

He snorted softly, gaze dropping back to his book.

Curiosity pricked her. “What are you reading?”

“The Hobbit. Mother found it in a shop. Thought it might… broaden my horizons.” His lips twitched in something almost like amusement.

Hermione blinked. “That’s a Muggle book.”

“Sharp as ever,” he said dryly. Then, more seriously: “She and I made an effort this summer. Learning more about Muggles. About your world.”

Hermione stared, suspicion warring with interest. “Why?”

He shut the book softly, meeting her gaze. “Because contrary to what half the wizarding world believes, not every Malfoy wanted mass slaughter. What most of us wanted was for traditions to be respected. For Muggleborns to actually understand the culture they were joining. Tell me, Granger,  how much did you really know when you arrived?”

Hermione’s lips parted, then closed again. She thought of her eleven-year-old self, clutching Hogwarts: A History. “Not much,” she admitted. “And even the books are vague.”

Draco nodded. “Exactly. And in the gaps, people like my father filled the silence with poison. You were dropped into our world blind and we were told to despise you for it. That’s not your fault. But it twisted everything.” He paused, voice low. “I’m sorry for what I said to you. For what I did. I believed him, and I shouldn’t have.”

Hermione stared, shock freezing her tongue. She had never expected an apology from Draco Malfoy. Not in a thousand lifetimes.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the crackle of a lamp’s flame.

At length, Draco checked his watch. “Ten to curfew. Come on.” He rose and extended his hand to her.

She hesitated, then slid her palm into his. The jolt of energy sparked again, sharper this time, racing up her arm. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, releasing her hand as soon as she was standing.

As they walked side by side through the dim corridors, Hermione caught the faint scent clinging to him: something clean and sweet, threaded with the dusty comfort of parchment.

Her breath caught. Peppermint.

The same scent she had once confessed to Slughorn’s class— her Amortentia.

*****

Hermione parted ways with Draco at the common room entrance, heart pounding. She was grateful the room was empty— she couldn’t explain walking in beside him without inviting questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

She stopped at her door to grab her toiletries— and froze.

Pansy was lounging on her bed, one eyebrow arched.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione asked warily.

“I saw Draco follow you out. Thought I’d see what that was about.”

Hermione frowned. “He was already in the library when I got there.”

Pansy laughed, shaking her head. “He wasn’t. But if that makes you feel better, believe it.” She rose, smirking. “Just… pay attention, Granger. You might notice more than you think.”

With that cryptic remark, she swept out, leaving Hermione unsettled.

As Hermione unpacked her bag in the shared bathroom, she squeezed peppermint toothpaste onto her brush— and the realization hit her like a curse.

That was the scent clinging to Draco. Peppermint and parchment.

Her Amortentia.

She gripped the sink, staring at her reflection.

“Oh hell.”

Chapter Text

September 1996 – Sixth Year

Hermione’s shoes slapped against the flagstones as she hurried down the corridor, robes flaring behind her. She hated being late for class, but Prefect duties had held her up— two fifth-years caught giggling in a broom closet, McGonagall’s frown like a dagger at her back. By the time she reached the dungeons, her pulse was hammering.

She pulled up short.

Draco Malfoy was leaning against the wall by the Potions classroom, arms folded, an almost bored smirk curling his mouth.

“Oh,” Hermione muttered, faltering. He was alone— no Crabbe, no Goyle, no Pansy at his elbow.

“In a hurry, Granger?” His grey eyes glinted, voice smooth as silk. “Maybe if you pulled your nose out of a book once in a while, you’d know what time it was.”

Hermione bristled automatically— and yet her heart skipped. For one absurd, dangerous moment, she thought: handsome.

The thought jolted her. Malfoy was arrogant, cruel, a blood purist through and through. And yet, standing there in the half-light, his face drawn but striking, the word still echoed traitorously in her mind.

“Sod off, Malfoy,” she snapped, too weary for a proper retort.

His smirk widened, but before he could answer, footsteps echoed. Theodore Nott appeared, giving Malfoy a brief nod before sliding past. Other students began to gather, voices bouncing off the cold stone.

The classroom door opened. Slughorn beamed. “Come in, come in! Welcome back!”

The memory shifted— faces blurring, voices slipping in and out. Ron and Harry rushing in, Slughorn waving them cheerily inside. Cauldrons gleaming. A potion like liquid pearl shimmering in the light.

“Amortentia,” Hermione heard her own voice say, distant and strange. “The most powerful love potion in the world. It smells different for everyone. For me, it’s… peppermints and parchment.”

Her cheeks burned, even in memory. A voice whispered against the edges of her mind, urgent, pleading.

Remember.

*****

Hermione jerked upright in bed, chest heaving.

The dormitory was dark, shadows stretching across the walls. Her sheets were damp with sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead.

She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. That hadn’t been a dream— not really. It had been a memory. Sixth year. Potions class. She remembered speaking those words once, the embarrassment of saying them aloud. But this time, there had been more.

That voice. That insistence.

Remember.

Her stomach turned.

She swung her legs out of bed, fumbling for her wand. The clock on her nightstand glowed faintly— just after six. Breakfast wouldn’t begin for another hour. She should lie back down, close her eyes, but her skin crawled.

She needed answers.

*****

The corridors were eerily quiet as she padded toward the Hospital Wing, note from her mind healer clutched in her hand. Her footsteps echoed too loudly, every sound amplified in the silence.

The heavy doors creaked open. “Madam Pomfrey?”

The mediwitch bustled out of her office, only to slow when she saw Hermione standing alone. “Gracious, child, you gave me a fright. What is it?”

Hermione thrust the folded parchment toward her. “My healer asked me to give you this. I—” She faltered. “I’ve been having… dreams. Or memories. I’m not sure which.”

Pomfrey scanned the note, her frown softening slightly. “These things happen after trauma. The mind locks things away to protect you.”

Hermione swallowed. “But what if it wasn’t just me? What if— what if someone else tampered with my mind?”

Pomfrey hesitated. For a heartbeat, Hermione thought she saw something flicker in the woman’s eyes— recognition, maybe, or unease. But then Pomfrey’s expression smoothed.

“You mustn’t overthink it, Miss Granger. Rest, eat, and give yourself time.”

Hermione nodded, unconvinced.

“And, for Merlin’s sake,” Pomfrey added with a faint smile, “it’s Saturday. No classes today. You’ll have time to breathe.”

Hermione flushed scarlet. “Oh. Right.” She gathered her things quickly and fled before Pomfrey could press further.

*****

Back in her dormitory, she curled beneath her covers, staring at the ceiling.

The healer had told her the same: memory gaps were natural after trauma. But this dream didn't feel natural. It felt deliberate.

Someone wanted her to forget.

And yet someone else, or maybe even a buried part of herself, was urging her to remember.

Her chest tightened as she pressed her face into her pillow. She had no proof, no answers. But she knew one thing with chilling certainty: Draco Malfoy was at the heart of it.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was alive with the hum of conversation, spoons clinking against bowls of porridge, owls swooping down to deliver letters. Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, but her thoughts weren’t on the meal in front of her. She stirred her eggs absentmindedly, appetite gone. Crookshanks curled under the bench, purring faintly, content in the warmth radiating from the enchanted ceiling above.

Ginny leaned over, nudging her. “You’re brooding again.”

“I’m thinking,” Hermione corrected, though the correction was half-hearted.

“You’re brooding,” Ginny repeated with a mischievous grin, before turning back to Luna, who was explaining in a dreamy tone how wrackspurts thrived in old castles because of “all the echoing thoughts left behind.”

Hermione sighed and reached for her pumpkin juice.

At the staff table, McGonagall rose to her feet, her tartan robes snapping sharply as the enchanted candles swayed overhead. At once the hall hushed, all eyes lifting toward the stern, familiar figure.

“Attention, please,” McGonagall began, her Scottish lilt carrying across the room with ease. “I have an announcement for our returning eighth years.” Her gaze swept over their small cluster of students— barely more than a dozen of them— seated here and there among the other tables.

Hermione straightened.

“As you are aware, this year is not like others. Our school is rebuilding, and so are all of you. It is the firm belief of the staff that such healing cannot be done in isolation. Therefore, you will complete a term-long project: House Unity.”

A ripple of groans traveled down the rows. Lavender rolled her eyes dramatically. Theo muttered loudly enough for half the table to hear, “Sounds like a Ministry slogan.”

McGonagall’s lips twitched as though she’d heard him but chose to ignore it. “You will be paired with a student from a different house. Together, you will design and execute a project that fosters unity within Hogwarts. You will present your work at the end of term. Consider this both a practical exercise and an opportunity to demonstrate the maturity I expect of you as near-adults.”

Hermione leaned forward, quill already scratching against the margin of her timetable. A partnership project could be meaningful if done properly— and she, of course, intended to make sure hers was.

A roll of parchment floated into the air, names scrawling themselves across its surface with McGonagall’s neat script. It hovered down the aisle, pausing at each table for students to see. Hermione craned her neck.

Her eyes scanned the list— and froze.

Granger and Malfoy.

Her fork slipped from her hand, clattering against her plate.

Across the hall, Draco looked up at the exact same moment. His eyes met hers across the distance, cool and assessing. For a heartbeat she thought she saw annoyance, then resignation, then something else she couldn’t quite place.

Ginny elbowed her. “Oh, this is brilliant.”

Hermione flushed scarlet. “It’s not brilliant. It’s… unfortunate.”

“Fate,” Ginny corrected with a wicked grin.

“Shut up,” Hermione hissed.

*****

Later that morning, Hermione marched into the library with her arms full of parchment rolls, textbooks, and quills. She claimed a table near the tall windows, where light pooled across the oak surface. If she was going to work with Draco Malfoy, it would be done properly: with order, structure, and clear expectations.

He arrived five minutes late, strolling in with the same languid air he had always carried, though thinner now, shadows still haunting the angles of his face. He dropped his bag into the chair opposite hers with a thud and sat, folding his arms across his chest.

“All right,” Hermione began briskly. “We need to decide on a direction. Something that genuinely encourages unity between the houses. A tutoring exchange, perhaps. Or an academic symposium—”

“Dull,” Draco cut in.

Her quill stilled. “Excuse me?”

“Dull,” he repeated, leaning back with irritating confidence. “No one wants to sit through lectures and essays masquerading as ‘unity.’ That’s just Gryffindors preaching at everyone else again.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “That is not what I—”

“Isn’t it?” His gaze was sharp, but not cruel— more like a challenge. “Unity has to feel equal. Not something handed down like a set of rules.”

Hermione blinked, thrown off-balance. Annoyingly, he wasn’t entirely wrong. She remembered how the younger students used to whisper that Gryffindors acted as though they were the school’s moral compass. And here Draco was, pointing it out with cool precision.

“Fine,” she said tightly, though her cheeks burned. “What do you suggest then?”

Draco tapped his fingers against the table, considering. “Something interactive. A showcase of talents— magic, dueling, charms, even art if anyone cares. Each house paired together, building something as a team. No speeches. No hierarchy. Just participation.”

Hermione hesitated, then felt her mind begin to race with possibilities. “That… could actually work,” she admitted grudgingly. “Each house contributing their strengths. Demonstrations, performances, maybe even cultural traditions. If done right, it could be extraordinary.”

Draco’s lips curved faintly. “Look at that. You agree with me.”

“I agree that it’s a decent idea,” Hermione snapped, scribbling furiously on her parchment. “One idea doesn’t make you a visionary.”

“No,” he said smoothly, “but it does make me right. Which I intend to remind you of frequently.”

Hermione pressed her quill down harder than necessary, determined to ignore the strange flutter in her chest.

*****

They worked in tense but surprisingly productive silence for the next hour, refining the project. Draco’s sharp strategic thinking balanced her meticulous planning in a way that startled her. Every time she dismissed a concept, he countered with a practical solution. Every time he grew too cynical, she redirected toward a constructive angle.

When at last they had the beginnings of a plan sketched out, Draco stood, gathering his bag. “This might actually work, Granger.”

“Of course it will,” she said automatically, then faltered when she realized she meant because of him too.

He hesitated, then added quietly, “You don’t have to look over your shoulder every time I speak. I’m not—” He broke off, running a hand through his pale hair. “I’m not here to fight anymore.”

Hermione stared at him, startled by the raw note in his voice.

And just for an instant, another memory flickered— Draco’s pale face, shadowed and strained, standing in a darkened corridor, whispering words she couldn’t quite hear. Her stomach clenched. She knew that memory. She almost knew it. But when she reached for it, the image dissolved like smoke.

She swallowed hard, shoving books into her bag. “We’ll see,” she said softly, and hurried past him before he could read her expression.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled in the hearth of the eighth-year common room, its warmth doing little to thaw the undercurrent of tension that seemed to hum constantly through the space. For all that McGonagall insisted the shared quarters would help rebuild bridges between houses, Hermione wasn’t sure if the old wounds could be patched over with forced proximity.

Still, she tried.

She sat at one of the oak tables with parchment spread before her, Crookshanks curled around her ankles, quill scratching steadily as she refined the notes she and Draco had gathered earlier in the library. Their project was finally taking shape— the outlines crisp, the objectives defined— and though she would never admit it aloud, Draco had been… useful. Maddening, yes. Sharp-tongued and arrogant, certainly. But undeniably clever, and to her reluctant relief, reliable.

Across from her, Draco leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely as he surveyed her neat handwriting. “You’ve miscalculated there,” he murmured, pointing to a figure at the bottom of the parchment.

Hermione narrowed her eyes but checked the number. Blast it, he was right. “I was distracted,” she said tightly, crossing it out.

He smirked. “Careful, Granger. Keep admitting mistakes like that and I’ll start to think you’re human after all.”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a retort— and then the door opened.

Hermione looked up— and her heart gave a jolt.

“Harry!” she gasped, pushing back her chair and rising before she’d even thought about it.

Harry strode into the room, still in the simple black robes of a trainee Auror. His hair was as untidy as ever, his glasses slightly crooked, but his green eyes lit up when they found her. Without hesitation, he crossed the floor and pulled her into a hug.

The air whooshed out of her lungs as she clung to him, relief flooding her chest. “Oh, it’s so good to see you.”

“You too, Mione,” he said warmly, holding on just a moment longer before stepping back. “I’ve missed you.”

She smiled, the warmth in her chest grounding her. For all the fractures and uncertainty, Harry was still Harry.

And then Ron followed him inside.

Hermione’s smile faltered.

Ron’s eyes swept the room, landed on Draco seated across from her, and darkened instantly. “Figures. First thing I see is you playing study buddy with him.”

Draco raised an elegant brow but said nothing, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth was insufferable.

“Ron,” Hermione said sharply, her voice clipped.

But before the tension could snap, Lavender’s voice cut through the air. “Honestly, why are we even letting her sit here?” She flicked her chin toward Pansy, who lounged in an armchair near the fire, a book open lazily in her lap. “Death eater trash, the lot of them.”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed to slits. She set her book down with deliberate care, her voice velvet and venom. “Say that again, Brown. Go on. I’d enjoy watching you choke on it.”

Lavender tossed her hair, emboldened by Ron at her side. “Everyone’s thinking it. I just have the guts to say it.”

Hermione’s quill slipped from her fingers, clattering noisily to the ground. She could feel the whole room tighten, sparks about to catch.

And then Harry spoke.

“Enough.” His voice was firm, cutting cleanly through the rising noise. He stepped forward, gaze steady, his tone carrying that quiet authority that had led people into battle. “Pansy’s here because she stayed and fought. She deserves the same chance as the rest of us.”

The silence was instant, thick. Even Pansy blinked in surprise. Her lips curved into a faint smirk, though her eyes glittered with something unreadable. “Well, Potter,” she drawled. “Perhaps you’re not completely insufferable after all.”

Ron’s face twisted. “You’ve got to be joking. You’re defending her? After everything — after what her friends did?”

“She’s not her friends,” Harry shot back, frustration flashing in his eyes. “She’s here, Ron. She’s trying. We can’t keep tearing each other apart.”

Hermione stepped in quickly, her voice tight but clear. “Harry’s right. Unity means giving people the chance to change. We can’t demand healing while refusing to let it happen.”

Ron turned on her like a lit fuse. “Oh, of course you’d say that. First you dump me, now you’re cozying up with Malfoy and defending Parkinson? What’s next, Hermione — marrying into the lot of them?”

Gasps rippled through the room.

Hermione’s cheeks flamed hot with anger. “That is not fair, Ronald! This has nothing to do with—”

“It has everything to do with it!” he roared. “You always think you know better, don’t you? Always have to be the clever one, the one with all the answers. And now you’re siding with them? After what they did to us? After what they did to Harry?”

Harry flinched but didn’t speak. His silence only stoked Ron’s fury.

Hermione’s hands trembled at her sides. “I’m siding with what’s right! With moving forward. You’re the one stuck in the past, Ron. You can’t cling to hatred forever.”

Ron barked a harsh laugh. “Says the girl who abandoned me half the time for her books and Harry the other half. Don’t act like you’re the saint here, Hermione. You’ve always looked down on me. Always.”

The words were cruel, sharper than any curse. Something in Hermione snapped.

Her hand whipped out before she could stop it.

The crack of palm against cheek echoed through the common room like a gunshot.

Ron staggered back a step, eyes wide, the red imprint of her hand blooming across his face.

Gasps rippled from every corner. Theo gave a low whistle. “Blimey.”

Hermione stood rigid, her chest heaving, tears threatening but unshed. Her voice shook but carried clearly: “Don’t you dare speak to me like that again.”

For a long heartbeat, no one moved.

Ron’s face went scarlet, his ears burning. Without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him so hard the walls rattled.

The silence left behind was heavy, charged, unrelenting.

Harry rubbed his temples, his voice weary but sharp. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. You two have finally managed to blow it all to pieces.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. She stooped quickly to gather her parchment, fingers trembling so badly her quill slipped to the floor. She didn’t care. She couldn’t bear the dozens of eyes watching her, couldn’t bear Harry’s disappointment or Draco’s unreadable gaze.

Head high, she strode toward the girls’ corridor, each step stiff with pride even as her chest ached.

Behind her, the common room slowly filled with whispers.

And as she vanished behind the door, she didn’t see Draco’s eyes follow her until the very last flicker of her curls disappeared.

Chapter Text

The slam of the common room door still echoed in Hermione’s ears as she fled down the corridor, parchment clutched to her chest. Her cheeks burned, her palm still stung, and the image of Ron’s stunned, furious face was seared into her mind.

She didn’t slow until she reached the girls’ dormitory. The handle rattled under her hand, then the door swung open, revealing the quiet darkness of her room. She slipped inside, shut the door firmly behind her, and leaned against it, chest heaving.

Her legs carried her numbly to her bed, where she collapsed onto the mattress, curling in on herself. The curtains hung still around her, the faint smell of parchment and lavender clinging to the air.

Her hand still burned.

She had slapped Ron. Actually slapped him. The sound of it, sharp and final, replayed again and again in her mind.

Tears pricked hot at her eyes. She pressed her fists against them, but it was no use— the sob burst out, raw and unrestrained. She buried her face in the pillow, shaking as the weight of it all crashed over her.

The soft tap startled her. She froze, hastily scrubbing her eyes, willing her voice not to crack. “I… I don’t want to talk, Harry.”

“It’s not Potter.”

Her head jerked up. That voice— smooth, cool, faintly mocking.

Draco Malfoy.

She swung her legs off the bed, anger rising to replace her tears. “Then I want to talk to you even less.”

Silence followed, then a small huff of breath. “That’s rich, considering half the Tower just watched you slap Weasley hard enough to leave a mark. If you don’t want gossip spreading like Fiendfyre, you might consider damage control.”

Hermione clenched her jaw. Of course he’d come to gloat. “So you came here to mock me? Typical.”

The door creaked open, just a fraction. Draco leaned casually against the frame, hands in his pockets, his pale hair gleaming in the candlelight. His eyes, though, were sharper than usual. Less smug.

“Actually,” he drawled, “I came to see if you were planning to hex Weasley into oblivion the next time you saw him. I’d like front-row seats if so.”

Against her will, a startled laugh burst out of her throat. She pressed her hand to her mouth, horrified— but the sound had broken through the knot in her chest.

Draco smirked faintly. “There it is. Proof you’re not about to drown yourself in tears like a melodramatic Ravenclaw.”

Hermione bristled, tugging her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “That’s an awfully bold assumption, considering you know nothing about me.”

“On the contrary.” He stepped inside, uninvited, and leaned against her desk, his posture deceptively relaxed. “I know enough. You’d never waste time on hysterics when there’s work to be done. Tears, yes, maybe. But only when you think no one’s watching.”

Hermione’s lips parted, stung by how close he’d struck. She crossed her arms tightly, as if the gesture might shield her. “Why are you really here, Malfoy? Surely not to psychoanalyze me.”

Draco’s smirk softened into something unreadable. His voice dropped, quieter now. “Because, as much as it pains me to admit, I know what it’s like when the people you thought you could trust turn on you.”

The words landed heavier than she expected. She blinked, startled. “Ron didn’t… he didn’t turn on me. He’s just—”

“Angry? Bitter? Blinded by loyalty to the wrong person?” Draco tilted his head, studying her as though she were an essay he intended to pick apart line by line. “Pick your poison. Either way, you stood your ground. You were right to.”

Hermione shook her head, biting her lip until it ached. “You say that as if it makes it easier.”

Draco shrugged one shoulder. “It doesn’t. But at least you know where you stand. That’s more than I could say for most of sixth year.”

Her breath caught. Sixth year. He rarely alluded to that time, and when he did, the weight of it always pressed between them like a shadow.

The unexpected validation unraveled her carefully built defenses. She sank onto her bed again, staring down at her hands. “I didn’t want it to happen like that. I didn’t want to lose him.”

Draco pushed off her desk, pacing slowly across the room before stopping near her chair. His voice was flat, but his eyes burned. “You didn’t lose him tonight. You lost him a long time ago. Tonight just proved it.”

His words stung, cruel in their bluntness. She wanted to argue, to insist he was wrong, that Ron was still her friend beneath the bitterness. But some small, aching part of her knew he was right.

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat tight. “It still hurts.”

For the first time, Draco’s gaze flickered, something raw flashing there before he shuttered it behind his usual composure. His hand flexed against the chair, as though he’d nearly reached for her but thought better of it.

“Of course it does,” he said at last, his voice softer. “That’s what makes you you.”

Hermione looked up, startled. There was no sneer in his expression now, no trace of mockery. Just something she couldn’t name, something that unsettled her far more than his insults ever had.

She blinked rapidly, heat rising to her face, and glanced away. “Why are you being… kind to me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Granger,” he said smoothly, though his tone lacked venom. “I’m only pointing out facts. If it makes you feel better, I fully expect you to bite my head off the next time we meet in the library.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “Most likely.”

“Good.” He straightened, slipping his hands back into his pockets. “It would be insufferable if you went soft.”

Hermione watched him move toward the door, her chest a confusing tangle of grief, anger, and something else she refused to name.

Just before leaving, he glanced back, his eyes lingering on her longer than necessary. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “you hit Weasley harder than I ever managed.”

Hermione gaped, a startled laugh bursting out again— half disbelief, half relief. But Draco was already gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

The silence pressed in. She touched her palm, still faintly sore, and for the first time that night the tears didn’t feel quite so heavy. Yet her stomach twisted— guilt, fury, and that maddening spark of comfort Malfoy had planted.

She barely had a moment to gather herself before the door creaked again.

Harry slipped inside, closing it firmly behind him. He dragged a chair closer and sat heavily, scrubbing a hand through his hair— a nervous habit Hermione knew too well.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

Her throat tightened. The question was gentle, but it cracked something in her all the same. She shook her head. “No. But I will be.”

Harry leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His glasses slid slightly down his nose, and he didn’t bother to push them back. “He had no right to say those things to you. None. You don’t deserve it.”

Hermione’s lips wobbled. “But I slapped him.” The admission sounded small, guilty, even to her own ears.

Harry gave her a long, steady look. “And he earned it.”

A laugh bubbled from her lips, watery but real. She pressed a hand to her mouth, torn between amusement and despair. Harry’s lips curved faintly, though the sadness in his eyes lingered.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and fragile. Hermione drew her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them. “It feels like everything’s falling apart, Harry. Like we fought this war, and won it, but… at the cost of us.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t argue. “Maybe we were already falling apart. The war just made the cracks impossible to ignore.”

His words pierced her. She wanted to protest, to insist the bond between them had been unbreakable once — forged in danger, strengthened by loyalty — but she couldn’t. Not after tonight.

“Ron thinks I’ve always looked down on him,” she whispered, the memory of Ron’s sneer burning in her mind. “That I abandoned him. Do you… do you think that’s true?”

Harry hesitated, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “No. I think you loved him the way you could. And maybe it wasn’t enough for him. But that’s not your fault.”

Tears welled again, but Hermione forced them back. “I never wanted to hurt him.”

“I know,” Harry said quietly. “But he’s angry. And he’s not ready to let go of it. He needs someone to blame, and right now that’s you.”

Hermione buried her face against her knees, voice muffled. “I hate that he sees me that way.”

Harry reached out, resting a tentative hand on her arm. “I hate it too. But I see you, Hermione. I know who you are. And I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for you.”

She lifted her head, meeting his gaze. His sincerity was like a lifeline, steady and grounding.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the faint crackle of the dying fire in the common room below. Hermione realized, with a pang, that this was the first time in weeks she and Harry had been alone— really alone. Once, that had been the norm. Now, it felt like stolen time.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Hermione admitted at last. “I don’t even know if it can be fixed.”

Harry sighed, his green eyes clouded. “Maybe it doesn’t need fixing. Maybe it needs… changing.”

Hermione frowned. “Changing into what?”

“I don’t know.” He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. “But we can’t keep pretending things are the same. They’re not. You and Ron, maybe you’ll work it out someday. Maybe you won’t. But you and me…” He gave her a small, tired smile. “We’re solid. No matter what else happens.”

Her chest ached with relief and sorrow all at once. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Harry said firmly.

Hermione let out a shaky breath and leaned against the headboard, finally allowing herself to relax, if only a little. For tonight, it was enough.

But after Harry left, and the quiet pressed in again, her thoughts tangled restlessly. Ron’s furious words echoed still, cruel and bitter. And beneath them, softer but no less persistent, lingered Draco’s: Don’t let him make you doubt yourself, Granger.

She hated that Malfoy’s voice lingered at all. Hated more that part of her drew strength from it.

As she lay down, her hand still tingling from the slap, she realized the fracture lines in her old life were deepening— and the shadows of something new, something uncertain, were beginning to form.

Chapter Text

The next morning dawned grey and damp, clouds pressing low over the castle. Rain streaked the windows as Hermione dressed slowly, her fingers clumsy as she fastened her robes. Her reflection in the glass looked pale, her eyes shadowed. She didn’t want to go down. Didn’t want to see the stares, didn’t want to hear the whispers.

But she couldn’t hide.

Crookshanks trailed at her heels as she left the dormitory, curling his tail around her ankle as if in silent encouragement. Hermione drew herself up, shoulders stiff, and descended into the common room.

The chatter inside faltered for a moment, eyes flicking to her. Lavender looked up from where she sat with Parvati, her expression sharp. Theo sprawled lazily across the sofa, smirking faintly as if anticipating a show. Pansy arched a brow from her perch by the fire, her gaze cool and assessing.

Hermione ignored them all, crossing briskly to the portrait hole. The door swung shut behind her, and only then did she allow herself to breathe.

*****

The Great Hall was alive with its usual morning noise— clinking cutlery, the flap of owl wings, bursts of laughter from younger years. But as Hermione walked in, the volume dimmed, as though the entire hall had noticed her at once.

She felt the heat of it: eyes sliding toward her, voices dropping to whispers. At the Gryffindor table, some of her former dorm-mates shifted uncomfortably. Lavender’s laugh rang out too loudly, false and brittle, as she leaned closer to Parvati.

Hermione’s steps faltered— until Ginny caught her gaze and patted the bench beside her firmly.

“Sit,” Ginny said with quiet determination. “You’re not walking in here alone.”

Hermione managed a small, grateful smile and slid onto the bench. Crookshanks hopped up beside her, his amber eyes daring anyone to come closer.

“Everyone’s staring,” Hermione muttered.

“Let them,” Ginny said briskly. “They’ll find someone else to gossip about by lunchtime.”

But Hermione wasn’t so sure. Her heart sank as she noticed Lavender pushing back her bench and drifting further down the table— away from Parvati, away from her— to slip into the empty seat beside Ron. He sat hunched at the far end, his fork stabbing violently into his eggs. Lavender bent low to whisper in his ear, and each time Ron’s mouth twisted into a scowl, Hermione’s stomach dropped further.

And then there was Harry. 

He entered a few moments later, his black Auror trainee robes slightly damp from the drizzle outside. For a heartbeat, Hermione’s chest clenched as his eyes scanned the tables. He paused halfway down the aisle, caught between two worlds: Ron, hunched at the far end with Lavender close at his side, and Hermione, sitting rigid beside Ginny.

The hesitation was brief, but Hermione felt it like a knife. Would he go to Ron? Would he leave her to sit alone in the wreckage of last night?

Then Harry’s gaze shifted. His jaw tightened in quiet resolve, and he crossed the hall in long strides. He dropped into the seat across from her, shaking a bit of rain from his hair.

Ginny smirked, clearly vindicated, and nudged Hermione under the table. “Told you,” she whispered. “He knows where he belongs.”

Hermione’s lips twitched, though her stomach still churned.

Beside Ginny sat Luna, her long blonde hair slightly tangled, her radish earrings swaying as she leaned forward. Ravenclaw blue was bright on her tie, but Luna rarely sat with her own house anymore. She had always been something of an outcast there— tolerated at best, mocked at worst. Ginny had long ago invited her to the Gryffindor table, and Luna had never left.

“It’s better this way,” Luna said serenely, pouring herself pumpkin juice as though nothing at all was amiss. “Wrackspurts thrive on broken friendships. If you’d all forced yourselves to sit together, they would have clouded your ears until you couldn’t hear one another at all.”

Hermione blinked at her, half-exasperated, half-grateful for the strange calm Luna always carried. “I don’t know if it’s Wrackspurts, Luna,” she said softly. “But something is clouding everything.”

Luna only smiled dreamily. “Sometimes things must break before they can mend.”

Harry rolled his eyes faintly, though not unkindly, and reached for the toast. His voice was low, meant only for Hermione. “Ignore them. You did nothing wrong.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. Her eyes flicked instinctively toward Ron, who hadn’t looked up once. Lavender bent close to whisper in his ear, and he gave a bitter snort, stabbing at his eggs. Hermione’s stomach lurched.

“I slapped him,” she whispered.

“You defended yourself,” Harry countered immediately, eyes sharp. “After he pushed too far. Don’t turn this into something it wasn’t.”

Hermione swallowed hard, staring at her hands in her lap. The warmth of his loyalty was steadying, but it didn’t erase the guilt curling in her chest. “He thinks I’ve always looked down on him. That I abandoned him. Maybe he’s right.”

Harry set down his knife and fork with a little clatter, leaning forward. “No, he’s not. Ron’s angry, and he’s hurting. But that doesn’t make his words true. You’ve always been there for him, Hermione— more than either of us deserved sometimes.”

Ginny’s eyes flashed, fierce as she glanced down the table at her brother. “He doesn’t see what’s in front of him. He never has. Don’t you dare carry his mistakes for him.”

Hermione blinked back the sting of tears. Ginny’s voice was sharp, but her hand brushed lightly against Hermione’s under the table, grounding her.

Luna tilted her head, her pale eyes oddly clear. “Perhaps Ronald is chasing a reflection of what he wishes things had been, rather than what they are. People do that, when they’re frightened.”

“Frightened of what?” Hermione asked before she could stop herself.

“Of change,” Luna said simply, sipping her juice.

Harry gave a faint, humorless laugh. “That, at least, I can agree with.” He reached across the table, covering Hermione’s hand briefly with his own. His voice softened. “Don’t let him make you doubt yourself. Last night wasn’t on you.”

Hermione’s eyes stung again, but this time she didn’t look away. The hall still buzzed around them, whispers still pricking at her skin, but for the moment the weight on her chest felt a little lighter.

Ginny smirked again, though her tone was gentle. “See? I told you. He knows where he belongs. And so do you.”

Hermione managed the smallest of smiles. She wasn’t sure she believed it yet. But with Ginny’s fire, Luna’s strange wisdom, and Harry’s steady gaze, she felt the tiniest spark of hope that maybe she wasn’t as alone as she feared.

Across the hall, other eyes were watching.

At the Slytherin table, Draco leaned toward Theo, his expression carefully neutral. Theo grinned openly, clearly entertained by the spectacle playing out among the Gryffindors. Pansy, however, wasn’t looking at Hermione at all. Her gaze was fixed on Harry, sharp and assessing, as though weighing a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.

When she finally spoke, her voice was a purr. “Well, well. Potter’s little display last night wasn’t just a fluke. Seems he actually means it.”

Draco arched a brow. “You sound far too pleased.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Pansy smirked. “He defended me. In front of all of them. St. Potter, tarnishing his halo for my sake.”

Theo snorted. “Careful, Pans. You’ll start believing he’s your knight in shining armor.”

Pansy’s eyes glittered. “Maybe I already do. He’s certainly more chivalrous than most.” She flicked her gaze at Draco deliberately, lips curving in a challenge.

Draco’s mouth thinned. “Don’t mistake pity for chivalry. Potter has a savior complex the size of the castle— nothing more.”

Theo leaned back, grinning wider. “Still, it’s entertaining. Potter defending Parkinson? Didn’t have that on my bingo card. Almost makes breakfast worth the gossip.”

Pansy smirked, clearly unbothered. “Say what you like. At least he sees more than a label.”

Draco grimaced and turned back to his plate, stabbing at his food with more force than necessary. Still, he couldn’t help glancing across the hall himself. Hermione was bent over her porridge, shoulders stiff, Harry speaking quietly to her. A flicker of something— irritation, sympathy, he wasn’t sure— twisted in his chest.

Harry lingered long enough to finish his toast, his presence across from her a quiet shield against the stares. But as the hour crept toward lessons, he pushed back from the bench with a sigh.

“McGonagall only cleared me for breakfast,” he admitted, glancing toward the doors. “If I don’t leave now, she’ll have my hide for disrupting classes.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. “I wish you could stay.”

He offered her a small, steady smile. “You don’t need me to. You’ll be fine, Hermione. Stronger than you think.”

Ginny squeezed her arm. “And she won’t be alone,” she said firmly.

Harry nodded to them both, then turned and strode toward the doors. Hermione’s eyes followed him until he vanished into the corridor. The moment he was gone, the hall seemed colder, the whispers louder.

*****

Their first class of the day was Transfiguration. Hermione arrived early, as always, taking her seat near the front. Her quill was poised, parchment neat— but her hands trembled slightly. She could feel the eyes at her back, the whispers barely muffled.

Even though Ron wasn’t there—  the memory of his scowl at breakfast lingered all the same. Lavender’s laugh seemed to echo in Hermione’s mind even though she was gone.

Midway through the lesson, a folded scrap of parchment slid onto her desk. She blinked and glanced sideways. Draco, two rows over, was watching her with studied indifference.

Heart thudding, Hermione unfolded it under the desk.

Don’t let them see you flinch.

Her breath caught. She shoved the note into her book before anyone could notice, her cheeks burning.

*****

By evening, Hermione retreated to the library. The day had been exhausting— every glance, every whisper, a weight pressing down on her. She sank into her favorite nook, Crookshanks curling into her lap, and pulled a book close without really seeing the words.

The scrape of a chair startled her. She looked up— and saw Draco settling opposite her.

Hermione stiffened. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

He arched a brow. “Relax. I’m not here to start a duel. I just thought you could use someone at your table who doesn’t look at you like you’ve grown horns.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what do you get out of it?”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Entertainment. And maybe the satisfaction of being right.”

“Right about what?” she demanded.

“That you’re stronger than Weasley ever deserved.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned, but she ducked her head, suddenly finding the lines of text on her page far more interesting.

Crookshanks flicked his tail, amber eyes narrowing at Draco as if weighing him. Hermione stroked his fur absently, grateful for the excuse not to look up.

She finally muttered, “I don’t need compliments from you.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “It wasn’t a compliment. It was an observation.”

Hermione’s head snapped up, indignant. “You really don’t know how to speak to people, do you?”

“On the contrary.” Draco’s lips curved in a faint, irritating smile. “I know exactly how. I just choose honesty over honey.”

“Honesty?” she echoed, incredulous. “From you?”

Something flickered across his face, quick and sharp— annoyance, maybe shame. It was gone in a heartbeat, buried under his cool exterior. “You think you’ve cornered the market on truth, Granger? Maybe that’s why Weasley couldn’t stand it. You don’t let people live in their delusions.”

Hermione bristled. “And what about yours? You lived in one for years, Malfoy. Following…” She bit the words off, throat tight.

He stiffened, the smirk vanishing. For a moment, the air between them was charged, the weight of old battles pressing down.

Then he exhaled slowly, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. “I paid for my delusions,” he said quietly, voice flat. “Every single one.”

Hermione froze, her retort dying on her tongue. The sincerity in his tone unsettled her more than any insult could have.

Crookshanks yawned loudly, kneading her thigh before curling tighter into her lap. The sound broke the tension.

Draco’s mouth quirked again, though this time without venom. “Your cat seems to hate me marginally less than he used to. Progress.”

Hermione managed the ghost of a smile, though she hid it quickly by bending over her book. “Maybe he just has better judgment than most people.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The library’s hush wrapped around them, broken only by the scratch of quills and the soft rustle of pages.

It wasn’t comfortable, exactly— but for the first time all day, Hermione’s chest didn’t feel like it was being crushed.

When she dared glance up again, Draco was already writing, his head bent over parchment as though this had been his intention all along. She looked back down quickly, unsettled by the idea that he might be easier to bear than silence.

*****

That night, back in her dormitory, Hermione lay awake long after lights out. The whispers of the day still echoed in her head. Ron’s scowl, Lavender’s laugh, Harry’s quiet loyalty— all tangled together, a knot she couldn’t pick apart no matter how she tried.

And beneath it all, two voices lingered strongest.

Harry’s: He earned it.

Draco’s: Don’t let them see you flinch.

The contrast between them unsettled her— Harry’s comfort, Draco’s challenge— and both pulsed in her mind like opposing heartbeats.

She pressed her hand to her face, remembering the sting of her palm against Ron’s cheek. The shock of it, the silence that followed. The hurt in Ron’s eyes, yes, but also the cruel words that had driven her to it. For all the pain and shame, a small part of her felt lighter— freer. As though something that had long been festering had finally split open.

A warm weight landed at the foot of her bed. Hermione startled, then relaxed as Crookshanks padded up toward her pillow, his ginger fur a blur in the moonlight. He butted his head against her cheek with a throaty purr, insistent and unyielding.

“Oh, Crooks,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she buried her fingers in his thick coat. He pressed closer, climbing into the curve of her arm, his rumbling purr vibrating against her ribs. Hermione held him as if he were the only solid thing in the world.

She had saved him once, long ago, from a cage in a dusty shop. Now he saved her, night after night, with his simple, steadfast presence. He didn’t care about Ron’s anger or Harry’s loyalty or Draco Malfoy’s infuriating words. He cared only for her, and that was enough.

Tears slipped hot down her cheeks, dampening Crookshanks’ fur, but he didn’t stir. He kneaded her arm with his claws, gentle but firm, grounding her back into her own skin.

“Maybe I don’t know who I am anymore,” she murmured into his fur. “Maybe I don’t know where I belong.”

Crookshanks blinked up at her with slow, golden eyes, unbothered. He purred louder, as though to say: Here. With me. Always.

Hermione managed a small, wet laugh. She kissed the top of his head, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of him. “Always, then.”

She curled around him, one hand resting on his back, the other still tingling faintly from the memory of that slap. Maybe the trio as it had been was broken. Maybe it couldn’t be fixed.

But in the wreckage, something new was beginning to form.

Something she wasn’t sure she was ready for, but couldn’t ignore.

Crookshanks purred on, steady as a heartbeat, and at last Hermione let her eyes close.

Chapter Text

The fire in the hearth crackled low, throwing golden light across the mixed common room. Banners from all four Houses hung uneasily together, Gryffindor scarlet brushing against Slytherin green, Ravenclaw blue beside Hufflepuff yellow. The colors clashed, and so did the moods of those who lived beneath them.

Hermione sank into the corner of a sofa, Crookshanks leaping up after her. He kneaded her robes once with sharp claws before curling tight against her side, his purr a steady rumble in the otherwise tense air. Her satchel slid from her shoulder and spilled across the floor, books sliding halfway out, but she was too drained to pick them up.

All day it had been the same: whispers following her down corridors, sidelong looks over goblets in the Great Hall. Ron’s scowl haunted her steps even when he wasn’t there.

Ginny dropped into the seat beside her with a decisive huff, parchment and quills clattering on the low table. “If one more person looks at you like you’ve grown a second head,” she muttered, “I’ll hex them bald.”

Hermione gave her a weak smile. “That would certainly give them something else to talk about.”

On the other side, Luna perched on the armrest, hair drifting around her face like pale smoke. She reached down to stroke Crookshanks, who butted into her hand without hesitation. Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“You shouldn’t mind the stares,” Luna said serenely. “They’re only curious. Like Nargles drawn to mistletoe. Staring doesn’t mean anything. It’s the whispers that are troublesome.”

Across the room, Terry Boot and Michael Corner bent their heads over an open textbook, quills scratching. But their glances kept darting up, too often, too quick. On the hearthrug, Sue Li and Lisa Turpin shared a snicker behind their hands, eyes flicking pointedly to Hermione before turning away. Justin Finch-Fletchley chuckled along with them.

But Padma Patil sat apart, her arms folded, expression cool. Her eyes narrowed at Lisa’s giggle, though she said nothing yet. Nearby, Hannah Abbott glanced toward Hermione with quiet sympathy, while Susan Bones’s frown deepened, lips pressed into a thin line.

Ginny noticed and bristled. “Troublesome, dangerous… take your pick,” she said under her breath. Then, louder to Hermione,  “Don’t let them make you think you’re in the wrong. Ron’s the one acting like a prat, not you.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “It doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I’ve lost him. Like I’ve lost… everything we built together.”

“You haven’t lost everything,” Ginny said firmly. “You’ve still got Harry. You’ve got me. And Luna, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Luna agreed serenely, as though there had never been a question.

Then Lavender’s laugh rang out, too bright, too sharp. She was perched near the flames, Parvati at her side and two Hufflepuffs leaning in to listen. Her voice carried with practiced ease.

“Well, it’s no wonder Ron finally came to his senses,” Lavender said sweetly. “Who would want to put up with all that bossy, know-it-all nonsense? Honestly, he’s better off.”

Heat rose up Hermione’s neck. Crookshanks growled low, his tail lashing against her arm.

Ginny shot to her feet, wand already in her hand. “Say that again, Lavender. Go on.”

Lavender’s smile widened. “Touchy, aren’t we? I wasn’t even talking to you.”

“You were talking at her,” Ginny snapped. “And if you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll—”

“Ginny,” Hermione cut in quickly, catching her arm. Her voice shook, but she forced it steady. “Don’t. It’s not worth it.”

“Not worth it?” Ginny’s voice was sharp, outrage sparking. “Hermione, she’s sitting there tearing you down in front of everyone and you just—”

“She wants me to react,” Hermione said quietly. “If I do, she wins.”

“Or maybe,” Padma said suddenly, her voice crisp as parchment, “she’s just trying to convince herself Ron didn’t settle for less.” Her eyes cut to Lavender, who flushed scarlet.

A ripple passed through the room. Hannah leaned forward, her chin lifted. “I think Hermione’s shown more loyalty to Ron over the years than he ever earned. Anyone who’s paid attention knows that.”

Susan’s voice was cool, measured. “And anyone who thinks otherwise is willfully blind.” Her eyes lingered on Lavender a beat too long.

Lavender opened her mouth, outrage trembling on her lips. But before she could snap back, Luna tilted her head, studying her with mild curiosity.

“Wrackspurts do love to nest in empty spaces,” she said dreamily. “That would explain the noise.”

The silence broke. A laugh erupted from Theo Nott before he covered it with a cough. A Ravenclaw near the back snorted; even Hannah’s lips twitched. Lavender sat rigid, cheeks blotchy, Parvati tugging at her sleeve.

Ginny smirked. “Nice one, Luna.”

Hermione stroked Crookshanks again, grateful for the steady purr grounding her. Relief mingled with embarrassment in her chest. For the first time all day, though, she realized she wasn’t entirely alone.

*****

Hermione was curled in the corner of the common room sofa during her free period, Crookshanks sprawled across her lap like a heavy, purring shield, when the portrait hole creaked open.

She looked up, startled— and there was Harry, framed in the doorway. His robes were travel-stained, his hair damp with drizzle. A satchel hung from his shoulder.

“Forgot a few things,” he said sheepishly, holding up a bundled jumper she recognized from the dormitory.

Relief flooded her chest before she could stop it. “You shouldn’t even be here. McGonagall will—”

“Relax.” He managed a crooked grin. “She knows. Gave me exactly ten minutes.”

Hermione’s lips twitched, though her throat was tight. “And you’re wasting them on me?”

Harry crossed the room, dropping into the armchair opposite her. He set the bundle down, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Where else would I go?”

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Crookshanks yawned, stretching a paw across Hermione’s robes as though claiming her.

Finally, Hermione whispered, “He hates me now.”

Harry’s gaze softened. “Ron doesn’t hate you. He’s angry. There’s a difference.”

“It feels the same.” Her voice cracked. “He looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I’d betrayed him.”

Harry leaned forward, earnest. “You didn’t betray him. You stood up for yourself. You’ve spent years putting him first— putting both of us first— and he didn’t see it. But I did. I always did.”

Tears blurred her vision. She blinked them away, stroking Crookshanks until her fingers trembled. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” Harry said quietly. “He’ll come around, or he won’t. But you can’t carry his bitterness for him.”

Hermione gave a shaky laugh. “You sound like Luna.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Don’t tell her, she’ll never let me live it down.”

Silence stretched again, softer this time. Then Harry rose, tucking the bundle of clothes under his arm. “I really do have to go. Training won’t wait for me, and McGonagall’s patience is already thin.”

Hermione’s chest clenched. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” He squeezed her shoulder as he passed, warm and steady. “But you’ve got this, Hermione. Stronger than you think.”

And then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.

Crookshanks shifted in her lap, purring louder as if to fill the silence. Hermione pressed her face into his fur, inhaling the warmth. She felt both heavier and lighter— abandoned and reassured all at once.

*****

By evening, the common room was loud with chatter. Groups clustered by the fire and along the long tables, parchment and ink scattered as people half-studied, half-gossiped. Hermione tried to focus on her Arithmancy notes, but the words swam, her quill hovering uselessly over the page.

Crookshanks dozed across her lap, tail flicking in rhythm with the rumble of his purr. His warmth steadied her, but not enough to drown out the low ripple of laughter nearby.

Lavender’s laugh.

Hermione stiffened.

Lavender was draped across a chair near the hearth, Parvati leaning close, Lisa Turpin and Sue Li whispering at her elbow. The cluster was too loud to be accidental.

“I mean honestly,” Lavender said, voice pitched to carry. “If Harry hadn’t swooped in yesterday, who knows what might’ve happened? Poor Hermione, abandoned by one boy, babysat by another. Pathetic, really.”

Hermione’s quill snapped in half. Ink bled onto her parchment in a dark blot.

Snickers followed, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Michael Corner exchanging smirks, Sue Li’s shoulders shaking. Hannah Abbott gave them a disapproving look, while Susan Bones muttered something sharp under her breath. Padma Patil sat rigid, eyes narrowing at Lavender’s words.

At the back, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan looked up from a chessboard, watching but saying nothing, their expressions unreadable.

Hermione’s cheeks burned. She opened her mouth, but another voice cut across the room, cool and silken.

“Merlin, Brown, do you ever tire of hearing yourself?”u

Every head turned.

Pansy rose gracefully from the sofa where she’d been lounging, smoothing her robes as though she had all the time in the world. Her dark eyes glittered with disdain as she sauntered closer, her voice low but cutting.

“Honestly, it’s painful. You’re like a broken record— all shrill noise and no substance. If I were Weasley, I’d take up a vow of silence just for peace of mind.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the room, this time not at Hermione’s expense. Blaise Zabini had his head down, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. Across from him, Draco smirked into his goblet, eyes gleaming with amusement.

Lavender flushed scarlet, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

Parvati bristled. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Pansy drawled smoothly, “and I did. Now kindly stop boring the rest of us.”

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by Theo Nott’s bark of laughter. Even Terry Boot cracked a grin behind his parchment. Lavender looked around wildly, waiting for support, but none came. Parvati tugged at her sleeve, hissing something under her breath, and together they stalked toward the staircase, faces blotchy with fury.

When they were gone, murmurs swelled again. A few Slytherins smirked. Susan and Hannah exchanged small, satisfied looks. Padma’s lips twitched as if she were holding back a smile. Blaise finally sat up, smirk firmly in place, while Draco’s gaze flicked once, just once, toward Hermione before he returned to his plate.

Hermione sat frozen, Crookshanks pressing harder into her lap as if to keep her grounded.

Pansy turned her gaze on her. For a heartbeat Hermione braced herself for the barb she knew would follow— but Pansy only arched a brow, lips curving in a faint, unreadable smile.

Then she swept back to her seat as though nothing had happened.

Hermione’s pulse thundered in her ears. She stared at her ruined parchment, ink bleeding through the page, unable to make sense of what had just happened.

For the first time in years, Pansy Parkinson hadn’t aimed her claws at her. She’d used them on someone else.

And Hermione couldn’t decide if that was more unsettling… or relieving.

*****

The common room had thinned as curfew crept closer, clusters breaking apart to head for the dormitories. The fire burned low, shadows stretching long across the floor. Hermione sat rigid in her corner, parchment ruined by ink, Crookshanks curled tight in her lap.

But her eyes weren’t on the mess. They were fixed across the room, where Pansy Parkinson lounged as if nothing at all had happened, as if she hadn’t just sliced Lavender Brown to ribbons with a few words.

Finally, Hermione rose, Crookshanks tumbling to the cushion with a disgruntled chirp. She smoothed her robes and crossed the room.

Pansy’s brow arched as Hermione stopped in front of her. “Granger. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Hermione folded her arms. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” Pansy’s tone was airy, almost bored.

“Don’t play games,” Hermione snapped, lowering her voice so it wouldn’t carry. “You humiliated Lavender. You’ve never passed up the chance to do the same to me, so why her instead?”

A slow, feline smile curved across Pansy’s lips. “Because she’s tiresome. Loud. Predictable. And I was bored.”

Hermione scowled. “So it was nothing? Just… amusement?”

“Of course it was amusement,” Pansy drawled. She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “But also— I prefer my rivals with teeth. Lavender’s a yapping Crup. You, Granger… you bite.”

Heat flared across Hermione’s cheeks. “That’s hardly a compliment.”

“Did I say it was?” Pansy’s smile sharpened.

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, the crackle of the fire filling the silence.

Hermione finally exhaled, exasperated. “I don’t need your help.”

“No,” Pansy agreed. “But you got it anyway. Don’t mistake it for charity. I just can’t stand mediocrity.”

Hermione blinked, thrown. She opened her mouth to argue, but Pansy was already turning back to the fire, dismissing her with a graceful flick of her hand.

“Oh, and Granger?”

Hermione paused, wary. “What?”

Pansy smirked without looking at her. “You wear defiance better than guilt. Remember that.”

Hermione stood frozen for a moment, words tangled in her throat. Then she spun on her heel, retreating back to her corner.

Crookshanks leapt up immediately, headbutting her arm as though reclaiming her. She stroked his fur absently, her mind whirling.

Pansy’s voice echoed in her head, cool and cutting: You bite. You wear defiance better than guilt.

Hermione hated that it lingered. Hated more that some small part of her found it… steadying.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke to the low murmur of voices outside her dormitory door and the sound of rain sliding down the castle windows. She lay still for a long moment, staring at the canopy overhead, her chest tight. The last week had been a blur of whispers and sidelong glances, every corridor echoing with Lavender’s sharp voice or Parvati’s stifled giggles. Each step felt like wading through judgment.

When she finally swung her legs out of bed, Crookshanks was waiting, his bottlebrush tail thumping against the floor. He butted his head against her knee as if to say up you get. Hermione managed a small smile, grateful for the one creature who hadn’t treated her any differently.

By the time she came down to the common room, Ginny and Luna were waiting. Ginny’s red hair was half-tamed into a braid, her arms folded with the air of someone who would brook no argument. Luna, dreamy as ever, wore a necklace of butterbeer corks that clinked faintly when she turned.

“You’re not skipping breakfast,” Ginny said before Hermione could open her mouth.

Hermione lifted her chin. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” Ginny cut in briskly. “And you’re not. Come on.”

Luna smiled serenely. “You’ll want to eat. Wrackspurts get stronger on an empty stomach.”

Hermione almost laughed, though her throat felt tight. Crookshanks wound around her ankles, herding her toward the portrait hole as though conspiring with Ginny and Luna.

The common room was crowded with 8th-years heading out, the air thick with the smell of damp cloaks and the chatter of overlapping voices. As Hermione crossed toward the exit, Theo sprawled across the arm of a sofa, one leg dangling, a smirk curving his mouth.

“Well, if it isn’t the star of last week’s drama,” he drawled, loud enough for several heads to turn. “Careful, Granger. The whole castle’s waiting for the encore.”

Hermione stopped short, bristling. “At least I don’t make a spectacle of myself just by existing.”

Theo clutched his chest theatrically. “Ouch. Straight to the heart.” His grin widened. “You’ve got claws, Granger. I like it.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Draco murmured from where he leaned against the back of the sofa, arms folded. He didn’t look up at first, but Hermione felt the weight of his attention anyway.

Theo shot him a sideways glance. “Oh, come on, Malfoy. Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy the fireworks. Gryffindors are much more entertaining when they’re feisty.”

Finally, Draco lifted his eyes, grey and cool, meeting Hermione’s with unnerving steadiness. The faintest smirk tugged at his mouth. “Feisty, maybe. Reckless, definitely. But entertaining?” He let the word hang, then added softly, “That depends who’s watching.”

Something prickled in Hermione’s chest, sharp and hot. She couldn’t think of a retort fast enough, so she did what she always did when cornered— she lifted her chin. “If you’re both finished, some of us have more important things to do than preen like peacocks.”

She stepped forward, Crookshanks brushing against her ankles like a shadow. Ginny snorted, falling into step beside her.

Behind them, Theo’s voice floated lazily after, “You know, Malfoy, if you keep staring like that, people are going to talk.”

“I don’t care what people say,” Draco replied, voice too low for most to hear. But Hermione caught it. The words jolted through her, leaving her off balance.

Outside the portrait hole, Luna tilted her head, eyes faraway but oddly sharp. “Connections,” she said vaguely. “So many threads crossing. They’re brighter when people try to ignore them.”

Hermione blinked at her. “What are you talking about?”

Luna just smiled dreamily. “Oh, nothing. You’ll see.”

Hermione shook her head, unsettled. Crookshanks brushed firmly against her calf, his tail curling around her as though he too was reminding her she wasn’t invisible.

Ginny noticed and smirked. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve seen that cat leave your side all week. It’s like he knows you need a bodyguard.”

Hermione managed a weak laugh, reaching down to bury her fingers in Crookshanks’ fur. “He’s always been protective.”

“Smart cat,” Ginny said simply. “Knows where he belongs.”

*****

The Great Hall was warm against the damp chill seeping through the castle walls. Hundreds of candles floated lazily above the tables, their flames glowing against the rain streaking the enchanted ceiling. The scrape of cutlery and the flap of owl wings filled the air, steady and familiar. For once, Hermione thought she might almost blend into the background.

But the quiet didn’t last.

The heavy doors at the far end creaked open. A ripple went through the hall as every head turned.

Hermione followed their gaze— and froze.

Professor Snape strode between the tables, black robes billowing as though he had never left. His face was paler, thinner, the lines around his mouth cut deeper. A dark scar ran like a shadow along his neck, disappearing into his collar. His steps were measured, cane tapping softly against the stone.

He didn’t falter. He didn’t need to. The silence spoke loudly enough.

Whispers broke out at once. “But he’s dead— he died—” Lavender’s gasp carried across the Gryffindor table. Parvati clutched her arm, eyes wide. At the Ravenclaw table, Sue Li leaned forward to whisper furiously to Lisa Turpin. Even at Hufflepuff, Susan and Hannah exchanged startled looks, their spoons frozen midair.

Hermione’s fork slipped from her fingers with a clatter. The sound rang far too loudly in the hush.

At the Slytherin table, Theo’s grin split wide. Blaise leaned forward on his elbows, amused. Pansy raised a brow, expression unreadable. But it was Draco who drew Hermione’s attention. He sat straighter, a flicker of something like pride in his eyes— not smugness, not triumph, but a loyalty Hermione didn’t know how to name.

Professor McGonagall rose at the staff table as Snape reached his seat. Her face was drawn but steady.

“Many of you are surprised,” she said, her voice carrying easily through the stunned silence. “Allow me to clarify. The Ministry has begun issuing official pardons for those whose roles in the war were… misunderstood. Among them is Professor Severus Snape, whose loyalty has now been fully confirmed. He will resume his post here at Hogwarts.”

A dozen voices erupted at once— shock, disbelief, anger, awe. McGonagall lifted her wand and silenced them with a sharp rap.

“Professor Snape is to be treated with the same respect as any member of staff. His service to the war has been recognized and honored. That is all.” She paused then, her expression softening. “I should also like to thank Professor Slughorn for stepping into the role until such time as Professor Snape could return to us. His efforts have been invaluable in a most difficult year.”

Polite applause rippled unevenly across the hall, though most eyes remained fixed on Snape.

Hermione’s chest squeezed tight. She could still see him on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, blood pooling beneath him, Harry’s desperate voice insisting they needed his memories. She had mourned him, hated him, pitied him— sometimes all at once. And now here he was, alive.

Snape lowered himself into the chair beside McGonagall, his black eyes sweeping the hall. For a moment, Hermione felt pinned beneath that gaze. Then his eyes flicked to Draco, then back to her— measuring, calculating, as if he could already see the threads Luna spoke of.

Crookshanks let out a low rumble under the bench, and Hermione realized she had stopped breathing.

The moment McGonagall sat down again, the whispers rose like a tide.

At the Gryffindor table, Lavender clutched Parvati’s arm, her eyes wide. “But he was gone! He never came back after the battle— everyone said he was dead.”

Parvati nodded quickly, her voice hushed. “I heard someone say he was killed by the snake. That no one even found his body.”

Lavender shivered theatrically. “And now he’s just— back? Like nothing happened?”

Ginny’s spoon clattered against her plate. “You’d know, wouldn’t you, Brown? Always the first to spread what you heard from someone else’s cousin’s owl.”

Lavender’s cheeks flushed scarlet, but before she could retort, Luna spoke calmly, as though explaining the obvious. “He’s a Potions Master. It would make sense for him to carry antidotes. Especially if he was serving Voldemort— snakes and poisons would be common hazards.”

Several heads swiveled toward her. Luna blinked serenely, unbothered. “Of course, antidotes don’t work if no one bothers to look for you. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t return until now. If everyone assumed he was dead, why bother correcting them?”

The words sank in with uncomfortable weight.

At the Hufflepuff table, Susan Bones frowned thoughtfully. “That’s true. If he was left behind… no one would’ve gone looking. Not for him.”

Hannah Abbott nodded faintly, still staring at the livid scar across Snape’s throat. “And if he healed alone, it explains why he looks like that.”

Justin Finch-Fletchley muttered darkly, “Still doesn’t explain why he’d come back at all.”

The Ravenclaws were no quieter. Michael Corner grumbled, “What if it’s not even him? Polyjuice, maybe. Or some glamour.”

Terry Boot snorted. “Who else would want to be Snape? No one’s that desperate.”

Sue Li and Lisa Turpin giggled nervously at that, though their eyes kept flicking to the staff table.

Padma Patil, however, looked straight at her sister. “Parvati, maybe it’s time to stop letting Lavender tell you what to believe,” she said quietly.

Parvati’s mouth opened, then closed again, her face flushing as Lavender whispered furiously at her. Padma simply turned away, expression calm, resolute.

The Slytherins, meanwhile, had taken on a smug air. Theo sprawled back on the bench with a grin. “Told you he wasn’t finished. Takes more than a snake to kill Snape.”

Blaise smirked faintly. “You never said that.”

“Didn’t I? Must’ve slipped my mind.” Theo grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself.

Pansy studied Snape intently. “Well, he looks better than half this lot did by the end of the war.”

The table chuckled, but Draco didn’t join in. He sat rigid, shoulders square, eyes locked on Snape. Not amusement, not triumph— something sharper, heavier, unreadable.

Hermione noticed. She told herself not to care, but her stomach knotted all the same.

She slipped out of the hall before the swell of whispers could grow louder. The corridor was cooler, quieter, but her mind buzzed with noise. Snape alive. Snape pardoned. Snape sitting at the staff table as though the past year had been a trick of the light.

“Leaving so soon, Granger?”

She spun, startled. Draco Malfoy leaned against the stone wall just beyond the doors, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Her heart lurched. “Following me now, Malfoy?”

He gave a lazy shrug. “You make an interesting exit. Hard to ignore.”

She scowled. “What, waiting to mock me? Or to boast that your Head of House is back?”

His eyes flickered, sharp for the first time. “If you think I’m going to stand here and listen to you insult him—”

“I didn’t,” Hermione cut in, surprising herself with the steadiness of her voice. “I just wondered… do you actually know what happened that night?”

For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face— confusion, then defensiveness. “I know enough. More than most of you Gryffindors ever understood about him.”

Hermione held his gaze, her chest tight. He doesn’t know. He couldn’t. Only she, Harry, and Ron had seen Snape fall, had heard his last words, had watched the memories slip from him like silver threads.

“I’m sure you do,” she said finally, her voice clipped. She adjusted her satchel strap higher on her shoulder. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got Charms. And if you’ve forgotten, our Unity Project update is due soon.”

Draco’s mouth twitched, something between a smirk and a scowl. “Trust me, Granger, I haven’t forgotten. No one’s letting me forget I’m chained to you for the rest of the year.”

Hermione flushed, though with irritation or something else she couldn’t say. She strode past him, Crookshanks brushing her ankle, tail swishing, as if daring Malfoy to try and stop her.

Draco’s voice followed her down the corridor, cool and even: “Just remember, Granger— he survived when plenty of others didn’t. That has to mean something.”

She didn’t look back. But the words pressed against her all the way to class.

*****

Charms passed in a blur. Hermione’s quill scratched across parchment, neat and steady as ever, but her mind wasn’t on the intricacies of vanishing spells. Each flick of her wand felt automatic, each answer she gave barely conscious.

When class ended, she lingered behind, letting the crowd of students spill out into the corridor. Crookshanks leapt gracefully onto an empty desk, curling into a ginger ball as though claiming the space for himself.

Hermione pressed her palms flat against her notes, staring at the tidy ink without seeing a word.

Snape alive.

Snape pardoned.

Snape back in the castle.

The words turned in her head, heavy and sharp. She had spent months believing his story ended in the Shrieking Shack, blood pooling on the floor while Harry clutched at him. She had mourned him, hated him, tried to reconcile the cruel professor with the man who gave Harry the truth at the very end.

And now… he was here.

Hermione swallowed hard, closing her eyes. Draco’s voice echoed louder than the rest. “He survived when plenty of others didn’t. That has to mean something.”

She hated that he was right. Hated that she almost wanted to ask him what he thought it meant.

Crookshanks stretched, purring low, and nudged his head against her arm. Hermione stroked his fur absently, her throat tightening.

“Connections,” Luna had said earlier. Threads brighten when people try to ignore them. Hermione shivered. She didn’t want any threads between herself and Draco Malfoy. She didn’t want his voice rattling around in her head on top of Snape’s shadowy return.

And yet, when she finally packed her books and gathered Crookshanks into her arms, it wasn’t McGonagall’s announcement or Lavender’s whispering that followed her down the corridor.

It was the memory of grey eyes holding hers in the torchlight, cool and certain.

Chapter Text

By the time lunch rolled around, the castle felt like a beehive shaken in its frame. Everywhere Hermione went, threads of conversation snagged at her sleeves, How is he alive? Did the Ministry force it? Was he hiding? She kept her head down and her steps even, but her appetite had evaporated somewhere between the Great Hall doors and the first ladle of pumpkin soup.

Crookshanks curled beneath the bench, a protective crescent of ginger fur against her boots. Ginny and Luna filled the space across from her: Ginny with the clipped efficiency of someone daring anyone to start something, Luna with that distant calm that made other people’s panic look like a passing draft.

The rush of wings overhead warned her a heartbeat before the tawny owl landed, scattering droplets from the rain-threaded ceiling. It extended one leg; a square of parchment gleamed with sealing wax bearing a stern M.

Hermione’s stomach dipped. She broke the seal.

Miss Granger,
 My office. Immediately after you finish your meal.
 Bring Miss Weasley, Miss Lovegood, and Mr Longbottom.
 —M. McGonagall

She passed the note to Ginny. “We’re being summoned.”

Ginny skimmed, eyebrows lifting. “All of us?”

“Apparently,” Hermione said, though her voice came out thinner than she liked.

Luna didn’t look surprised. “It’s sensible,” she said mildly, buttering a roll with slow, even strokes. “Professor McGonagall prefers to gather the correct witnesses before the Nargles start rearranging the facts.”

“The what do what?” Neville slid onto the bench beside Ginny, cheeks pink from the chill, a smear of soil still neat as a brushstroke on the cuff of his sleeve. “Sorry— I got waylaid. Spriggans in the greenhouse again. What’s this?”

Ginny tipped him the note. Neville read, then glanced at Hermione. “Do you know what it’s about?”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around her goblet. The metal was cool, steadying. “I can guess.”

Across the hall, a laugh rang out— Lavender’s, too bright and brittle. Hermione didn’t look over. She focused on the tiny imperfections in the rim of her goblet, the way the light trembled in the water.

“Right then,” Neville said, gentle but decisive, as if he’d felt her flinch from across the bench. “We’ll go with you.”

“We were already going,” Ginny said, flipping her braid over her shoulder with a defiant little toss. “But thanks.”

Luna leaned forward and set the buttered roll in front of Hermione. “Eat,” she said, as if bestowing an amulet. “Explanations are better on a full stomach.”

Hermione almost said she couldn’t. Then Crookshanks pressed his head against her shin, a quiet insistence that felt a lot like love. She forced herself to tear off a piece of bread, to chew, to swallow. The simple act steadied her more than any counter-curse.

They stood as one when the plates refilled themselves and the benches scraped back. The corridor beyond the Great Hall smelled faintly of damp wool and old stone. Students flowed around them in chattering eddies— Hufflepuffs speculating about Ministry plots, Ravenclaws debating Polyjuice, Slytherins trading smug theories like sweets.

At the foot of the marble staircase, Hermione hesitated. For a moment she could almost feel yesterday— the old certainty of who was good and who was not, who was dead and who was beyond reach. Then Luna’s hand brushed her sleeve, light as a moth’s wing.

“Up we go,” Luna said cheerfully. “Before the castle decides to move the stairs to make a point.”

Neville huffed a laugh, Ginny rolled her eyes, and the four of them climbed. Crookshanks trotted ahead, tail high, as if he owned every step.

Outside the Headmistress’s office, the griffin gargoyle leant forward to inspect them. “Password?”

“Port,” Ginny guessed. The gargoyle blinked, unimpressed.

Hermione tried the first thing that leapt to mind. “Sock.”

The gargoyle’s stone mouth twitched— whether in disapproval or amusement, Hermione couldn’t tell— then swung aside to reveal the spiral staircase. As they ascended, the murmuring portraits lining the narrow shaft peered over gilt frames, their whispers full of ink and oil.

The door opened before Hermione could knock.

“Come in,” Professor McGonagall called, and her voice— brisk, composed— was the most welcome sound Hermione had heard all day.

Inside, the office was warm and lamplit, a fire working diligently at its task. The instruments Dumbledore had once kept were gone or stilled; in their place stood orderly stacks of parchment, a brass kettle steaming on a low trivet, and a tray of cups that looked as though they’d been charmed to never quite cool.

And by the hearth, rain beading on his travel cloak, hair stubborn as ever—

“Harry,” Hermione breathed.

He looked up, and in the space of a heartbeat she saw the boy she’d met on a train and the man who’d walked into a forest and come back again. Tired eyes, crooked smile. Relief unfurled in her chest so fast she almost swayed.

“Hey,” he said, and the word carried more comfort than any speech. “Sorry, the Ministry let me slip out for an hour.”

“Mr. Potter has information that concerns you,” McGonagall said, already pouring tea. “Sit, all of you. We’ve a short window and much to cover.”

Hermione sank into the chair nearest Harry. Ginny took the one at his other side with an expression that dared anyone to object. Neville pulled his in without scraping the floor. Luna sat primly, hands folded, as if they might be taking notes on a comet.

Crookshanks leaped into Hermione’s lap with an aggrieved mrrrp and curled there, vibrating with purrs that seemed to knit the air back together.

Harry wrapped his hands around his cup as though he’d only just realized he was cold. He looked at Hermione, then at McGonagall, and finally at the window where rain traced slow lines down the glass.

“Right,” he said quietly. “About Snape.”

And the room, already quiet, seemed to hold its breath.

The fire cracked softly, filling the silence Harry left hanging.

Hermione leaned forward, her hands tightening around Crookshanks as if his rumbling weight could steady her. “Harry,” she said carefully, “you saw him. We saw him. He…” Her voice caught. “He died.”

Harry’s mouth pressed into a line. “That’s what I thought too. Until the Healers at St. Mungo’s told me otherwise.”

Neville blinked. “Healers?”

Harry nodded. “They found him hours after the battle ended. Some volunteer squad combing the Shrieking Shack. He’d lost too much blood, nearly drowned in it. But he wasn’t gone. Barely breathing, but alive.”

Ginny exhaled sharply. “And no one thought to tell us?”

“The Ministry didn’t want it public,” McGonagall said, her lips thin. “Given his reputation, his survival was… complicated. They chose to remain silent until they could determine whether he’d face trial or be cleared.”

Luna tilted her head, her pale eyes almost luminous in the firelight. “He would’ve carried antidotes,” she murmured. “It makes sense. A Potions Master under Voldemort’s thumb would expect venom. That’s why he lasted long enough to be found.”

Harry’s gaze flicked to her, a faint, surprised smile tugging at his mouth. “Exactly. The Healers said his own supplies kept him alive just long enough. After that— it was touch and go for weeks. They kept him hidden at St. Mungo’s while the Ministry argued about what to do with him.”

Neville frowned. “Argued about what?”

“About whether he was a hero,” Harry said flatly, “or a traitor.”

The words hung like lead.

Hermione’s breath came fast. “But they pardoned him.”

“Because of what I told them,” Harry said quietly. He set down his cup, staring into the steam. “I gave them everything, his memories, what Dumbledore showed me, what Snape did at the end. They couldn’t deny it once they saw the truth.”

McGonagall inclined her head, her eyes glinting behind her spectacles. “Mr. Potter’s testimony was… decisive. Combined with my own knowledge of Albus’s instructions, the Ministry agreed a pardon was warranted.”

Ginny made a sound that was halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “So all the whispers, all the doubting— while he was lying in a hospital bed fighting to breathe.”

Luna stirred her tea with her finger, utterly unbothered. “People often look everywhere but where the truth sits plainly.”

Neville shifted in his chair. “But why come back now? He could’ve disappeared. He could’ve stayed gone.”

“Because Hogwarts is his home,” McGonagall said firmly, cutting off Harry’s reply. Her expression softened a fraction. “And because even the most stubborn man deserves the chance to choose a different ending.”

Hermione’s throat burned. Images cascaded in her mind: Snape’s sneers, his cutting remarks, the way he’d haunted her steps for years. And then— the weight of his memories in Harry’s hands, the truth of his love, his sacrifices.

She had thought she’d put it away. She had thought she could tuck the grief into a corner and leave it there. But now… now he was back.

“Alive,” she whispered.

Harry reached across the small table, his fingers brushing her sleeve. “Alive,” he said simply.

Crookshanks purred louder, as if to ground her in that single impossible word.

*****

The corridor outside McGonagall’s office felt colder, the shadows of the staircase pressing closer than usual. Students murmured below, their voices rising and falling like a restless tide.

They descended together, but by the second landing Neville had peeled away toward Herbology, Luna had drifted toward the library humming under her breath, and Ginny had tugged Harry’s sleeve long enough to murmur “We’ll talk later.”

That left Hermione and Harry alone, Crookshanks padding between them, tail high.

For a moment, neither spoke. The echo of McGonagall’s office still clung to Hermione like smoke. She folded her arms, staring at the portrait of a stern witch who raised an eyebrow at their passage.

Harry broke the silence. “You’re quiet.”

Hermione huffed a laugh without humor. “That’s rich, coming from you. You drop the news that Severus Snape is alive, and I’m supposed to have something insightful to say?”

He glanced at her, lips twitching faintly. “You usually do.”

She shook her head, her throat tightening. “I don’t know what I feel, Harry. He made my life miserable for years. He called me names, humiliated me, tore me down whenever he could. And yet… Dumbledore trusted him. You trusted him at the end. He… he saved you.”

Harry’s voice was steady. “He saved all of us.”

They reached the base of the staircase. Hermione stopped, gripping the banister until the cold stone bit into her palm. “How am I supposed to reconcile that? That he was cruel and petty and unfair, but also…” She broke off, shaking her head.

Harry’s gaze softened. “By accepting that he was complicated. More complicated than we wanted to see. That’s all I’ve managed, anyway.”

Hermione swallowed hard. She wished it were that simple.

A sharp laugh cut across the corridor. Pansy leaned against a pillar, her robes immaculate, her eyes glittering with mischief. “Well, if it isn’t the Golden Boy sneaking back in. Thought you’d grown too grand for us, Potter.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but his tone stayed dry. “Don’t worry, Parkinson. I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of your daily dose of sarcasm.”

Her smirk deepened. “Careful. You might almost be tolerable when you’re not playing the saint.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked between them, startled at the odd ease in Pansy’s barbs and Harry’s clipped replies. Crookshanks gave a low rumble, unimpressed.

“Come on,” Harry muttered, steering Hermione past before Pansy could get another word in. His ears were faintly pink.

Hermione arched a brow but didn’t comment. For once, the weight pressing against her chest felt a little lighter, absurd as that was.

*****

The afternoon crowd was thick with students drifting between classes, voices rising and falling in a dozen threads of speculation. Hermione kept her steps brisk, clutching Crookshanks to her side as though his steady weight could anchor her.

“Granger.”

She stiffened. Draco had detached himself from a knot of Slytherins, falling into step beside her with the kind of deliberate ease that set her teeth on edge.

“I’m not in the mood, Malfoy,” she said tightly.

“Not everything’s about you,” he replied, though his eyes flicked toward her with a sharpness that betrayed him. “Word is Potter came back just to play Snape’s mouthpiece. Figures he’d defend him.”

Hermione stopped short, turning to face him. “And if he did?”

Draco’s jaw worked. “Then it proves what I’ve said all along— that you lot never understood him. You were too busy painting him a villain to see the truth.”

Hermione’s breath caught. The truth— she had seen it, felt it, in the silvery threads of memory that still haunted her. Harry had given his testimony, but she hadn’t spoken, hadn’t shared what she’d witnessed. Draco didn’t know.

She almost told him then. Almost let the words spill: I was there. I saw him die. I saw why he lived the way he did. But the defensiveness in his posture, the simmering in his voice— she knew he’d twist her confession into something else.

Instead, she drew herself up. “Believe what you like, Malfoy. I don’t owe you explanations.”

His eyes narrowed. For a moment, she thought he might push, demanding answers. But then his lips curved into that familiar smirk, cool and unreadable. “Of course you don’t. You never could stand to admit when Slytherin had the right of it.”

He turned on his heel and melted back into the flow of students, leaving Hermione rooted to the stone floor, her pulse racing.

Crookshanks let out a disgruntled mrrp and butted her knee until she forced her legs to move again.

*****

By evening, Hermione retreated to the library. The weight of the day pressed down on her shoulders, heavier than the stacks of parchment in her bag. She chose her favorite alcove— half-hidden, quiet, a place that smelled of dust and ink.

Crookshanks hopped onto the table, sprawling across her notes with a rumble of ownership.

She hadn’t been there long before a familiar voice broke the silence.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Neville dropped into the chair opposite, his hands still faintly stained with soil from Greenhouse Three. He carried a chipped mug that smelled faintly of chamomile. Without waiting, he set it in front of her.

“You need tea,” he said simply.

Hermione blinked at him, then let out a shaky laugh. “Since when are you an expert?”

“Since I spent the last year learning when people needed grounding,” Neville said, quiet but steady. “Tea helps.”

She wrapped her hands around the mug. The warmth seeped into her fingers, her chest, her thoughts.

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” she admitted. “Everything feels… upside down. Snape alive. Harry defending him. Malfoy acting as if he’s the only one who ever knew the truth.”

Neville leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You don’t have to forgive him. You don’t even have to like him. He hurt you, hell, he hurt me.  But you can let it be complicated. That’s allowed, Hermione.”

Her throat tightened. For so long she had defined things in neat lines— heroes and villains, right and wrong. War had blurred those lines, but she still clung to them. And now Snape’s return was pulling every old certainty apart.

Crookshanks purred louder, pressing against her arm.

Hermione managed a small, weary smile. “You sound almost like Luna.”

Neville’s lips twitched. “Don’t tell her that. She’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

For the first time all day, Hermione’s laugh came freely. It echoed softly in the stacks, a fragile sound but a real one.

Chapter Text

The first Hogsmeade weekend of term was always a relief, and this one was no exception. After weeks of classes shadowed by gossip and Snape’s return, the promise of butterbeer and a crisp autumn afternoon felt like breathing again.

Students spilled through the gates in noisy clusters, scarves fluttering in the cool breeze. The cobbled street of Hogsmeade glistened faintly with last night’s rain, windows steaming with warmth as shop doors swung open to welcome them in.

Hermione walked with Ginny, Luna, and Neville, her breath fogging in the chill. Crookshanks had been barred from following her out of the castle, much to his indignation— he’d mrrped his disapproval at the foot of the stairs until she promised to bring back a treat from Honeydukes.

“First stop, Zonko’s,” Ginny announced. “George stocked them with new tricks.”

Neville groaned. “You’re going to drag me into that, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” Ginny’s grin was wicked. “You’re the perfect test subject.”

Luna tilted her head, dreamlike as ever. “I think the Skitter-Sweets are the best. They make your shadow dance away from you for a full minute. Quite freeing.”

Hermione shook her head, though she smiled faintly. For a moment, it almost felt normal again, friends laughing, weekend bustle, a world without the constant threat of darkness.

Then a sharp flutter of wings broke the air above. A sleek silver-grey owl swooped down, graceful as a falling leaf. Its talons clinked softly as it dropped a folded envelope into Hermione’s hands.

Her stomach tightened at the seal; a stylized M in silver wax.

“Who’s it from?” Ginny asked immediately, peering over her shoulder.

Hermione cracked the seal, her pulse jumping. The script inside was elegant, deliberate:

Miss Granger,

I would be delighted if you would join me for tea this afternoon at the Silver Thistle.

—Narcissa Malfoy

Ginny made a noise halfway between outrage and disbelief. “Absolutely not. She’s trying to lure you into a trap.”

Neville frowned, uneasy. “She wouldn’t dare. Not now. Still… are you sure it’s safe?”

Luna leaned closer, her radish earrings swaying as she peered at the neat lines of script. “She likes connections,” she said softly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And you’re one of them now.”

Hermione folded the note carefully, tucking it into her pocket. Her heart beat fast, her mind already racing. “It’s not optional. If I ignore it, it looks like weakness. And besides… it’s only tea.”

“Tea with Malfoy’s mother,” Ginny muttered, arms crossed. “Nothing about that is ‘only.’”

Hermione forced a smile, though her hands trembled faintly in her cloak. “Still— I think I’d better go.”

They walked to the tea shop in silence,  no one wanting to speak. 

Hermione took a breath, “Let me do this on my own.”

After a couple of minutes of bickering, mainly Ginny, Hermione stood in front of the shop. 

The Silver Thistle was nothing like the boisterous warmth of the Three Broomsticks. Tucked into a quiet corner of Hogsmeade, its windows glowed softly with enchanted lanterns, and its sign swung gently overhead, painted with curling silver vines. Inside, the air was perfumed with lavender and bergamot, the clink of porcelain subdued beneath a hush of polite conversation.

Hermione hesitated just inside the door, clutching her gloves. She felt entirely out of place among the tidy rows of lace-draped tables, where witches in elegant hats sipped tea as though nothing in the world could trouble them.

“Miss Granger.”

The voice was cool, cultured, and impossible to ignore. Narcissa Malfoy rose gracefully from a secluded alcove at the back. Dressed in pale blue silk, her blonde hair coiled in an impeccable twist, she looked like she had stepped out of a portrait—untouched by the war that had scarred everyone else.

Hermione’s throat went dry. She forced her feet forward, each step heavy with caution. “Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa inclined her head, the faintest curve of a smile gracing her lips. “I appreciate your punctuality. Please, sit. The house blend is tolerable, though I recommend the jasmine.”

Hermione sat stiffly, sliding her gloves onto her lap. A teacup appeared before her with a graceful flick of Narcissa’s wand, steam curling in delicate spirals.

For a few moments, silence hung between them, broken only by the faint rustle of Narcissa stirring her tea. Then, with perfect composure, she spoke.

“I asked you here because I believe you are often underestimated, Miss Granger.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “I—thank you, but—”

“Not by me,” Narcissa interrupted smoothly. Her blue eyes were sharp, assessing. “I have seen the way you carry yourself. The war did not break you. Few can say the same.”

Hermione’s heart stumbled. She searched for the trap in the compliment, but Narcissa’s expression was unreadable.

“You are, of course, partnered with my son in this… Unity Project.” Narcissa’s tone made the words sound both faintly amused and faintly disdainful. “How is he proving as a partner?”

Hermione hesitated, aware of the weight in the question. “Stubborn. Difficult. But… capable.”

The corner of Narcissa’s mouth twitched. “As I suspected. Draco has always needed someone who refuses to yield to him. It teaches him the value of listening.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say to that. She wrapped her hands tighter around the teacup, the warmth seeping into her palms.

Narcissa leaned back, her gaze lingering on Hermione. “I am curious, Miss Granger. Do you believe people can be reshaped by circumstance? Or are we forever bound to the choices of our youth?”

The question landed like a stone in Hermione’s chest. She thought of Ron’s furious words, Harry’s unwavering defense, Draco’s smirk in the corridor. She thought of Snape, alive when he shouldn’t have been.

“I think…” She swallowed. “I think we can change. But only if we choose to.”

Narcissa’s eyes softened, just barely. She lifted her cup, sipping as though the answer had pleased her.

“Then I am glad I invited you,” she said, and for the first time Hermione wondered if this meeting had little to do with tea at all.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply — but the bell above the door chimed, and her words caught in her throat.

A tall, pale figure stepped inside, shaking a dusting of frost from his cloak. His grey eyes scanned the room, cool and practiced, until they landed on the alcove. He froze, just briefly, before recovering with practiced ease.

“Mother,” Draco drawled as he approached. Then his gaze cut sharply to Hermione, narrowing in disbelief. “Granger.”

Hermione stiffened. “Malfoy.”

The faintest curve of amusement touched Narcissa’s lips. She didn’t rise, merely set her teacup down with languid precision, her posture a study in composure.

“How fortunate,” she said smoothly. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten our appointment, Draco. Please, join us.”

Draco slid into the chair opposite Hermione, his brows knitting briefly before he smoothed his expression into neutrality.

“I wasn’t aware we were expecting company,” he said, though the edge in his voice was softer than usual — more surprise than disdain.

Narcissa’s smile didn’t waver. She lifted her teacup, composed as ever. “You’re working so closely with Miss Granger on this Unity Project. It seemed fitting to hear how the two of you are managing.”

Hermione blinked. “This was about the project?”

“Among other things,” Narcissa replied, her gaze unreadable but knowing.

Draco huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head. “Figures.” His eyes flicked toward Hermione. “Challenging, isn’t it?”

Hermione straightened, her cheeks warming. “You’re hardly easy to work with.”

Draco’s lips quirked — not in a smirk, but in something closer to self-deprecation. “I could say the same. But… you don’t back down. I’ll give you that.”

Before Hermione could respond, Narcissa interjected, her tone cool but satisfied. “Exactly so. Opposition sharpens the mind. I’m pleased to see the project is proving useful already.”

She glanced at the clock on the wall, then set her cup down with delicate precision. “I must step out for a short while. A delivery requires my attention.” Her eyes lingered on her son, then on Hermione. “I imagine you’ll find the conversation more productive without me.”

Draco gave her a sharp look, but said nothing. Hermione pressed her lips together, unsure whether to protest or laugh.

Narcissa rose with unhurried grace, her perfume trailing faintly in the air as she swept toward the door.

The silence left behind was immediate, pressing close.

Draco leaned back in his chair, his eyes on Hermione now, steady rather than sharp. “You know she planned this. Every word, every detail.”

Hermione let out a breath, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. “Obviously. The question is why.”

Draco’s mouth curved slightly, though there was no mockery in it this time. “Because she thinks I need reminding that not everyone’s an enemy.”

Hermione blinked, startled by his honesty.

For a moment, the tension between them shifted — still taut, but different. Less like a drawn wand, more like something waiting to spark.

They left the tea shop together, stepping into the cold air. Snow had begun to fall, thin flakes settling into Hermione’s hair and catching on Draco’s dark cloak.

They walked side by side in silence at first, the muffled hush of snow pressing close.

Finally, Hermione muttered, “You don’t have to walk me back.”

“I know,” Draco said, glancing sidelong at her. “But it’s darkening, and half the village would hex me for less. So—consider it self-preservation.”

Hermione gave a reluctant laugh, the sound puffing white into the air. “Always so noble.”

“Careful, Granger. Say that too loudly and people will think I’ve gone soft.” His mouth quirked — a shadow of the old smirk, but gentler.

They passed under the lanterns, the snow falling heavier now, clinging to their robes. Hermione shivered, hugging her cloak tighter. Without thinking, Draco shifted closer, his shoulder brushing hers.

She froze at the contact, and so did he. Their eyes met, breath clouding between them. For a suspended heartbeat, neither moved.

Then, as if pulled by some unspoken tether, Draco leaned in. His lips brushed hers — tentative, questioning, nothing like the arrogant sneer she’d braced for.

It was over almost as quickly as it began, both of them pulling back, cheeks flushed from more than the cold.

“That—” Hermione began, voice unsteady.

“—didn’t happen,” Draco finished, though his tone lacked conviction.

They stood there a moment longer, snow settling silently around them. Then Hermione cleared her throat, forcing her legs to move.

“Yes. Best get back.”

Draco fell into step beside her, neither of them speaking again. But the air between them was changed, threaded through with something neither could ignore.

Snow muffled the cobbled street, turning the lamps into hazy golden orbs. Ginny and Neville lingered near Honeydukes, still arguing amiably about whether to stock up on Fizzing Whizbees or not.

Neither of them noticed Luna slip away.

Her steps were unhurried, quiet, her radish earrings swaying gently as she followed a tug only she could feel. The snowfall swirled around her like a veil, and ahead she saw two figures moving side by side beneath the lantern glow.

Draco and Hermione.

Luna paused just as their footsteps slowed. She tilted her head, pale eyes unblinking as she watched the moment unfold: the brushing of shoulders, the pause in breath, the tentative kiss falling softer than the snow itself.

A small, satisfied hum escaped her. She rocked back on her heels, then turned, drifting away before they could ever know she’d been there.

When she rejoined Ginny and Neville, neither asked where she had gone.

Luna only smiled serenely to herself, tucking her hands into her cloak. “Connections,” she whispered, almost like a song. “The threads are bright tonight.”