Chapter Text
He was back the following week.
She rushed into the Leaky, slightly panting from her speed-walk over from the Ministry, fully expecting Harry to be waiting alone at their usual table again—but was surprised to see the familiar tall blond seated beside her friend. She hid her surprise at his sudden reappearance, but quickly hid her reaction under a mask of forced indifference.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said to Harry. “I had a faulty portkey coming back from Bulgaria.”
“Oh, were you visiting Krum again?” Harry asked, already sliding over the glass of butterbeer he had at the ready for her. He’d already heard more than his fill of her excited ramblings about Viktor’s new project after his recent retirement from his professional Quidditch career.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Malfoy stiffen.
She blushed as she remembered the last time she’d seen him, what he’d overheard. She shoved that memory aside and brought her full attention back to Harry, eager to share her exciting news, her words slightly too fast, voice slightly too loud.
“Yes! Viktor and Tanya have done amazing work with their Golden Snidget preservation site—it’s so incredible. I’ve gotten so many ideas for our Scotland branch. They’ve even set up visitor areas with greenhouses, like the butterfly houses in Muggle zoos. Their son, Georgi, especially loves it there. Here—” She fished out a photograph from her bag of the toddler on a toy broom chasing after the golden birds who hovered around him but kept flying out of reach. Viktor and his wife, her belly rounded with their next baby on the way, beamed happily in the background. “Isn’t he just adorable? Just the cutest little thing, isn’t he? He’s the spitting image of Viktor, with his wife’s button nose and blond hair.”
“There’s no way any baby that inherited Krum’s perpetual scowl is cute —” Harry started saying, until she shoved the picture in front of his nose. He peered at it through his glasses, and his skepticism quickly melted away into cooing. “Aw, look at his little nose! That little face! So precious.”
“Krum has a kid? And a wife?”
Malfoy’s voice cut through her and Harry’s excited chatter. He leaned forward, encroaching into her space more than usual. But then again, he wasn’t sitting much closer than Harry, was he? Was she just so used to him standing five feet away at all times that his sudden normal proximity felt too close?
“Oh, uh,” she stammered. “Yes. The Krums are very private about their family. They try their best to keep out of the media.”
She blinked, startled by the unexpected sight of Malfoy leaning forward, his eyes fixed intently on the photo now back in her hand. “Did you… want to see it?” she asked, holding it out toward him uncertainly, baffled by his uncharacteristic eagerness.
He reached for the photo carefully, his long fingers taking hold of the opposite edge with a precision that seemed almost deliberate, as if ensuring their hands wouldn’t brush.
The gesture gave her pause, her frown deepening as a fleeting memory surfaced—the weight of those same hands on her shoulders, the brief, electrified touch of his fingers against hers before he’d vanished from her life for a month.
Malfoy’s gaze didn’t waver from the photo, eyes sweeping methodically of every corner of the image of the happy family. He studied it with a kind of intensity she rarely saw him bestow on anyone or anything other than herself. For once, his attention wasn’t on her, and she took the rare opportunity to observe him instead. Her eyes traced the sharp line of his nose, the defined angle of his jaw, the lips often drawn into a hard, unreadable line. That perpetual crease between his brows stood out, carved deep into his otherwise smooth skin, a reminder of how much tension he carried beneath his stoic veneer.
“I forgot you used to be a Krum fan too, Malfoy,” Harry said while snickering, shaking his head in amusement. “Look at him, mooning over a picture of his favorite Quidditch player! Remember how he chased after him all over school grounds during fourth year? You were practically president of the fangirls who’d stalk Krum all over school. Did you also follow him down to the Great Lake just to see him shirtless?”
Malfoy didn’t rise to the bait. He ignored Harry’s teasing entirely, his focus locked on the photo in his hand. After a long moment, he finally looked up, but not at Harry—at her. The intensity of his gaze made Hermione’s stomach twist, an uncomfortable mix of unease and curiosity.
“I thought you were together. You and Krum.”
It wasn’t a question—it was an accusation. His clipped words and the tightness in his jaw carried a weight she couldn’t quite decipher. His usually impassive eyes were narrowed, colored with irritation. Or was it frustration? Annoyance?
Hermione’s cheeks heated under his scrutiny.
What right did he have to act this way? To look at her like that, after disappearing for four weeks without explanation? She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin defiantly as she met his glare head-on, though she couldn’t entirely make sense of her own irritation.
“Hermione and Krum?” Harry said with a snort, breaking through the sudden and unexpected tension. “You’re about four years late to that piece of gossip, Malfoy. Krum’s ancient history.”
Malfoy gave the photo one last glance before handing it back to her.
But instead of retreating into his usual stoicism, he broke into a smile. A real one. The kind that softened the sharpness of his features and sent her mind reeling.
Even Harry seemed taken aback, one eyebrow raised in surprise as he looked between them.
“Er—what’s so funny, mate?” Harry asked.
Malfoy shrugged, his smirk still lingering. “Can’t a man be happy for his favorite Quidditch star finding domestic bliss? Congratulations to Krum and his ever-growing brood,” he said lightly.
Then, just as quickly, he pivoted, his tone snapping back to professionalism as if flipping a switch. “Potter, have you read Robbard’s latest report on the Lestrange manor? He claims there’s fresh evidence of activity—something about magical residue from Rodolphus…”
Harry latched onto the new topic without missing a beat, launching into a detailed discussion of Auror strategies. Malfoy, for once, kept his focus entirely on Harry, nodding and murmuring his agreement as they delved into tactical details.
But Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away from Malfoy.
The grin he’d flashed, the flickers of emotion that crossed his usually impenetrable features—irritation, frustration, accusation, and something sharper she couldn’t quite place—stayed with her. She was still reeling at the fact that she’d seen more raw emotion from the man in the past five minutes than she had in an entire year.
She chewed on her bottom lip as she mulled over Malfoy’s unusual behavior.
Malfoy was once again a regular at Friday drinks, hovering in that maddening space of being too close and too far all at once—close enough to keep her nerves on edge, yet far enough that she found herself wishing he’d move closer.
The second week he was back, she was chatting with Anthony Goldstein, sitting three seats down from Malfoy, venting about the latest headaches from the Gringotts goblins. Her vault’s assigned goblin had changed yet again, which meant another frustrating round of security protocols—a hassle that had been happening far too often lately. It was the fifth time this year, a hassle she blamed on the renewed attention their infamous war-time break-in had garnered after she’d recounted their escape on a dragon during a speech at the Romanian Dragon Conservatory’s centennial celebration.
It wasn’t a test, she told herself. She was simply complaining about an annoyance to a friend.
She also told herself she didn’t notice when Malfoy slipped out of the pub earlier than usual. And she most certainly didn’t dwell on it when she arrived home to find a letter from Gringotts waiting for her, far after regular business hours—an apology for the recent security mix-up and an assurance that she wouldn’t need to endure another hours-long clearance process.
So there it was. Everything, back to normal.
Except, not really. Not when she now carried a new understanding, a sharp awareness that refused to fade.
She knew what Malfoy’s eyes looked like when they burned with icy accusation, sharp and piercing, as though her supposed romance with Krum had been a personal betrayal. She’d seen the way that frost melted, giving way to relief so profound it fractured into something startling: joy. A wide, unguarded smile—one she was certain she’d never seen on him before. Not even on the day he’d been spared a life in Azkaban at his sentencing hearing.
And she remembered his hands—the firm, grounding weight of them on her shoulders, followed by the faintest ghost of a touch as his fingers brushed past hers as he retreated from her.
And, of course, she now knew that she could say out loud things like “thank you” and “please don’t hurt Krum” and he’d still come back.
This newfound knowledge lit something within her—boldness, recklessness, a need to know more. She wanted answers, without asking questions.
The fury in his eyes when he’d thought her Krum’s. The month of absence when he believed her taken. The way his gaze followed her every move, relentless and unblinking, like a man bracing for a storm—what else could it be but longing? What else could he be doing, if not pining?
But she had to be sure.
So when his gaze burned into her again at Friday drinks, heavy and unyielding, for the first time, she didn’t shy away. She didn’t lower her gaze, or let her eyes slide over him as if it were a mere mistake that she’d looked his way.
Instead, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and let her eyes meet his with unwavering defiance.
And then, she gave him an entirely new view: Hermione Granger, smiling at him. Not a polite grimace, not a leftover grin she’d initially flashed at Harry when her attention inevitably turned back to him without intending to look.
The twist of her lips upwards, shy and unsure.
She watched, a slow thrill rising in her chest, as his eyes widened, as he choked on his firewhiskey, spluttering against the burn. His eyes stayed on her, even as Harry thumped at his back, urging him to drink water.
And her smile widened.
By the following week, Malfoy no longer seemed shocked when she met his gaze with a smile.
Instead, he leaned forward, magnetized, drinking in the sight with an eagerness she could only describe as hunger . His eyes burned, unblinking, a quiet desperation that seemed to whisper he feared her smile might vanish if he blinked or looked away for even a moment.
Hermione had other tricks up her sleeve.
Her lips didn’t only curve upward—they could part to catch a stray drop from her drink, her tongue darting out to sweep it away without breaking eye contact.
She didn’t miss the way his hand tightened around his glass, the way his jaw clenched.
Her lips also knew how to say, with feigned innocence, “It’s awfully warm in here.” Then she rose, shedding her sweater with deliberate ease, the hem of her undershirt lifting just enough to reveal a tantalizing sliver of skin in the dim light of the pub.
When she turned back, sweater draped over her chair and thin white t-shirt smoothed down, her eyes immediately sought him.
He was standing too, his chair thrown back behind him in a sharp, awkward angle. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, his fist clenched, and his gaze—it cut across the table, searing, scorching, fixed on her.
“Are you up to get a drink, Malfoy? Grab me a butterbeer, would you?” she asked, feigning innocence with a wide-eyed smile. He’d turned pink, jerked his head into a nod, and stalked over to the bar, eyes trained on her as he flagged down the bartender and barked out an order.
The night of her sweater stunt, Harry cornered her on her way back from the loo.
“What are you doing, Hermione?” he asked, crossing his arms with a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though his eyes held an unmistakable edge of concern.
“What?”
She tried to peer past Harry and his messy head of hair without making it obvious that she was looking for someone, to make sure he hadn’t slipped out during her brief absence. She tried to mask her search with an attempt at a casual sweep across the bar.
“You’ve stopped pretending you don’t notice Malfoy staring at you,” Harry said, his tone casual but pointed. “And now you’re staring back. Smiling, even.”
“You’ve been hounding me for months to be nicer to him,” she said defensively. “Are you telling me that’s no longer necessary?”
“Is that what you’re doing? Being nice ?”
“Yes.”
“I see. And was it nice of you to strip down in front of him just now?” he asked dryly, raising an eyebrow. “Merlin Hermione, you’ve got the man knocking over chairs and drinks.”
She scowled. “Excuse me for removing my wool sweater off in this hot, sweltering bar! I’m hardly responsible if Malfoy’s delicate pureblood sensibilities can’t handle a bit of skin.”
Harry didn’t so much as blink, his expression flat. “I’ve seen one too many passive-aggressive pissing contests between you and Ron to not recognize that move. The sweater-stripping routine is a classic, one you whipped out whenever you wanted him to forget his own argument mid-sentence. And you weren’t very subtle at all.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insisted with a stubborn set of her jaw.
“Oh, come on,” Harry said, his tone bordering on amused, but the concern in his eyes was still very much there. “You and Ron used to pull out every trick in the book to flirt, fight, or get under each other’s skin. I know all your tricks, Hermione Granger. You can’t fool me.”
“You’re ridiculous. You’re imagining things,” she snapped. “Clearly Ginny’s absence is warping your mind. A week alone while your wife is at training camp has you reading into things. You’re a filthy sex addict in withdrawal. You need help.”
Harry didn’t bother responding to her rather pathetic defensive offense. Instead, he adjusted his glasses and gave her that piercing, all-knowing look that he probably fancied made him look like a younger, scruffier Dumbledore.
“You need to be careful.”
She sighed, already steeling herself for the inevitable lecture. Be careful around Malfoy. Remember who he is. Stay cautious around any man, but especially one like him. She could practically recite the overprotective older-brother speech by heart. Over the years, she’d heard it from Harry, from Ron, from nearly every Weasley, any time she so much as mentioned meeting someone new. The nice graduate student who’d asked for her number at the Muggle café near her flat? Obvious creep. Kingsley’s charming intern from MACUSA who’d invited her out for drinks? Definitely a national security risk.
And Malfoy? An actual former Death Eater with a past that warranted every caution? She could only imagine the collective outrage he would inspire. It would be a protective intervention of epic proportions.
“You need to leave the poor bloke alone,” Harry continued sternly.
Wait. What?
“Don’t start leading him on just because you’re feeling bored this evening. It’s not fair to him.”
“Shouldn’t you be telling me the opposite? To be careful of him, not for him? He’s a Death Eater—-“
“A former, non-convicted Death Eater,” Harry interrupted sharply, his disapproving look cutting through her protest, “who also happens to be my partner, thanks to your testimony at his trial. And,” he added, voice steady but firm, “who also happens to be in love with you. So unless you plan on following through, stop toying with him.”
She shook her head, the words sticking in her throat. She forced a laugh that sounded more like choking.
“He’s not in love with me.”
“Hermione,” Harry said with exasperation, “he shows up here every week just to stare at you.”
“Not every week.”
“Every week when he doesn’t think you’re in love with Viktor Krum,” Harry shot back without missing a beat.
“And when his mother is in town,” she added.
Harry rolled his eyes.
“Right. So barring those two exceptions, every week. For hours. Just staring. Because he’s in love with you.”
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but no words came to her. Because of course, her friend was missing a crucial piece of information.
That Malfoy didn’t just stare . He did much more than that.
This wasn’t the harmless puppy-dog infatuation Harry imagined. He didn’t know what she knew—that her casual complaints had a disturbing habit of turning into something far more sinister. A passing grumble about an annoying Ministry official had led to rumors that destroyed his career, ended his life—figuratively and literally. A lighthearted joke about a shopkeeper’s poor attitude had resulted in the man shutting down his business entirely. Malfoy’s attention was far from harmless or innocent.
Because his attention came with consequences.
Harry thought Malfoy’s staring as romantic, borderline pathetic—so much so that he’d stepped up to protect him. But what would he think if he knew why she tread so carefully? That it took her months for her to tentatively decide that Malfoy’s careful obsessive observation of her leaned more towards obsession of the romantic kind, and not the serial-killing, life-destroying kind? But that still, she wasn’t entirely sure that Malfoy wouldn’t end up killing her one day, just as she knew he’d ended so many others?
The smiles, the lingering glances, and yes, the calculated flash of skin—Harry thought it was flirting. That she was playing into a harmless crush. But every move she made was deliberate, a test, a way to probe the boundaries of Malfoy’s obsession. She wasn’t trying to tease him; she was trying to map out how deep the rabbit hole went.
“Maybe Malfoy just likes looking at me,” she said finally, keeping her tone light, as if finding humor in his ridiculous theory. “But he’s never so much as expressed any interest in anything more. Really, you’re reading too much into this.”
Harry studied her for a moment before responding.
“He asks about you sometimes,” he said carefully, his eyes trained on her face. “About how you’re doing. When work is stressful for you, or when the news has an antagonistic piece on you. When we see you in the lifts during work and you look upset, he wants to know what could’ve ruined your day. Stuff like that.”
“And,” he added, still watching closely, “he goes out of his way to help you. Even when you don’t know it.”
Her stomach tightened. Harry couldn’t possibly know. He wouldn’t be so calm about it if he did.
“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.
“Remember a couple of weeks ago, when you were having all that trouble with Gringotts and they suddenly dropped that ridiculous new security protocol?” He paused, waiting for her response. She nodded hesitantly.
“That was thanks to Malfoy,” Harry said simply. “I saw him listening in when you were talking to Anthony about it. Then he slipped out of the Leaky, so I followed him under the cloak—”
“Harry! You can’t misuse the cloak like that,” she interrupted, eyes widening as she realized he really could know. “This is like sixth year all over again—”
He waved her off. “I was curious, is all. Wanted to see what could possibly be important enough to drag him away from his weekly scheduled staring session at you. So I followed him to Gringotts.”
She held her breath, dread creeping up her spine.
What had Malfoy done this time? What could Harry have seen? The Prophet , her only means of learning when and how Malfoy intervened in her life, hadn’t published any news about tragic goblin accidents or any Unforgivables that had been detected from the bank. Besides, Harry would’ve locked away Malfoy long ago if he’d seen anything incriminating like that.
“And what did you see?” she asked in a strained voice.
“He threatened the goblins. Told them he’d move the entirety of the Malfoy vaults to another financial institution, one abroad if necessary, if they didn’t treat you with the proper respect you deserved.”
Oh. Well that wasn’t bad at all.
“They tried to push back, of course—told him it’d cost a fortune to break the contracts and arrange a move that big.” Harry’s voice dropped slightly, his words slower now, as if emphasizing the gravity of the next part. “And Malfoy said it’d be worth every galleon.”
He paused again, his gaze steady, searching her face for a reaction.
“He was ready to throw away a small fortune. For you,” he said again, as if he didn’t think she’d heard him properly.
“Maybe Malfoy hasn’t done anything much beyond admiring you from afar,” he said carefully. “But not because he doesn’t want to. I think it’s because he believes it’s what you want.” His voice softened, though his gaze remained sharp. “But if you’re giving him signals that’s no longer the case—when it’s not true—well, that would be very unkind of you, Hermione.”
She was still reeling at the news that Malfoy did more than just what she read in the Prophet . The possibility that he’d intervened, many times before, and she might’ve not known, if it didn’t lead to a death or injury that made the news. That there may be interventions she and the Prophet had missed.
Harry had said Malfoy asked about her sometimes. How often had Harry passed on pieces of her life to him? And how many times had Malfoy stepped in to solve her problems without her ever realizing? The Prophet articles she’d collected over the past year already almost filled an entire drawer of her bedroom. How many other incidents had slipped by her attention, because she hadn’t known to look?
Her mind raced to think about every happy coincidence that had occurred in her life recently. Had the old hag of a secretary in the International Portkeys Department truly retired? Or had Harry passed onto Malfoy, the story of the old woman declining her portkey application to Australia on the basis of having read Rita Skeeter’s expose on what she’d done to her parents? Even small, ridiculous things. She’d once told Harry wistfully, “I wish the muggle cafe across the street from me had their pumpkin latte year-round instead of keeping it a seasonal item. It’s my favorite thing.” And the next time she’d dropped in the cafe, the pumpkin latte indeed had found permanent residence on the small shop’s menu.
Was that all Malfoy’s doing?
Malfoy helped her, even when she’d never find out about it. So it wasn’t about her knowing. It wasn’t about her fearing him.
Then what did that leave? Love, as Harry claimed?
She couldn’t figure out whether the extra pieces of information she had about Malfoy confirmed Harry’s theory or worked against it.
Harry’s voice broke through her thoughts again. “If you want to continue… whatever it is you’re doing, fine. I can’t stop two consenting adults from doing whatever you want. But if you’re just mucking about, please stop. It’s dangerous to play with one’s feelings like that.”
Harry was right. She was playing a dangerous game. Far more dangerous than he could ever suspect. She shouldn’t be playing with Malfoy. Not when she didn’t know what the consequences could be—on her, on him, on the world.
“I think I’m going to head home now,” she heard herself say, her voice oddly distant.
Harry hesitated, giving her an odd look, but then nodded.
“Sure. Want me to walk you to the apparition point?”
He led the way towards the Leaky’s exit.
“No,” she assured him quickly, managing a small smile. “Don’t be silly, I can handle the ten-foot walk on my own. Tell everyone goodbye for me, would you? I won’t be here next week either. I’ll be in Romania—”
“I remember,” Harry assured her. “Your visit to the dragon conservatory.” He gave a slight smile. “Let’s grab dinner this weekend before you head off. Maybe at the Burrow? The Weasleys will probably have things they want you to pass along to Charlie anyway.”
She nodded absently as they reached the door. Harry pushed it open for her, and she walked outside.
Her mind was still replaying their conversation in their head as she walked away, taking slow measured steps towards the apparition point closest to the Leaky.
She was steps away from the spot, moments away from picturing her flat in her mind’s eye, ready to let the magic whisk her away, when she felt a hand settle on her shoulder.
She knew who it was, even before she heard the voice or saw the body attached to the hand. She recognized the weight of it. The scent of him, woody sandalwood, something earthy that reminded her of Snape’s potions classroom from Hogwarts. Maybe vetiver.
“Granger?”
“Malfoy,” she said, her tone flat, giving nothing away. What could he possibly want? She wasn’t ready for this. She was still trying to process everything from tonight, trying to make sense of the mess in her head.
“Did Potter upset you? Did you two have a row?”
Of course he’d been watching.
“No. I’m just tired.”
Malfoy studied her with pursed lips, his grey eyes scanning her face the same way Harry had—sharp, searching.
“You’re lying.”
“You don’t know me, Malfoy,” she snapped, shrugging off his hand.
“What’s wrong? Tell me.”
She scowled at him and raised her hand, ready to disapparate away without another word. But then his hand was on her again—this time, on her wand hand.
“I do know you,” he said, his voice unyielding and steady. “And I know that you’re upset.”
“You don’t know me,” she repeated, her voice low, laced with challenge. “Just because you creepily stare at me for hours on end doesn’t mean you know anything about me.”
She watched as a tinge of pink bloomed on his pale cheeks.
Was he blushing? Or was it the flush of anger rising beneath the surface? Or just the effect of firewhiskey he’d been nursing all night? Her eyes narrowed as she wondered—was she about to find herself at the wrong end of his wand, like so many others had before her?
She was done feeling uncertain. Done feeling like she was teetering on the edge.
“What if Harry did upset me?” she shot back, her voice sharp, cutting through the tension between them. “Will you kill him too? Stage an accident on one of your little missions? Slip something into his drink when you walk back into the pub?”
His expression darkened, but his response was immediate.
“Of course not.”
She gave him a derisive sneer. “Nice to know you have some boundaries. I suppose it’d be rather difficult to take out the savior of the wizarding world without getting caught. Even for someone like you, who’s had plenty of practice with murder .”
The words landed with a surprising weight, and for a moment, he seemed to hesitate, his jaw tightening. Had she offended him? Was he going to deny it? Confirm it?
“I wouldn’t,” he answered, his voice measured, “because you don’t really want me to. He’s your best friend.”
“And if I really did want you to?”
The words hung in the air like a dare.
She watched him swallow, his throat working as though her question had caught him off guard.
“Then I would. For you.”
The answer, the admission that he’d kill Harry made her breath catch. She felt a coldness seep into her bones, her heat faltering in an instant.
His answer wasn’t impulsive or born from anger; it was clear, deliberate, and terrifyingly sincere. He meant it.
The sheer force of what he was willing to do, the lengths he’d go to, rattled her in a way she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just obsession. It was devotion—dangerously so. And that kind of intensity… she wasn’t sure if it was something she could control, or if it was something that would consume her entirely.
She felt the panic building in the pit of her stomach, felt her heartbeat rushing in her ears.
Was it terror she felt?
Why did she also feel her heartbeat pulsing in her cunt?
She had already stepped over the edge. There was no turning back now. There was no way but forward.
“Why?” she demanded to know.
For a moment, he didn’t respond. His silence seemed to stretch between them like a tension-filled knot.
“Why?” she asked again.
“You know why,” he muttered, his voice tight and strained, as if each word was a struggle to release. His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath his skin as the sharp angles of his face became more defined, the anger within him sharpening him, making him harder—and making it harder for her to look away.
Did she know?
He’s in love with you. Harry’s words came back to her, biting through the fog of uncertainty.
She thought of his heated grey eyes, the intensity that burned in them whenever they met her gaze. She thought of the hollow ache she’d felt when he’d disappeared from her life, the month when she’d feared he was lost to her forever. The panic, the bitter disappointment that had settled in her chest like a weight.
His hand was still on hers.
She twisted her hand to entangle her fingers through his, fingers curling into a firm grip, stopping him from pulling away.
His reaction was instant— eyes widened, his jaw loosening, mouth slightly open, as if the word “ why ” hung on his lips, ready to echo her own questions.
She held his gaze, steady and unwavering, and without a word, disapparated them both from the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron, feeling her world twist into a blur of darkness, magic, and electric grey.