Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy sat aboard the Hogwarts Express for what would be the final time in his life.
His return for Eighth Year in September had been, in a word: humbling.
Despite being crowned Head Boy by the new Headmistress (which was really quite a brave move on her part, for he had attempted to assassinate a previous Head of Hogwarts), Draco’s authority had not been respected, nor had his presence been welcomed with open, eager arms.
Headmistress McGonagall had chosen Hermione Granger to stand alongside him as his counterpart. It was, of course, an entirely unsurprising selection, as she was practically born for the role.
After stringing together an (unimpressive) apology in their shared living quarters on their second day back, Granger had found it in her heart to forgive Draco fully, on three conditions.
First: Draco was not permitted to tease, bully, or mock any of their peers. (This turned out to be quite easy, as he’d sprouted a conscience sometime between being branded with the Dark Mark and witnessing the unpleasant deaths of those who were, above all else, as human as he was, irrespective of their lineage.)
Second: Granger would prepare assignments about muggle culture, which Draco would complete with nary a complaint. (This was both simple and difficult; the assignments were actually engaging and fascinating, but Draco would not be Draco if he did not make complaints to his professor, even if they were faux complaints. Moreover, Blaise, Theo, and Greg had caught wind of his extracurricular activities, and had insisted that they appear for Granger’s lectures, which meant that Draco had to compete for her attention with three other reformed Slytherins.)
Third: Draco would treat her familiar, Crookshanks, with the utmost respect and care. (This turned out to be the most arduous of tasks, because Granger’s kneazle-demon-cat mix seemed to be determined to loathe him.)
Still, he’d impressed Granger at least a minimal amount; she’d even given him a two-second hug and chocolates from Honeydukes before they left for winter hols.
In a totally Not-Pathetic way, Draco had not been able to get that two-second hug out of his mind.
Thus, while Blaise, Theo, and Greg were competing over who received the best gifts, Draco was thinking about Granger.
And so, he cleared his throat and said, quite stupidly, “Erm. You all know Granger?”
He’d meant to state it as a fact, for of course they bloody well knew Hermione Granger, but it came out a wobbly question.
His three closest friends looked at him as if he were a right idiot.
“Hmm,” said Theo, tapping his forefinger to his chin. “Curly hair, followed around by yowling idiots, frequently absorbed by dusty old textbooks?”
“‘Brightest witch of our age?” added Blaise.
“Head Girl?” finished Greg helpfully.
“It was more of a rhetorical question,” said Draco dryly. Blaise, Theo, and Greg chortled, oblivious to his Dilemma. He took a deep breath, rubbing his palms on his trousers. “It’s just—have you all noticed that she’s, er, a witch?”
It was, in hindsight, another question he’d phrased rather poorly.
Theo was the first to speak. “I am familiar with her magical propensities,” he said slowly.
Draco could not stop the flush that rose to his cheeks. “I mean, she’s a proper witch now.”
Realization dawned on Blaise’s face. “You mean to tell us that you’ve finally realized that Granger’s a woman.”
Draco fixed his gaze outside the window, preferring the sight of the mountainous landscape over his jeering friends. “Something like that,” he conceded. “It’s just—has she always had that dimple on her left cheek?”
“Sweet Salazar,” breathed Theo. “Are you a nineteen year old man who survived a war and sharing a roof with the most evil wizard who ever lived, or a blushing third year?”
“The former,” said Draco through gritted teeth.
Blaise leaned back in his seat. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“And me,” chimed in Theo.
“Me, too,” said Greg through a mouthful of his chocolate frog.
“Never mind,” grumbled Draco.
“Oh, no no no,” said Theo enthusiastically. “I want to hear all about how you fancy Granger.”
“I don’t fancy Granger,” he snapped defensively. The flush in his cheeks was surely spreading to his neck by now. “I’ve just—had the realization that she’s become more, um—“
“Fit,” supplied Greg.
Jealousy coursed through him. “Maybe Greg has the crush.”
“I don’t,” he said quickly, holding chocolate-covered hands up in defense.
Blaise and Theo stifled their laughter in closed fists.
Draco sighed, heavy with the characteristic Malfoy dramatics. “I don’t fancy Granger,” he insisted to the mountainscape outside his window. “I don’t.”
Okay, so maybe Draco did fancy Granger.
But only just a bit!
He paced about their shared living quarters, growing increasingly agitated with this revelation.
Draco could not fancy Granger.
He’d managed to garner a bit of tolerance from his classmates after a much-needed apology tour, sure, but he was not oblivious to the suspicious, watchful eyes that tracked his every move when he was near Granger.
So no, he could not fancy Granger.
Except he did.
“Blast,” he muttered to the empty room.
Except it wasn’t as empty as he’d thought, for Granger’s demonic familiar yowled in response.
Draco jolted out of surprise.
“Mr. Crookshanks,” he greeted. (He’d learned it was best to address the creature formally, lest he awaken to claw marks on his bedpost the next morning.) “Might you know where your witch is?”
The cat’s eyes narrowed at him in response. It was not an encouraging gesture.
“I have a gift for her,” explained Draco. He gestured toward the counter of their shared kitchenette, where he’d placed a gift basket full of the highest quality sweets from France. (He’d informed his inquiring parents, upon returning to their estate near Bordeaux, that the confections were for Pansy Parkinson, much to their pleasure.)
When Crookshanks’ eyes narrowed even further, Draco backed away from the cat and toward his bedroom. “It’s entirely platonic!”
“What’s entirely platonic?”
For the second time that day, Draco jolted out of surprise.
“Er, well,” said Draco, fumbling. “We were just speculating as to the relationship between, er, Professor Flitwick and Professor Trelawney. We’ve concluded it’s platonic.” He gestured toward the purring orange blob weaving between Granger’s legs. “Haven’t we, Crook—ah, Mr. Crookshanks?”
Draco was nearly positive that Crookshanks rolled his eyes.
Granger picked her familiar up with ease, nuzzling her nose in his fur. “Hmm,” she said absently, paying more attention to Crookshanks than Draco. “Just as well. Professor Flitwick could do much better than a fraud.”
Ordinarily, Draco would have taken the opportunity to launch into a debate with Granger over the validity of Divination, if only to elicit the wild, passionate state she so often worked herself in during such a discussion.
But he was far more concerned with the gift basket that loomed in his mind and on the countertop.
“Did you have a nice holiday with the”—he mentally instructed himself to remove all disdain from his tone—“Weasleys?”
“I did!” said Granger, beaming. “Harry and Ginny gifted me a magically expanding planner—their first couple gift!” (He had no idea why Potter and Girl Weasley’s combining a gift was met with such significance.) “From Ron, a Flourish & Blotts gift card, which I intend to use right away. A jumper from Molly, some quills from Arthur.”
“Good. That’s good. Very, very good,” said Draco, too distracted by his soon-to-be-presented gift to formulate a meaningful response. “I—er, well, I believe I mentioned that we’d be traveling to our estate in France over the holidays. I brought you back, ah, some things,” he finished lamely.
Granger’s eyes followed his outstretched hand, landing on the basket and widening with surprise. “Oh!” she breathed. “That’s so sweet.”
Draco studied his shoes. It was less dangerous than studying the beginnings of Granger’s blush, for the sight had his heart beating wildly. “It was nothing,” he said. Then, because he was at risk of flushing as well, he pretended to check his watch. “Anyway, I’m meant to meet with Theo. Best be off,” he lied.
In a terribly unrefined manner that was not befitting of a Malfoy, Draco stumbled over his feet on his way to the door.
“Give my best to Theo,” said Granger, (regrettably) following Draco to the door to see him out. “And thank you!” she shouted, her gratitude echoing off the stone corridors.
Without turning around, Draco waved her off. “It was nothing,” he repeated.
Except he knew, of course, that it was something.
It had to mean nothing.
Draco, counseled by Theo, had again reached the conclusion that he could not fancy Granger.
He had other matters to worry about this term: NEWTs. Quidditch. Convincing the student body that he was no longer prejudiced. Informing his parents that he would not be marrying Pansy Parkinson upon graduation. Informing Pansy that he would not be marrying her upon graduation. Surviving all of those things.
Fancying Granger would interfere with his goals.
Well, some of them anyway. Most importantly, it would interfere with his survival, as he was still detested by a great number of the returning eighth years.
He’d therefore resolved to simply not fancy Granger.
To that end, he’d decided that he would focus on her more irritating of qualities (of which there were surely plenty), and on himself and his aforementioned goals.
He returned to their living quarters late that evening, determined.
Waiting for him like a disappointed parent prepared to scold a curfew-breaking child was Crookshanks.
Vexed, Draco sighed forcefully. “I know why you’re waiting for me.”
Crookshanks lifted a paw, giving it one long, deliberate lick. An act of dominance, Draco was sure.
“I shan’t get any closer to your witch.”
He unsheathed his claws whilst maintaining eye contact. Draco ensured that there was plenty distance between them.
“I won’t.”
Despite Draco’s promise, the cat did not retract his claws. Sensing that pleasing Crookshanks was a lost cause, Draco threw his hands in the air defeatedly and grumbled all the way to his bedroom, with only a quick stop to peek in Granger’s room to ensure that she was sleeping peacefully.
Draco awoke to fresh claw marks on his bedpost.
Heeding the clear warning, he devised a plan as he dressed for the day.
Granger had flaws, Draco knew.
He’d been acutely aware of them for the first several years of sharing classes with her, but their existence had laid—in Draco’s mind—dormant since their return for their eighth year.
He’d merely forgotten them, he reasoned. He would have to remind himself of them post haste.
She’d always been swotty, of course, but he’d recently found intelligence to be a positive, attractive trait. Her hair had been hideous and bushy at one point, he was sure, but now it looked soft and shiny and bouncy.
She still had a tendency to speak over others in class, and was known for becoming annoyed when her classmates answered questions before she had the chance to. She also had the bad habit of correcting others—students and professors alike.
She’d also made her dislike for Quidditch known, which was not only personally offensive—for he’d rejoined Slytherin’s team as seeker—but practically blasphemous.
There, thought Draco, slipping on his robes. He’d come up with several negatives about Hermione Granger on which he could focus.
Anytime he was in danger of feeling charmed, he’d recall one of her flaws.
Except, he thought, frowning, that had been quite a feat as of late, for Granger had somehow managed to be alluring to him no matter the circumstance.
No, to truly distance himself from his feelings, he would have to do more.
He would not merely observe her flaws. He would be sure to bring about the absolute worst in her.
Only then, when confronted with the most insufferable version of Hermione Granger, would Draco know peace.