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Chapter Text

The start of seventh year at Hogwarts was always a special time. The graduating class felt like true masters of the castle, younger students looked up to them with respect, and professors treated them almost as equals. Ahead loomed the N.E.W.T.s, career choices, and saying goodbye to the school that had become a second home for many.

Hermione Granger planned to make the most of this year: achieve top marks, secure a position at the Ministry, and savor the final months with her best friends. But plans have a way of falling apart at the worst possible moment.

For over a week now, nightmares had been plaguing her. Every night she woke in a cold sweat, heart racing, feeling like there wasn't enough air in the room. Lavender snored in the neighboring bed, Parvati mumbled in her sleep, and Hermione lay there wide-eyed, trying to chase away the images from her dreams. She tossed and turned, fluffed her pillow, counted to a hundred, attempted meditation—nothing helped. Anxiety gripped her chest like an iron vise, thoughts spiraling from one worry to another, giving her no peace.

In moments like these, staying in the stuffy dormitory became unbearable. The walls seemed to press in, the ceiling hung too low, even the familiar sandalwood scent from Parvati's sachet became irritating. And so Hermione would give in and sneak up to the Astronomy Tower. Only there, beneath the endless starry sky, would her anxieties recede and her thoughts fall into order. After watching the sunrise, she'd return to the dormitory and finally slip into a brief but peaceful sleep.

Over the past week, this nocturnal route had become painfully familiar. Every creaky floorboard, every portrait that grumbled at her in a sleepy voice, every corridor turn—she knew it all by heart.

Hermione was even starting to wonder if Professor Trelawney possessed some actual gift of divination. At the very beginning of term, the Divination professor had unexpectedly grabbed her elbow in the corridor—bony fingers squeezing so hard that Hermione yelped in surprise. Trelawney spoke in a trembling voice about coming trials, about a dark force that would bind her fate to someone she'd least expect to see by her side. The professor's eyes behind her enormous glasses seemed cloudy, absent, as if she were looking right through Hermione.

At the time, Granger had politely but firmly freed her arm and dismissed the words as Trelawney's usual theatrics. Of course—after all these years, she'd seen plenty of these "prophecies" that never came true. But now, lying sleepless night after night, listening to her own rapid breathing in the darkness of the dormitory, she couldn't help but recall the prophetic whisper: "The stars foretell restless dreams for you, my child."

This night was no exception.

Hermione woke sharply with a cry that, fortunately, didn't wake her roommates. Her heart pounded in her throat, cold sweat beaded on her forehead. The nightmare still clung to her consciousness with sticky tentacles: icy chains binding her wrists, cold slowly, agonizingly crawling up from her fingers, reaching her elbows, her shoulders, creeping ever closer to her heart. She tried to break the invisible bonds, thrashing, screaming—but they only tightened, digging into her skin. And someone's voice—low, almost tender, which made it even more terrifying—whispered right in her ear: "You're not alone anymore."

Hermione sat up in bed, hugging herself, trying to stop the trembling. Her wrists ached as if they'd really been shackled. She absently rubbed them, dispelling the imaginary pain.

The clock on her nightstand read three in the morning. Too early to get up, too late to hope for proper sleep. Hermione tried lying back down, closed her eyes, forced herself to relax her shoulders, unclench her jaw. Counted to twenty. To fifty. To a hundred.

Useless.

The anxiety still gnawed at her from within, thoughts jumping incoherently. With a quiet sigh, Hermione threw back the covers. The cold air immediately stung her flushed skin, but it was almost pleasant—bringing her back to reality. She felt around for her jeans, neatly folded on the chair, and pulled them on, trying not to make noise. A warm burgundy sweater—a gift from Molly last Christmas—she pulled over her thin sleep shirt. Her feet found her trainers by the bed.

Hermione crept silently to the dormitory door, on tiptoe, careful not to wake her friends. The castle corridors greeted her with their familiar nighttime chill. Torches burned dimly, casting long, wavering shadows. She walked quickly but cautiously, listening for any sounds. Running into Filch or Peeves was the last thing she wanted.

Finally she reached the spiral staircase to the Astronomy Tower. Narrow, steep, the steps uneven and worn by centuries. Two hundred and eighty-two steps—Hermione had counted once out of boredom.

On the last few steps she slowed, catching her breath. The air here was fresher, already carrying a light autumn coolness. Hermione wiped her damp forehead with the back of her hand, tucked back her disheveled hair—pointless really, it stuck out in all directions anyway—and climbed the final step.

The Astronomy Tower opened before her in all its glory. A circular stone platform surrounded by low carved railings. The sky overhead—infinite, studded with stars that took her breath away. The full moon bathed everything around in silvery light.

Hermione breathed in deeply of the night air. Here, beneath this boundless sky, all problems seemed so insignificant. The nightmares retreated, anxiety gradually subsided.

She approached the railing, leaned against the cold stone, and closed her eyes. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. Another answered. The castle's nocturnal life went on, indifferent to human worries.

"What are you doing here?" came a familiar, unpleasant voice from the side, drawling with affected superiority.

Hermione flinched, spinning around sharply. Her heart, which had just calmed down, started racing again. Where did he come from? She'd been certain the tower was empty!

Draco Malfoy stood in the shadows, leaning against the stone wall to the right of the staircase—in that part of the platform Hermione hadn't seen when coming up. In his hand he casually held a bottle of Firewhisky, glinting in the moonlight. He looked her up and down with a contemptuous gaze.

"Seriously? Muggle clothes? Can't even look like a proper witch at night?"

"Malfoy, are you drunk?" Hermione eyed the Slytherin, who was leaning casually against the tower's stone railing with a bottle of Firewhisky in hand. The usually composed aristocrat looked rather worse for wear: disheveled hair, wrinkled shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

"What, Granger, can't believe someone besides you has the right to be here?" Draco took another swig and smirked. "Or do you think the whole tower belongs to you?"

"I think drunk idiots have no business here," Hermione frowned and planted her hands on her hips, reminiscent of Molly scolding the boys. "Especially ones who—"

"Who what?" Draco snorted derisively. "Who don't kiss up to every professor? Who don't show off their marks at every turn? Oh wait, that's all you, not me. Sorry, Granger, but not everyone's willing to grovel for approval like you are."

"What are you on about?" Hermione gasped, clearly unprepared for such a dose of rudeness in the middle of the night. "Look who's talking! You're nothing but walking prejudices and daddy's wallet! I see you haven't changed a bit over the holidays—still the same spoiled brat who thinks the world owes him everything!"

"And you're still the same self-satisfied know-it-all who sticks her nose where it's not wanted!" Draco snarled, waving the bottle. "Think you're better than me? You're the one who acts like the magical world owes you something, when you, a Mudblood, don't even deserve to be in this world!"

Hermione's patience snapped. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, but anger overpowered the hurt. She blinked rapidly to chase away the tears, and without thinking of the consequences, delivered a resounding slap to Malfoy's face. He clearly hadn't expected it—his eyes flew wide, his face turned from its usual pale to bright pink. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him, throwing the bottle against the wall with his other hand. Hermione, frightened, cried out and stumbled backward.

"What do you think you're doing, you filthy Mudblood?" He squeezed her wrist harder. "Thank Merlin I was raised as a gentleman, or you'd really get it."

He flung her arm away and grimaced, as if he'd just been holding a Flobberworm.

"You call yourself a gentleman when you say things like that to me? Is that how your mummy and daddy raised you—to put down Muggle-borns?"

"Listen here: don't you dare even mention my parents. Because of you, my relationship with my father gets worse every year. Every visit home, every letter from Father—it's a reminder that I'm being outscored by some Mudb—" Hermione shot him a furious look and clenched her fists. Draco rolled his eyes. "Fine, some Muggle-born girl. That I'm an unworthy son who should be busting his arse just to beat your marks..."

"That's all very interesting, but is that really a reason to hate me? Study harder and deal with your family problems somewhere far away from me!" Hermione angrily blew a fallen strand of hair off her face.

Draco followed the movement, freezing for a moment. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, and sighed deeply.

"Maybe I wouldn't needle you so much if you were more humble and didn't parade your academic success around like something to be proud of," his face twisted into a grimace of hatred and contempt.

"You—" Fury and hatred overwhelmed Hermione, but she didn't get to finish as the sky lit up with a flash of light like lightning. For a couple of seconds, the sky blazed red, then went dark.

The girl felt a sharp cold in her chest, and Malfoy clutched at his heart, staring up in shock. Something like a spark seemed to pass between them, and both flinched simultaneously, as if struck by electricity. They fell to the cold floor, staring at each other in bewilderment.

"What the hell was that?!" Draco bellowed. "Your doing, Granger? Or wild magic?"

"I didn't do anything... I was frightened myself." Hermione ran her hand through her hair and shook her head.

"Well, I didn't say I was frightened," the boy snorted, getting up from the floor. "Have a lovely night—I've had quite enough of your company for today."

Draco headed for the stairs without looking back. The sound of his footsteps gradually faded, dissolving into the night silence.

Hermione remained alone on the platform, and suddenly a strange unease washed over her. Whether from the inexplicable phenomenon or the fight with Malfoy, anxiety and restlessness returned to her soul. Usually she loved being alone on the tower, but now every rustle made her jump.

The girl shivered from the air, which suddenly felt cold, and hurried toward the exit. A strange sensation, as if someone were watching her, didn't leave until she descended the spiral staircase. Hermione nearly ran through the empty corridors, desperate to reach the cozy Gryffindor Tower.

Only after climbing under the warm blanket did she calm down a bit, but sleep wouldn't come. The strange coldness in the area of her heart that had appeared on the tower hadn't gone away—as if something icy had taken up residence in her chest. The strange red flash in the sky kept replaying before her eyes. Whatever it had been, Hermione felt it—something had changed tonight. Forever.

Chapter Text

Draco woke up with the sensation that his head was caught in a vise, being slowly, methodically squeezed. Not just a bad headache—unbearable. Every pulse throbbed somewhere behind his eyes, his temples felt pierced by red-hot needles.

Why did I drink so much yesterday...

He squeezed his eyes shut harder, but it didn't help—reddish spots still danced behind his eyelids. Memories of last night surfaced in fragments: a bottle of Firewhisky, cold stone of the tower under his palms, his father's letter...

Oh right. The letter.

Another reminder that he was obligated—obligated!—to surpass that Mudblood in grades during his final year. That he wasn't good enough, wasn't diligent enough, wasn't worthy enough to bear the Malfoy name.

"Good morning, alcoholic," Blaise shouted, leaning his hand against the headboard of Draco's bed. "Get up, or you'll miss breakfast."

Draco groaned and grabbed his head with both hands, as if trying to keep it from splitting apart.

"Blaise, what the hell are you yelling for?" He weakly pushed his friend away. Even that gesture required effort—his whole body felt like cotton, sluggish.

"That's what you get for getting drunk without me," Blaise straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. He smirked, studying Draco with obvious amusement. "Besides, drinking alone like that reeks of something unhealthy."

"You're the one who ran off to another one of your secret rendezvous. When are you finally going to tell me about your new flame? Do I know her?"

Draco tried to get out of bed and nearly collapsed back down.

"Listen, are you sure you're okay?" All mockery instantly vanished from his friend's face. His brows furrowed. "You're even paler than usual. And that's already an achievement."

Blaise scrutinized him from head to toe, and Draco felt a stab of irritation. He already knew how he looked—he'd seen his reflection in the mirror opposite his bed. Pale as death, with dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking out in all directions.

"And why did you get drunk again anyway? Another letter from your father?"

"Don't change the subject," Draco snapped, but his voice didn't sound as sharp as he'd wanted. "But yes, I think I overdid it this time. I feel like absolute rubbish."

He tried to stand again—this time it worked. Draco walked a few steps to his wardrobe and pulled out his school uniform.

"And yes, thanks to Father for that—term's barely started and he's already got my head spinning. Do you have any hangover potion left?"

"Yeah, check my cabinet. Bottom shelf, behind the textbooks." Blaise headed for the door but turned on the threshold. "Draco, seriously... maybe you should talk to someone? Your mother, for instance?"

"Just go already," Draco muttered without opening his eyes.

The door closed with a quiet click, and he was alone with his thoughts.

His father's words from the letter wouldn't leave his mind:

"Prove you're worthy of the Malfoy name. Don't let that Mudblood surpass you. Our family cannot afford to yield to someone of her breeding."

Every word was saturated with bile and the cold contempt Lucius felt toward anyone who didn't meet his standards of blood purity.

Draco clenched his fists, remembering yesterday's encounter with Granger on the Astronomy Tower. What was that strange phenomenon in the sky? And why, after it happened, did this unpleasant sensation appear in his chest, like something cold was squeezing from the inside? He tried to push these thoughts away—he had enough problems without some incomprehensible flashes of light...

──⊱⁜⊰──

Hermione sat in the Great Hall between Harry and Ron, but the food before her remained untouched.

Since last night she'd felt terrible. Her legs were weak, her hands trembled, her body felt so exhausted as if she hadn't slept for several days straight. And in her chest... something was constricting in her chest. Heavy, cold, as if someone had placed an icy weight on her ribs.

At first Hermione decided she'd simply caught a cold on the tower. Night chill, stress, lack of sleep—a perfectly logical explanation. But there were no other symptoms. Her throat didn't hurt, her nose wasn't congested, she felt no fever.

Just this damned weakness and cold in her chest.

"Hermione, are you all right?" Harry's voice made her flinch.

She raised her head. Her friend was looking at her with concern, and his hand rested on her shoulder—warm, comforting.

"You look really pale," he continued. "And you're not eating at all. At least have some toast."

"I'm not feeling great, actually," Hermione admitted, pushing her plate away. Even the smell of coffee, which she usually loved in the mornings, caused slight nausea. "I think I'm coming down with something."

"Want me to go to Madam Pomfrey and get you some Pepperup Potion? Or walk you to the Hospital Wing?" Ron offered, chewing a sausage.

"Thanks, I'll go myself after breakfast."

Hermione tried to smile, but it probably wasn't very convincing, judging by how Harry frowned.

At that moment, a platinum head appeared in the doorway of the Great Hall. Hermione followed Malfoy with her eyes. He looked worse than usual too. Pale, almost grayish, he walked slightly slower than his usual confident stride. Dark circles shadowed beneath his eyes.

Most likely we both caught cold last night in the chill.

Draco, as if sensing her gaze, looked directly at her. For a second their eyes met. Malfoy smirked contemptuously and raised an eyebrow with an expression that said, "What are you staring at?"

Hermione frowned and sharply turned away, feeling her cheeks begin to burn with irritation.

The next moment Ginny and Theo approached their table—loudly, cheerfully, discussing something and laughing. Hermione gratefully seized the opportunity to redirect her attention.

Ginny plopped down next to Harry and kissed his cheek. Theo stopped nearby and gave a mock bow:

"Milady has been delivered safe and sound." He winked at Ginny. "Though I had to save her from vicious portraits in the corridor. They clearly don't approve of her sense of humor."

"Oh, go on, Theo," Ginny laughed and shoved his shoulder. "See you later."

Theodore waved and headed toward the Slytherin table. Harry watched him go, his gaze clearly showing displeasure.

"Why is Theodore walking you around?" he frowned. "Where did you run into him? And you've been spending an awful lot of time together lately."

"Harry, don't be jealous," Ginny rolled her eyes, but her voice sounded affectionate. "You know Theo and I are ancient history."

"Does he know that? And anyway..."

"All right, stop," Ron interrupted, raising his hands as if shielding himself from them. "I don't want to hear this. Can you sort out your relationship somewhere else?"

"There's nothing to sort out." Ginny turned to Harry, touching his hand. "Harry, you know Theo and I stayed on good terms as friends."

She leaned closer, whispered something to him—quietly, intimately. Harry's face instantly turned crimson. Ginny giggled smugly.

"Ugh, stop it," Ron grimaced. "Should we get you a separate table?"

Hermione smiled warmly, watching her friends. Despite feeling unwell, their happiness was contagious.

She remembered how many years Ginny had pined for Harry—quietly, almost imperceptibly, while he was infatuated with Cho Chang and didn't even look her way. Ginny hadn't sat idle: she dated others, lived a full life. But she'd only let Harry into her heart when their romance finally began.

With Nott, she'd had a brief relationship where their romantic interest in each other quickly faded, but they remained quite close friends. At first, all of Hogwarts watched this pair with surprise—no Slytherin had ever deigned to choose a partner from another house before. After this relationship became commonplace, other Slytherins seemed to receive tacit permission—inter-house relationships stopped being something extraordinary.

──⊱⁜⊰──

After breakfast, Draco felt a bit better—the potion was apparently taking full effect. But he fully recovered during Defense Against the Dark Arts.

It was the only class where he could relax somewhat. His godfather, Professor Snape, to put it mildly, disliked Granger and demonstrated it to the entire class at every opportunity, belittling her and marking her down.

Draco felt not an ounce of sympathy about it.

The lesson, as usual, was held together with the Gryffindors. Granger, invariably, occupied the desk right in front of him—along with Potter and Weasley—and, just as invariably, blocked his view of the teacher's desk with her thick, bushy mane. Though Draco had caught himself thinking more than once that in seventh year, she'd finally learned to tame that bird's nest. Her hair had started to look... well, almost decent.

Snape entered the classroom with quick steps, his robes billowing behind him like smoke as he turned to face the students at the board and began without greeting:

"So, let us begin," the professor drawled, slowly circling the class. "Who can explain the principle of creating magical barriers against Unforgivable Curses?"

Granger's hand shot up with its usual speed. As always. Like clockwork.

Snape slowly circled the class without even glancing in her direction.

"Miss Granger," he drawled, stopping by the window, "lower your hand. I'm asking those capable of independent thought, not mechanical reproduction of textbooks."

Tense silence hung in the classroom. Someone barely suppressed a snicker. Granger flinched almost imperceptibly but didn't lower her hand. Stubborn as always.

"Mr. Nott?" Snape addressed Theodore.

Theo straightened lazily, as if woken from a doze:

"Barriers require not only strength but emotional stability. Fear or panic destroys protection faster than any counter-curse."

"Excellent." Snape nodded, and a rare note of approval sounded in his voice. "Ten points to Slytherin for brevity and clarity of expression."

Hermione tried again:

"But if you use multi-layered protection..."

"Miss Granger," the professor sighed heavily, massaging the bridge of his nose as if a migraine had started, "it seems your hand has become stuck in that position. Perhaps you should see Madam Pomfrey?"

The class erupted in muffled laughter—naturally from the Slytherin side. Draco smiled with satisfaction, watching the know-it-all slowly lower her hand. Potter immediately put his hand on her shoulder and whispered something in her ear—comforting her, probably.

Draco couldn't resist.

"What's wrong, Granger," he drawled loud enough for her to hear, "turns out the world can manage without your commentary?"

She whipped around. Her cheeks blazed, eyes sparkled—with anger and humiliation.

"Go to hell, Malfoy!"

Snape materialized beside their desks so quickly and silently, he seemed to simply appear from thin air.

"Miss Granger, your eloquence is certainly impressive. Minus twenty points from Gryffindor for using language unworthy of Hogwarts' walls."

Granger paled instantly, pressed her lips into a thin line. She shot Malfoy a look full of pure hatred and turned away, staring at the desktop.

Draco grinned triumphantly.

When Snape moved back to the board, Potter and Weasley turned in sync. The redhead, clenching his fists, hissed:

"You're such a vile git, Malfoy."

"Is it my fault your know-it-all can't keep her mouth shut?" Draco shrugged.

Snape sharply slapped a textbook on the desk. The sound echoed through the classroom, making everyone jump.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley," he measured them with an icy gaze. "If Mr. Malfoy's desk attracts you so much, perhaps you should move? Or shall we focus on the lesson?"

The Gryffindors turned forward, and Draco rested his chin on his clasped hands and grinned.

The day was definitely improving.

──⊱⁜⊰──

Hermione spent the evening in the library with Harry and Ron. They were preparing an essay on Ancient Runes—or rather, she was preparing while the boys got completely distracted talking about Quidditch.

"I'm telling you, Harry, the Cannons are on fire this season!" Ron whispered enthusiastically, waving his quill. "Did you see their last game against the Kestrels? Gorgovitch scored three goals in a row!"

"Come on, Ron," Harry snorted, setting down his quill. "The United are still stronger. They have the best defense in the league, and their Seeker..."

"Their Seeker!" Ron interrupted, raising his voice. Madam Pince hissed threateningly somewhere between the shelves. Ron lowered his voice to a heated whisper. "He managed to miss a Snitch that was right in front of his nose last month!"

"That was a fluke." Harry leaned closer, clearly getting into the heat of the argument. "But he caught the Snitch in last year's final in a record eight minutes!"

Hermione lowered her head directly onto the open book. Parchment stuck to her cheek, but she didn't care.

"Boys," she groaned without lifting her head. "Could you discuss this in the common room? Some of us are trying to study."

"Come on, Hermione," Ron waved his hand. "It's the match of the century! The Cannons might actually win the championship!"

She raised her head, about to respond with something cutting, but then Harry looked at her attentively and frowned.

"Hermione, are you feeling unwell again?" Alarm sounded in his voice. "You look pale again. Maybe you should go see Madam Pomfrey after all?"

Hermione wanted to brush it off, say everything was fine, but...

"Actually, yes, I've been feeling worse as the evening goes on. I'll finish the essay and go," she admitted quietly.

The weakness had intensified. The cold in her chest had become almost painful—as if someone was slowly squeezing all the warmth out of her.

"Forget the essay." Ron closed her book, despite her indignant look. "It's not due for two weeks. Come on, we'll walk you to the Hospital Wing."

Hermione wanted to object—of course she did, it was in her nature—but she really did feel terrible. The body aches had intensified, every movement took effort. Her chest felt compressed as if someone had placed a lead plate on it.

And the strangest thing—no other symptoms. No sore throat, no runny nose, no fever either.

"All right..." Hermione began gathering her books, putting them in her bag.

She rose from her chair—and the world swayed. The library walls swam, lost their clarity. Hermione tried to grab the edge of the table, but her hands wouldn't obey. Somewhere far away she heard Harry's alarmed shout.

And then consciousness dissolved into darkness.

──⊱⁜⊰──

Hermione came to gradually, as if surfacing from a deep lake.

She propped herself up on her elbows, looked around. The Hospital Wing. Familiar white walls, rows of neat beds with starched linens.

And on the neighboring bed—Malfoy.

Hermione froze, staring at him. Draco lay motionless, eyes closed, pale as a sheet. His right arm was bandaged and resting on his chest.

Why is he here?

Before she could finish that thought, a muffled but clearly irritated voice came from behind the door—Madam Pomfrey:

"I understand everything, boys, but I'm not letting you into the ward right now. Let Miss Granger rest and recover!"

"We won't make noise, just let us look at her—it's not normal that she fainted!" Ron exclaimed.

Then the door flew open and the voices became distinctly louder.

"Potter, I told you!" Madam Pomfrey raised her voice indignantly.

But Harry and Ron apparently decided the best defense was offense. They practically burst into the ward, ignoring the healer's indignant hissing. Hermione saw Madam Pomfrey throw up her hands—a gesture of pure despair—but the boys were already at her bed.

They sat on either side—Harry on the right, Ron on the left—and immediately began bombarding her with questions:

"How are you?"

"What happened?"

"How do you feel? Is your head spinning?"

"Boys..." Hermione began, but Madam Pomfrey interrupted them.

"Boys!" She approached closer, folding her arms across her chest in a stern pose. "I'm giving you exactly five minutes, and keep your voices down!" She nodded meaningfully toward the neighboring bed. "Don't wake Mr. Malfoy—he still needs to recover, and it'll be easier if he sleeps."

"What happened to him?" she asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

The healer sighed, but her voice took on softer, more sympathetic notes:

"Poor boy, he fainted right on his broomstick during practice! Got away with a broken arm—I gave him Skele-Gro, he should be good as new by morning."

Harry made a funny face at the mention of that potion, probably remembering when he'd first taken it in second year.

Madam Pomfrey looked sternly at the clock hanging on the wall and headed for the door.

"Five minutes!" she reminded them as she left. "And quietly!"

The door closed behind her, and Harry immediately turned to Hermione:

"What's happening to you?" Harry asked worriedly. "You felt poorly all day, and then you just fainted... We were scared."

"I don't know," Hermione rubbed her temples. "Maybe I caught a cold, or overworked myself."

"Oh, come off it," Ron snorted. "When was the last time you overworked yourself? You're a knowledge-absorbing machine!"

"Ron!" Hermione looked at him reproachfully.

"What?" Ron threw up his hands, portraying innocence. "It's a compliment!"

"Madam Pomfrey never told us what's wrong with you," Harry interjected, frowning.

"Probably nothing serious," Hermione tried to reassure them, though she wasn't sure herself. "Otherwise she'd already be panicking."

They talked a bit more—Ron told how he and Harry had caught her when she fell, how Harry had cast a levitation charm and they'd brought her here literally floating through the air. Hermione listened with half an ear, feeling exhaustion wash over her in waves.

Exactly five minutes later the door flew open again, and Madam Pomfrey imperiously pointed to the exit:

"All right, boys, time's up. Miss Granger needs rest."

Harry and Ron reluctantly stood. Harry squeezed her hand in farewell:

"Rest. We'll come visit tomorrow."

Ron waved to her, and they left.

The ward plunged into silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall and Malfoy's even breathing on the neighboring bed.

Hermione settled in more comfortably, pulled the blanket higher. Her eyelids grew heavy, sleep approaching slowly but surely.

An hour later—or maybe more, time flowed strangely in half-sleep—she heard voices. Quiet, coming from somewhere far away. Or from the corridor? Hermione didn't open her eyes, balancing on the edge of sleep and wakefulness.

"Poppy, is this really what I think it is?"

A pause. Then Madam Pomfrey's response—quiet, but with clearly audible anxiety:

"Exactly." Another pause, longer. "In all my years of practice, I've only heard of this happening once..."

The voices faded, dissolved. Or maybe Hermione had simply fallen completely into sleep—deep, dreamless, like falling into a dark abyss.

Chapter Text

Draco slowly pried his eyes open—sunlight beat mercilessly directly into his face, making him squint. He grimaced, turned toward the wall, but it was too late: sleep had retreated, leaving behind a heaviness in his head.

For several seconds he just lay there, trying to figure out where he was. White ceiling. The smell of potions and clean linens. An unusually hard mattress under his back.

The Hospital Wing.

Memory returned in fragments: Quidditch practice, sudden weakness, dizziness, the ground rushing up to meet him...

Draco carefully moved his right arm—it ached, tightly bandaged, but the pain was quite bearable. Skele-Gro had clearly done its work. Unpleasant potion, but effective.

He turned his head, surveying the ward—and froze.

On the neighboring bed, leaning back against a pillow and holding a book in her hands, sat Granger.

What did I do to deserve this?

Draco quietly groaned, closing his eyes. Apparently, in a past life or alternate universe he'd done something truly terrible, given how persistently fate kept throwing him together with this witch. First the tower, now the Hospital Wing. What next? Would he find her in his bedroom?

"Good morning," came her voice from the neighboring bed—cheerful, disgustingly cheerful for someone lying in the ward.

Draco demonstratively ignored her. He propped himself up on his elbow—the movement was harder than expected—reached with his left hand toward the bedside table. Grabbed a glass of water and drank it down in one gulp, greedily, without stopping. His throat was so parched it felt like he'd spent the night in a desert.

He set the empty glass back, habitually reached for his pocket for his wand—and discovered it wasn't there. Of course. Surely all his things were still in the changing room.

Draco clicked his tongue in irritation, looking at the empty glass. His throat still felt raw.

A light swish of a wand sounded, followed by a quiet:

"Aguamenti."

The glass filled with water to the brim.

He slowly turned his head. Granger sat on her bed, wand in hand, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

Draco clenched his jaw. Accepting help from her was the last thing he wanted. But thirst overpowered pride.

He silently grabbed the glass with slightly more force than necessary and turned away.

"Did you damage your head or your ears when you fell?" the witch grumbled irritably. "Forget how to say 'thank you'?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes—a gesture she unfortunately couldn't see, since he still wasn't looking in her direction. Then slowly, deliberately slowly, he turned toward her.

"Don't talk to me," he said wearily. "Don't make an already rubbish morning even worse."

Granger snorted and lowered her eyes back to her book.

Draco lay in silence for several minutes, trying to collect his thoughts. His head was still heavy, his body cotton-like. His arm hurt. All of it was terribly irritating. But even more irritating was that curiosity was slowly but surely winning out over common sense.

"What are you doing here anyway?" he muttered without turning his head.

"Oh, so now we can talk?" Hermione responded sarcastically, not looking up from her book. "A minute ago you were asking me to be quiet."

Draco clenched his jaw. She always knew how to get under his skin.

"I just asked a question," he ground out through his teeth.

"And I'm just answering," she parried imperturbably. "Make up your mind, Malfoy. First you don't like it when I speak, then when I'm silent."

"I don't like it when you exist at all," the wizard snapped back.

Granger tore her gaze from the book, met his eyes—and in her look there wasn't a drop of hurt. Only cold calm.

"Mutual," she replied without blinking. "But since we're both stuck here, maybe we could at least not antagonize each other?"

"I hope 'stuck' is too strong a word, and they'll let us out of here soon. You're already around me far too often as it is."

"What did you say?" Granger tossed her book aside, and it landed with a dull thud on the blanket. She turned toward him fully, and from the way her eyes flashed, Draco realized he'd struck a nerve. "You're the one who..."

But the girl didn't finish her sentence, as the door burst open, interrupting their quarrel.

Madam Pomfrey entered the ward and, to Draco's surprise, Headmaster Dumbledore himself. The old man's robes billowed behind him, and kind eyes sparkled behind half-moon spectacles.

"Good morning, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy," the Headmaster said gently. "I hope you rested well?"

He surveyed them both with an attentive gaze, and his smile grew slightly wider.

"Though judging by your... animated exchange of opinions, your strength has already returned."

"I'm sorry, Professor Dumbledore," Hermione's cheeks flushed bright red with shame, and she guiltily lowered her gaze.

Draco only snorted. He wasn't going to apologize for the fact that Granger had provoked him.

"Ah, youth," Dumbledore chuckled softly, approaching their beds. Madam Pomfrey followed him, silent and, strangely, clearly worried.

"At your age, strong emotions sometimes manifest in quite... unexpected ways."

Dumbledore's gaze slid toward Madam Pomfrey. The healer stood slightly behind the Headmaster, her lips pressed tightly together, her hands fidgeting with her apron.

Something wasn't right here.

"Better tell me," Dumbledore said calmly, sitting on a chair between their beds, "has anything unusual happened to you recently? After which you both felt your condition worsen?"

Draco frowned, trying to remember. Hermione was also silent, clearly sorting through recent days in her memory.

"Well," she began uncertainly, casting a quick glance at Draco, "Two nights ago I couldn't sleep and went to the Astronomy Tower. There... Malfoy was there."

"And what happened?" Dumbledore gently prompted.

"We argued. Very badly," Hermione blushed. "And then... there was some kind of red flash in the sky. Very bright, like lightning, but... strange. Wrong."

Dumbledore nodded, as if she'd said exactly what he expected to hear.

"After that I felt something... unusual," Draco added reluctantly. "Like an electric shock. Right in my chest."

"Me too," Hermione picked up, nodding. "And since then I've felt awful. Weakness, cold in my chest, chills. And yesterday I passed out completely in the library."

"And I fell off my broom during practice," Draco muttered, looking at his bandaged arm.

Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey exchanged glances. Some kind of silent dialogue was clearly happening between them.

"Tell me," the Headmaster began carefully, and for the first time in the entire conversation his voice held seriousness, "how far can you be from each other without experiencing discomfort?"

"What do you mean?" Hermione frowned.

"Have you noticed that the symptoms intensify when you're far from each other, and weaken when you're close?"

Draco slowly exchanged glances with Granger. He saw her eyes widen, saw her bite her lip, clearly remembering something.

Defense Against the Dark Arts. He'd sat right behind her. And yes, actually... at that moment he'd felt better. Much better. The headache had receded, the weakness had diminished.

He'd attributed it to the hangover potion working. But what if...

"Possibly," Hermione said slowly. "But I never connected it to Malfoy. Why would I?"

Her voice trembled on the last words.

"What do you mean, Professor?"

Madam Pomfrey stepped forward, folding her hands before her. Her face was stern, but sympathy showed in her eyes.

"What happened to you resembles an ancient curse," she said quietly but distinctly. "I've never encountered it personally in my practice, but I heard about one case..."

The word "curse" echoed in Draco's head.

No.

No-no-no.

He clenched the blanket in his fists, feeling his nails dig into the fabric:

"I already don't like where this is going," he ground out through his teeth, struggling to contain mounting panic.

"Mr. Malfoy, be patient and listen to what they want to tell you," Dumbledore interrupted him gently but firmly. "Poppy, please continue."

Madam Pomfrey took a deep breath, collecting her thoughts.

"My mentor told me about a case that occurred about a century ago," she spoke slowly, carefully choosing her words. "Two Hogwarts students were bound by an ancient curse with similar symptoms. Very similar."

"And what happened to them?" Hermione asked quietly.

Draco saw how pale her face had become, how she gripped the edge of the blanket just as he did.

"The professors established the cause of the curse, but..." Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "When the students realized they couldn't be helped, they decided to leave. Both were of age at the time, so they could decide their own fate. They didn't finish their education and left Hogwarts. Their further story remained unknown."

A heavy pause hung in the air.

"But how is such a curse even activated?" Draco broke the silence.

"According to the records," Madam Pomfrey continued, "this curse is activated under very rare circumstances. First, a special astronomical phenomenon is necessary."

She paused, choosing her words.

"The transit of Venus across the Sun's disk. When the planet passes before the sun, casting its shadow on Earth. This happens approximately once every hundred years."

Draco felt his mouth go dry.

"But that's not enough," Madam Pomfrey added, and her voice became even quieter. "You also need a place with a powerful concentration of ancient magic. Like our castle and especially the Astronomy Tower. And..."

She fell silent, as if not daring to continue.

"And?" Draco asked sharply.

"And very strong emotions between two people," she finished, looking somewhere past them. "When Venus obscures the Sun, when light and darkness mix in the heavens... magic reacts to the strongest feelings in such places of power as Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower."

"What kind of emotions?" Draco clarified warily.

"Any very strong ones," Madam Pomfrey explained, finally meeting their eyes. "Hatred, love, rage—it doesn't matter. What matters is their intensity. The curse feeds on this energy and creates a magical bond between people. You literally cannot exist far from each other."

"How far?" Hermione asked with horror in her voice.

"According to descriptions in medical records, usually several meters. The exact distance is individual, depends on the strength of the bond. But if you exceed this distance for long..."

Madam Pomfrey nervously fidgeted with the edge of her apron.

"Your blood will begin to freeze. Literally. And if you don't return to each other in time... it could be fatal."

The ward became so quiet that Draco could hear his own heartbeat. Booming, panicked, reverberating in his ribs.

This couldn't be true. It just couldn't...

And suddenly he laughed loudly. The laughter burst out on its own—hysterical, uncontrolled.

"You're joking, right?" he forced out through the laughter. "This is complete nonsense!"

He fell silent, stopped laughing. Looked at the serious, sad faces of Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey. At Granger's pale face.

No one was smiling.

"No..." his voice dropped, turning into a hoarse whisper. "Tell me this is some kind of bad joke. Please."

"Unfortunately, Mr. Malfoy, this is real," Dumbledore replied gently. "But don't rush to despair—we will certainly find a way to remove the curse. In the meantime, I'll discuss with Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall how best to organize your study time given the new circumstances."

"Wait, Professor," Hermione quickly interjected. "If the professors back then managed to establish the cause of the curse, that means they must have looked for a way to remove it too? Surely their research results are in the records?"

"Miss Granger, I'm afraid everything is much more complicated than it seems," Pomfrey said, fidgeting with her apron with trembling fingers. "But I will certainly inform you when I have all the necessary information. For now, rest. You both need to recover your strength."

Without waiting for further objections from the students, Madam Pomfrey and the Headmaster disappeared through the door. The door closed behind them with a quiet click.

"I just can't believe this..." Hermione muttered, still staring at the closed door.

Draco was silent. He couldn't speak. His throat constricted, everything in his chest compressed into a tight knot. The healer's words spun in his head, forming a nightmarish picture.

Bound. To Granger.

To a Mudblood.

Father will kill me.

Before they could recover, digest the news that had crashed down on them, the ward door burst open again. Potter and Weasley rushed into the Hospital Wing, followed by Blaise and Pansy. They were chattering, interrupting each other, clearly worried.

"Hermione!" Ginny exclaimed, literally throwing herself toward her bed. She grabbed her friend's hands. "We were so worried! Harry told us what happened yesterday in the library!"

"Malfoy, alive?" Blaise inquired with feigned concern, approaching his friend's bed. "They say you finally found a way to fly faster than a Firebolt—though only headfirst."

"Very funny, Zabini," Draco muttered, but there was no usual sarcasm in his voice. Only weariness.

"How do you feel?" Pansy asked, stopping at Malfoy's bed. She looked at them both with concern. "You both look... not great."

"What did the healers tell you?" Ginny asked. "Is it something serious?"

Hermione and Draco exchanged glances.

What should they answer? How could they explain what they themselves hadn't fully comprehended?

The silence dragged on.

"All right, everyone out of the ward immediately!" Madam Pomfrey's stern voice cut through the silence. She stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. "These two need rest—don't tire them with questions!"

She took a step forward, and her gaze became even stricter.

"Professor Dumbledore is expecting all of you. Right now."

The students, grumbling with displeasure, began shuffling toward the exit. Ginny, kissing Hermione on the cheek, whispered:

"Rest, I'll definitely come visit you again."

Blaise clapped Draco on the shoulder and followed the others.

When only Malfoy and Granger remained in the ward, Madam Pomfrey cast a diagnostic spell on both students. She frowned and whispered something, rubbing her chin. Before leaving the ward, she said:

"Given such unusual circumstances, Professor Dumbledore will speak with your friends himself and explain everything, so don't worry." She smiled warmly. "You'll be able to attend classes as soon as tomorrow."

She turned and left, leaving them alone. For several seconds, silence reigned.

And then Hermione couldn't take it. Jumping out of bed—sharply, nervously—she began pacing the ward anxiously. Draco saw how she was trying to collect her thoughts, how her lips moved, selecting words.

"Malfoy, what are we going to do?" she finally burst out, stopping and turning to him. "We need to question Madam Pomfrey in detail. She said she heard about a similar case from her mentor—that means there must be records!"

She started pacing again, gesticulating.

"Perhaps in the library we can also find records of something similar..."

"Granger," Draco cut her off. His voice sounded cold, cutting. "The last thing in the world I want right now is to discuss anything with you."

He especially emphasized the last word, giving her a malicious look.

"But we're in the same boat!" she protested, and hysterical notes sounded in her voice.

Draco frowned, looking at her uncomprehendingly.

"What boat? Did you hit your head when you fell too? What boat?"

"It's an expression!" Hermione explained irritably. "It means we have a common problem!"

"Then speak normally," Draco snorted contemptuously, "not with your Muggle phrases."

He leaned back against his pillow, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And anyway, we don't have any common problem. This is your problem, and I'm just a victim."

"My problem?!" Hermione flared up. "You were on the tower too! You participated in that argument too!"

"And you were the first to come at me with your lectures!" he snapped back. "You could have turned around and left, but no—you absolutely had to interfere! As always!"

"Oh, so this is my fault?" Hermione clenched her fists so hard her knuckles turned white. "Of course, who else! Malfoy is always right, and everyone else is to blame!"

She grabbed a pillow from her bed and in frustration hurled it in his direction, then flopped back on her bed, muttering something angrily under her breath.

"Finally you understand something," Malfoy smirked coldly. "Now at least be quiet for a bit and let me rest."

He threw the pillow back at her and turned to the other side.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Hermione and Draco, as if by some unspoken agreement, pretended the other didn't exist. Not a single glance, not a single word—only silence, saturated with unspoken irritation that could be sensed even in the smallest details. Granger sighed a bit louder than usual, and Malfoy threw back his blanket or set his glass on the nightstand with such force, as if the very fact of being in this ward was driving him mad.

After a hearty breakfast, which was brought directly to the ward, the air still held the aroma of coffee and fried toast—cozy, almost homey. This scent calmed Hermione somewhat, despite her spoiled mood due to the unfortunate rooming situation with the Slytherin.

At that moment, the healer entered the ward. Madam Pomfrey silently conducted another diagnostic, frowning and writing something on parchment.

"Well then," she finally said, putting away her wand. "You may pack up. But you must come to me every day—I'll be monitoring your indicators!"

She crossed her arms, casting them a stern look.

"Go straight to Professor Dumbledore. He's expecting you."

The path to the headmaster's office they completed in the same silence. They walked at a decent distance from each other—as much as possible without causing painful symptoms—and carefully avoided looking at each other.

At the entrance to the office, Draco stopped before the stone gargoyle guarding the passage. He straightened up, cleared his throat importantly, and clearly pronounced:

"Acid Pops."

Pause. The gargoyle didn't budge. Didn't even blink.

Draco frowned, repeated louder:

"Acid. Pops."

Nothing.

He stared in bewilderment at the motionless stone creature, as if it had personally insulted him.

"Fizzing Whizzbees," Hermione said from behind him with a barely concealed smirk.

The gargoyle blinked—slowly, as if waking up. It let out a low, rather pleased rumble and smoothly moved aside. Behind it opened a narrow spiral staircase, whose steps led upward to the massive oak door of the headmaster's office.

"Of course," Malfoy snorted without turning around. "The favorite student always knows all the headmaster's passwords. How could it be otherwise."

Hermione lifted her chin, demonstratively walked proudly past him, and stepped onto the staircase.

Draco trudged after her, grinding his teeth in irritation and mentally compiling a list of everything that annoyed him about Granger. Know-it-all-ness occupied the honorable first place on that list.

In the headmaster's office, on both sides of his desk, stood Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape. Minerva smiled warmly at the sight of Hermione. Snape, as always, maintained an impassive expression, though something like sympathy flickered in the depths of his dark eyes when he looked at Draco.

"Ah, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore greeted them warmly, rising from behind the massive carved desk. "Please, come in and have a seat."

He gestured toward two chairs prepared before the desk and studied their faces attentively with his piercing blue eyes.

"I hope the night passed peacefully?" His voice held genuine concern. "How are you feeling? Madam Pomfrey reported that your condition has stabilized, but I would like to hear it from you."

The students silently sat in the prepared chairs. Hermione folded her hands on her lap, straightened her back—the exemplary posture of an excellent student. Draco leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, we're feeling much better," Hermione answered, and immediately an annoyed tongue-click sounded from the right.

She ignored this, continuing:

"We would just really like you to clarify the situation with the curse. We'd like to get rid of it as soon as possible."

"I understand your impatience," Dumbledore nodded, sitting back in his chair. It creaked under his weight. "That's absolutely natural in your situation. However, first we need to organize your daily life so you can continue your studies in safe conditions."

He interlaced his fingers on the desk.

"Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape have already discussed some necessary changes to the schedule and living conditions."

McGonagall stepped forward, pulled a scroll of parchment from her robes, and unrolled it.

"All Gryffindor and Slytherin classes will be combined," she began in a businesslike tone. "This applies to all subjects without exception. You must sit together in classes and complete all group assignments together."

Draco grimaced but said nothing.

"How close do we need to be?" Hermione asked quickly, and Draco saw her nervously fidgeting with the edge of her robes. "We need precise parameters for planning."

"According to our estimates, based on medical records of the previous case, no more than fifteen to thirty feet," Dumbledore answered calmly. "You'll have to determine the exact distance experimentally. But I ask you—carefully."

"In addition," McGonagall continued, checking her list, "a separate room has been prepared for you. With two beds, of course."

She paused, and her gaze became especially stern when she looked at Draco.

"And I hope Mr. Malfoy understands that this is a purely practical decision, dictated by circumstances," her voice became firm as steel. "You must not allow yourself any inappropriate actions toward Miss Granger."

"That doesn't even need discussion, Professor," Draco snorted, and genuine disgust sounded in his voice. "She's not worth it even for free. I only dream of getting rid of her."

"Mutual," Hermione said coldly, not even glancing at him.

"You'll have a separate bathroom," Dumbledore continued imperturbably, as if he hadn't heard their exchange of barbs. "The distance will allow you to maintain privacy."

"Splendid!" Draco clapped his hands with exaggerated sarcasm. "So Granger now has to go to the bathroom with me too? Just wonderful!"

"Mr. Malfoy," Snape drawled, and a barely noticeable but still distinguishable smirk sounded in his voice, "I assure you, Miss Granger will find a way to optimize even this process. Perhaps she'll even make a schedule."

Hermione blushed, and Draco, despite all his irritation, chuckled.

Snape took a step forward, and his expression became more serious:

"I must also disappoint you, Mr. Malfoy."

Saying this, the professor truly looked distressed—a rare display of emotion for a person usually resembling a stone statue.

"You've been replaced with another Seeker in the upcoming match against Hufflepuff. Damian Avery will play as Seeker."

Draco slowly straightened, not believing his ears.

"What?!" His voice sounded too loud, echoing off the office walls. "It hasn't even been a few days and I've already been replaced?"

He jumped from his chair, fists clenched.

"I want to continue training! I'm the best Seeker on the team! Avery isn't even close to..."

"Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall interrupted him, and her voice held firmness. "You understand that in the current conditions this is impossible! Even if Miss Granger is present at the stadium, the distance during flight could be too great. We cannot risk you falling from your broom again!"

"But this is unfair!" Malfoy felt a wave of rage and despair rising inside him.

"Let's continue," Dumbledore said gently but firmly, clearly trying to steer the conversation to calmer waters. "Mr. Malfoy, I understand your disappointment. But safety comes first."

He removed his glasses and began wiping them with the edge of his robes.

"Also, you must not forget about daily visits to Madam Pomfrey to monitor your condition. This is mandatory."

"What about removing the curse?" Draco asked sharply, still standing. He couldn't make himself sit back down, too much energy was seething inside. "You're working on it, right? You have a plan?"

The professors exchanged glances, and McGonagall hesitated:

"We're... studying all possibilities..."

"Professor, let me help with the research," Hermione interjected, practically jumping from her chair with excitement. Her voice trembled with impatience.

"Miss Granger," Snape drawled, and his characteristic cold smirk sounded in his voice. One eyebrow raised. "Do you suppose your schoolgirl knowledge surpasses the combined experience of Hogwarts' teaching staff? How... presumptuous."

Draco rolled his eyes, clenched his fists. He could no longer listen to this calm, detached tone.

"So you have no idea what to do!" Draco exploded. "Perfect! Just wonderful!"

"Mr. Malfoy, we're doing everything possible..." McGonagall began.

"No!" Hermione unexpectedly interrupted her sharply. She also stood, and Draco saw with surprise that she was trembling—not from fear, but from rage.

"Professor, with all due respect, but 'studying possibilities' and other evasive phrases—those aren't answers! This is our life! We have the right to know the truth and participate in finding a solution!"

Draco looked at her in surprise. Hermione Granger, the model student, teachers' favorite, had just raised her voice at Professor McGonagall. At McGonagall.

Something inside him stirred—not sympathy, no, but... something like respect.

"Granger's right," he added, still not believing he was supporting her against the teachers. "We're not little children. If you don't know how to remove it, just say so!"

Dumbledore sighed heavily, suddenly he began to look even older than his years and very tired:

"At the moment..." he began slowly, carefully choosing his words, "we truly don't know the exact method."

A heavy, oppressive silence hung in the office.

Hermione slowly sank back into her chair, as if her legs refused to hold her. Her face paled. Draco continued standing, fists clenched so hard his nails dug into his palms.

"But that doesn't mean we're giving up," the headmaster added firmly.

He stood, walked around the chair, approached them.

"We'll study all available sources. I've already sent letters to colleagues around the world. Madam Pomfrey has contacted her mentor."

"And meanwhile," McGonagall continued more gently, "you need to adapt to the new circumstances. And believe that a solution will be found."

"When do the combined classes start?" Hermione asked tiredly, her voice sounding quiet, empty.

"Tomorrow morning," McGonagall answered, checking her parchment. "And now let me escort you to your new bedroom. Your things have already been moved."

Dumbledore approached closer:

"Remember—these are temporary measures. We will find a solution."

"Of course you will," Draco muttered darkly, not believing a single word.

McGonagall headed toward the door, throwing it open:

"Come along, I'll show you the room. It's located not far from the hospital wing in case of an emergency."

Hermione and Draco reluctantly rose from their seats and followed the professor, both immersed in grim thoughts about their future.

A future that no longer belonged to either of them.

──⊱⁜⊰──

Professor McGonagall stopped before a door guarded by a portrait.

Hermione curiously examined the image.

On the canvas was depicted an elderly woman—about sixty, or perhaps older. Dressed in a burgundy blouse with a high collar, cinched at the waist by a black vest. A long dark skirt fell in soft folds, and thin translucent gloves on her hands gave her appearance remarkable elegance. On her face—golden pince-nez on a thin chain; in her eyes—the calm severity of someone accustomed to power and order. Gray hair was gathered in a neat low bun—not a single stray hair.

The woman was comfortably settled in a dark blue velvet armchair, holding a small parchment in her hands, which, judging by everything, she had been reading before their arrival. Now she set it on her lap and swept the students with a critical, assessing gaze from head to toe.

"Good day, Madam Harmony," McGonagall greeted her with a slight nod. "Two students will be living in the bedroom."

She indicated Hermione and Draco:

"Miss Granger from Gryffindor and Mr. Malfoy from Slytherin."

Madam Harmony raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

"The password," McGonagall continued, and light irony sounded in her voice, "is 'Compromise and Agreement.'"

Draco immediately rolled his eyes and demonstratively crossed his arms over his chest. Hermione snorted—couldn't hold back.

Minerva gave them a stern look, but the corners of her mouth twitched with an almost imperceptible smile.

"Tomorrow you both must attend classes. Don't be late."

"Thank you, Professor," Hermione said quietly and uncertainly. She was clearly still upset about her outburst in the headmaster's office, about raising her voice at the teachers.

Minerva, as if sensing this, gently touched her shoulder:

"Everything will be fine, Miss Granger. Believe."

She smiled slightly and unhurriedly departed down the corridor—her robes gliding softly along the floor, rustling behind her.

Draco approached the door and stared at the portrait in bewilderment, expecting it to open on its own. Nothing happened.

"I haven't heard the password from you, young man," Madam Harmony pronounced, pursing her lips disapprovingly and squinting. "Manners, Mr. Malfoy. Manners."

"But the professor just..."

"Compromise and Agreement," came from behind him.

Draco turned around, about to snap back, but she beat him to it:

"Malfoy, you'd better not argue with the one who decides whether you'll be sleeping in your bedroom tonight or not."

"That's right," the woman from the portrait said with satisfaction, and the door slowly swung open.

──⊱⁜⊰──

The room was quite spacious and bright.

Two tall windows looked out onto the castle's inner courtyard—soft daylight penetrated from there, painting everything in warm tones. Hermione immediately noted that from here neither the Forbidden Forest nor the lake were visible—only the cozy stone courtyard with a small fountain in the center.

Two twin beds stood on opposite sides of the room, as far apart as possible—apparently, the professors had tried to provide them with at least some privacy. By each bed was a heavy wooden nightstand of dark oak, a writing desk with a chair, and a tall wardrobe.

In the corner, between the windows, stood a cozy gray sofa with many soft multicolored cushions—red, green, blue, yellow. Obviously an intentional choice of all house colors. Next to the sofa nestled a small coffee table.

A thick carpet muffled the sound of footsteps—feet pleasantly sank into the soft pile.

On each nightstand stood a box with personal belongings. The house-elves had already transferred them here but hadn't dared to sort them without the owners' permission—too personal a matter.

The fire in the fireplace crackled quietly, filling the room with warm amber light and creating an almost homey, cozy atmosphere. It smelled of wood smoke and something sweet—maybe honey or cinnamon.

On Hermione's bed, curled up in a ball right in the center of the pillow, lay a huge ginger cat with a characteristically flat nose. Crookshanks purred lazily, clearly pleased with his new residence.

"What is this?!" exclaimed Draco, stopping dead in his tracks and pointing at Crookshanks with such an expression as if he'd seen a troll pretending to be a pet. "Is it going to live with us?"

"This is Crookshanks," Hermione said protectively, quickly approaching the bed. "My cat. Actually, he's half-cat, half-Kneazle. And yes, he'll be living with us."

"I didn't sign up for rooming with... this monstrosity!"

Crookshanks slowly raised his head and looked at Draco with contempt in his amber eyes—a long, assessing look. As if he understood every word and found the speaker extremely unworthy of attention.

"He's not a monstrosity!" Hermione objected indignantly, sitting on the edge of the bed and pressing the cat to herself. "Crookshanks is very smart and well-mannered! Certainly better mannered than some people!"

"Well-mannered?" Draco approached closer, examining the animal with undisguised disgust. "That doesn't change the fact that his face looks like a squashed troll! And he's as big as a hippopotamus!"

Crookshanks snorted discontentedly, clearly offended.

"Don't you dare insult him!" Hermione stroked the cat's head and he purred with satisfaction, leaning into the caress. "If you don't like something, you can complain to Dumbledore. I'm sure he'll be delighted by your complaints about my cat."

Draco rolled his eyes and demonstratively turned away.

He approached his bed and silently lay on top of the bedspread without removing his robes. Threw his arms behind his head, stared at the ceiling. His gaze became practically glassy, absent. As if he had completely withdrawn into himself, walled himself off from reality with an invisible barrier.

Hermione watched him for a couple of seconds, then sighed and began sorting through her box.

She took out items slowly, carefully, arranging them on the nightstand. A photograph in a wooden frame—little Hermione hugging her parents, all three smiling. An ordinary Muggle photograph, frozen in time.

A wizard photo in a silver frame—the entire Weasley family plus Harry and herself, Christmas celebration at the Burrow. In the picture they wave their hands, hug, laugh. Mrs. Weasley wipes away happy tears.

A stack of books—worn, with bookmarks on many pages. "Hogwarts: A History," "Ancient Runes and Their Meanings," "Advanced Transfiguration."

Before she could finish sorting the box, Malfoy's voice was heard. Hermione turned around—he was already lying on his side, propping his cheek with his palm, looking straight at her.

"Can't believe that because of you I've lost the opportunity to play Quidditch," his voice sounded accusatory, with suppressed anger.

Hermione smirked, continuing to arrange books.

"What a pity, what a great loss!" She shrugged. "More time for more useful activities."

Draco sat up sharply on the bed, eyes narrowing to slits.

"What did you say?"

Now Hermione turned around, meeting his gaze imperturbably.

"I said that now you'll have more time for studying. Maybe you'll even catch up to me in grades."

"Useful activities?" Draco's voice was getting colder. "You consider Quidditch useless?"

"Well, it's just a game," Hermione shrugged. "I don't understand what all the fuss is about. There are more important things."

"JUST A GAME?!"

Draco exploded. He sprang up, flew to her in a few large strides. Hermione flinched in surprise, backed up toward the bed.

"This isn't just a game, this is my life! I've been playing Quidditch since childhood! I'm the best Seeker Slytherin has had in years!"

"Malfoy, calm down..."

"And now it's all over!" He waved his arms, completely losing control. "Because of you! Because of this damn curse!"

His hand struck the photo frame on the nightstand. It swayed, fell to the floor with a dull thud. Draco mechanically bent down, picked it up, and froze for a second, examining the image.

"What kind of strange wizard photo is this?" He frowned, turning the frame in his hands. "Why aren't the people in it moving?"

"It's not a wizard photo," Hermione snatched the frame from his hands. "It's an ordinary Muggle photograph. My parents."

Draco grimaced—a grimace of disgust distorted his face, as if he'd seen something vile.

"Ugh," he stepped back. "Can you spare me from having to look at Muggle contraptions in our shared bedroom?"

"Oh, sorry," Hermione said sarcastically, putting the photo back on the nightstand, but now farther from the edge. "I forgot that your delicate pure-blood eyes might suffer from the sight of a normal family."

A heavy pause hung in the air.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Draco's voice became dangerously quiet. "Are you implying that I have an abnormal family?"

"I'm saying," Hermione turned to him, and something hard flashed in her eyes, "that in normal families, children aren't taught to despise other people for their origins."

She took a step forward, jabbing her finger into his chest.

"But you can't disappoint dear daddy, can you?"

"Shut up!" Draco roared.

His face went even paler—not from fear, from rage boiling under his skin.

"Don't you dare talk about my father! He's worth more than your entire pathetic Muggle family put together!"

Hermione slowly exhaled. Lowered her gaze.

"As you say, Malfoy," she said evenly, without emotion. "Your father is indeed... an influential man."

There was no anger in her voice, no offense. Only tiredness. Endless tiredness. She turned away, silently continued arranging books. Completely ignoring his presence.

Draco stood for a while, expecting the quarrel to continue. Even disappointed—the conflict broke off so abruptly, so unsatisfyingly. When he realized he was simply being ignored, he irritably turned around and lay back on the bed.

Hermione took the last item from the box—a small antique compass, worn, obviously very old. She placed it on the nightstand and froze. For several seconds she just looked at it, as if not believing her eyes, then raised her head and burned Malfoy with her gaze across the entire room.

"Are you kidding me?" she exhaled and grabbed the compass. She began walking around the room, peering at the needle and muttering to herself: "Unbelievable! What nonsense!" periodically throwing indignant glances at the Slytherin.

Finally, unable to stand it, she angrily threw the compass onto the nightstand—it bounced, almost rolled to the floor—and retreated to the bathroom. The door slammed with a deafening sound.

"Salazar, and I have to live with this unbalanced girl..." Draco muttered, looking at the ceiling.

A couple of minutes later, Granger, as if nothing had happened, came out of the bathroom. Her face calm, hair slightly damp—apparently she'd washed up. Draco decided not to ask her what that whole performance with the compass was about. Didn't want to know. Not his problem.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Hermione opened it—and beamed:

"Harry, Ron, come in! I just finished unpacking."

No.

Not this.

The guys entered, settled on the sofa, making themselves comfortable. Draco felt himself slowly boiling with anger. Not only was this witch now attached to him with her monstrous cat, but her friends would now be constantly hanging around here too. Scarhead and the poor redhead. In his room.

Though, technically, not only his.

"How are you, Hermione?" Potter asked, and genuine care sounded in his voice.

"Could be better," she sighed, sitting next to them on the sofa.

"I bet," Weasley snorted, casting Draco a contemptuous look. "With such a roommate... Remember what word he used to call you, and now he's forced to live with you. What irony."

He leaned forward, and his voice became harder:

"But seriously, Malfoy, just try to hurt Hermione."

"Oh, how touching," Draco drawled with a cold smirk, rising from the bed. "Weasel standing up to defend his girlfriend."

He approached closer, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And what will you do to me, ginger? Send me howling letters from mummy?"

"What did you say?!" Ron exploded, jumping up from the sofa.

"Ron, don't react to him," Harry tried to calm his friend, grabbing his elbow.

"Malfoy, stop it!" Hermione cried.

Draco looked at her. For a long time. With all the accumulated anger and hatred. Then he turned and headed for the exit from the room.

Sharing space with these Gryffindors was beyond his strength. Physically impossible.

At the very exit, the girl managed to grab his shoulder:

"Don't go far!" Her voice trembled with agitation. "We can't be apart for long!"

He shrugged off her hand with a sharp movement of his shoulder. Without looking at her, he said through clenched teeth:

"I'm giving you ten minutes. And then I want to see only you here, Granger."

The phrase came out somewhat ambiguous, and Hermione blushed, backing away. Draco left the corridor without looking back and headed straight down it. He didn't go far—understood that he couldn't. Just walked, trying not to think about anything. Counted torches on the walls. Watched their shadows flicker.

Soon he ran into Blaise, who was returning from somewhere—judging by his satisfied appearance, from dinner.

"Draco?" Zabini stopped in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Long story," Malfoy muttered. But he stopped. He suddenly desperately wanted to talk to someone. Someone normal.

They talked for about fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Blaise told something about Pansy's latest prank in Divination class, and Draco even smirked a couple of times.

And then it started.

First a light chill in his chest. Then it intensified, began to squeeze like an icy fist. Weakness spread through his body—his legs became cotton, his arms heavy. Draco tried to ignore the symptoms. Continued listening to Blaise, nodding in the right places. But the cold was growing, becoming painful.

"Listen, Blaise," he interrupted his friend mid-sentence, "let's talk later, okay?"

Zabini frowned, clearly noticing something wrong in his face:

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, everything's fine," Draco lied and hurried back.

He walked quickly, almost ran. Each step became harder. His chest was squeezed so tight it hurt to breathe.

Damn curse.

He burst into the room—and Granger turned sharply around. She stood in the middle of the room, pale and tense, hugging herself as if trying to warm up. Breathing heavily, as if each breath came with effort.

"Finally," she exhaled with such relief that even her voice trembled. "I... I started feeling sick again."

"Me too," Draco admitted, leaning against the door. Still felt the chill piercing through him.

Hermione approached closer, hesitating. Stopped a couple of steps away from him. Then, clearly forcing herself, uncertainly extended her hand. Carefully touched his chest with her palm.

Warmth.

Instant, searing warmth spreading through his entire body. Driving away the cold and weakness, returning the ability to breathe normally.

Draco froze, not daring to move. Afraid to break this strange moment of closeness.

Hermione's hand was small, warm. He felt it through his shirt—the sensation was simultaneously intimate and completely impersonal.

"Better?" she asked quietly, not removing her hand.

She looked at her palm, as if not daring to raise her eyes to him.

"Yes," Draco answered hoarsely.

Hermione held her hand on his chest for a few more moments. Draco saw how quickly the pulse beat on her neck, how she pressed her lips together.

Then she sharply removed her hand, as if burned. Stepped back, awkwardly cleared her throat:

"This... just for an experiment." She turned away, hiding her reddened cheeks. "I think we need to look for information in the library about this curse. Maybe we'll find something the professors missed."

Draco chuckled, coming to his senses:

"You seriously think the school library contains information that Dumbledore himself doesn't have?"

"What if?" Hermione shrugged, heading to her bed. "We can't rule out that possibility."

She sat on the edge of the bed, clearly thinking about something.

"By the way..." Her voice became cautious. "Your manor has a large library, right?"

Draco involuntarily straightened. Notes of pride broke through his tiredness:

"The Malfoy library is one of the most extensive private collections in magical Britain," he spoke as if reading from a memorized text: clearly had heard these words from his father more than once. "There are books there that can't be found anywhere else. The rarest manuscripts..."

Then his face darkened.

"But you're not allowed there, so don't even dream about it."

Hermione's face fell, she pressed her lips together. Lowered her gaze.

A heavy silence hung in the air.

"But," Draco added unexpectedly even to himself, "I can ask father to study this information in our library."

He cleared his throat, looking away.

"And send books if he finds something. I hope such a compromise suits you."

Hermione raised her head, and surprise flashed across her face. Then—something like gratitude.

"Compromise and agreement," she quietly chuckled, and a weak smile trembled at the corners of her mouth. "Let's go to dinner and sleep. This has been too long a day..."

Draco nodded, suddenly realizing he was truly exhausted.

"Agreed."

They left the room silently, keeping their distance from each other—but not too great. Just enough not to feel the cold in their chest.

And Draco thought that perhaps—perhaps—it wouldn't be as terrible as he'd imagined.

Though most likely it would be even worse.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke up early, her internal clock working flawlessly. First she neatly made her bed, washed up in the bathroom, and set to work on her hair.

Every morning began the same way: she stubbornly tried to tame her curls with a brush—as if hoping that someday it would finally work. Or perhaps she simply didn't want to rely on magic for everything, reminding herself that she'd grown up among Muggles. After a couple of minutes of torture, it became clear that this battle was once again hopeless—the brush got stuck in her hair, and her mood rapidly deteriorated. With a heavy sigh, Hermione waved her wand—and the unruly strands immediately settled into soft, obedient curls. Now she could live.

Returning to her bed, she took parchment and quill from her nightstand, tucked her legs under herself, and began sketching out a plan.

Crookshanks, dozing by her pillow, raised his head and looked at his mistress expectantly. Then he shifted his gaze to the still-sleeping Draco. A clearly malevolent spark flashed in his yellow eyes. The ginger cat slowly stretched, extended his claws, and jumped to the floor.

"Crookshanks, no," Hermione tried to stop him in a whisper, but it was too late.

The cat unhurriedly approached Malfoy's bed, jumped up, and settled directly on his chest. Draco jerked in his sleep. Crookshanks let out a satisfied rumble and began methodically kneading his ribs with his paws, not retracting his claws.

"What the..." Draco opened one eye and saw before him a squashed muzzle with yellow eyes full of triumph. "Granger! Get this ginger beast off me immediately!"

He tried to push the cat off, but Crookshanks only dug his claws deeper into the blanket and hissed threateningly, pressing his ears back.

"Crookshanks, come here," Hermione stood and approached closer. "Immediately."

The cat jumped to the floor with visible reluctance but didn't leave—he sat next to the bed and began demonstratively licking his paw, occasionally casting contemptuous glances at Draco.

"Your cat is a psychopath," Malfoy sat up, rubbing his chest. Small snags from claws remained on his white pajama shirt. "He does it on purpose!"

"He's just... protecting me," Hermione said uncertainly.

"From what? From a sleeping person?" Draco ran his hand over his face and yawned. "He hates me."

"Mutual, judging by your words."

Draco grimaced and finally met Hermione's gaze. Crookshanks chose this moment to snort threateningly in his direction.

"Good morning," Hermione greeted cheerfully, ignoring the squabble. "I was thinking we need to determine the exact maximum distance we can be from each other."

Malfoy stared at her, still gloomily eyeing the cat.

"Are you serious? Now? I haven't even washed up yet."

"The sooner, the better. We need data for further planning."

Malfoy muttered something discontented under his breath but still got up. Quickly, almost mechanically, he made his bed—smoothly, without a single wrinkle. Finished, he turned to Hermione and crossed his arms over his chest, looking at her expectantly.

"Well? Are we starting your experiments or are we going to stand here all day?"

They spent the next half hour experimenting. Hermione stopped by one wall of the room, Draco slowly moved toward the exit until he went out into the corridor. They measured with a tape measure that Hermione had prepared by transfiguring a chair. Recorded the results.

The first signs of discomfort appeared at about twenty-six feet—a light chill in the chest, noticeable heaviness. At thirty-three feet, the cold intensified, breathing became significantly harder.

"Enough," Draco said through clenched teeth, clutching his chest. "No further."

Hermione nodded, quickly writing down observations. Her face had also paled—she felt the same thing.

When Malfoy returned closer, relief was instantaneous.

"So," Hermione drew a line under the notes, "the maximum safe distance is approximately thirty-three feet. When it increases, symptoms manifest almost immediately, albeit in mild form."

She raised her head, research excitement lighting up in her eyes.

"But we need to check how long we can stay at the edge of the permissible distance. And what will happen if we exceed thirty-three feet for a longer period. For completeness."

Malfoy looked at her as if she'd suggested jumping from the Astronomy Tower.

"You want to deliberately torture yourself?"

"I want to understand the mechanism of the curse," Hermione explained patiently. "Knowledge is power, Malfoy. The more we know about how it works, the better our chances of finding a way to remove it."

Draco rolled his eyes but nodded:

"Fine. But not now."

He turned and went into the bathroom. While Hermione watched him go, she thought that if it weren't for his insufferable character, the Slytherin would make quite an acceptable roommate.

The first thing she noticed was his remarkable cleanliness, bordering on pedantry. The number of scattered men's socks in the room equaled zero. The bed always neatly made—even now, when she'd woken him for the experiment, he'd first tidied up. Things on the desk arranged according to some system only he understood.

And their shared bathroom... Hermione still couldn't believe it. No wet towels on the floor. No open tubes of toothpaste. No hair in the sink. Everything was in its place, clean and organized.

She shuddered remembering the boys' bedrooms at the Burrow—eternal chaos, clothes on chairs, on beds, under beds. Ron once spent two weeks looking for his robes, and then it turned out George had been sleeping on them the whole time.

Compared to that, Malfoy was a gift from fate.

Well, in terms of orderliness, Hermione mentally added.

Because the only, but very significant problem remained Malfoy himself. His character, to be more precise.

Draco tried not to start conversations with her unnecessarily. Was eternally gloomy, dissatisfied, with a stone expression on his face. Answered monosyllabically when she tried to discuss something. Looked at her as if she were something unpleasant that had accidentally stuck to the sole of his expensive boots. It was stressful. Very stressful. Hard to be in constant contact with a person who clearly found you unpleasant, and who didn't hesitate to demonstrate it with every glance, sigh, gesture.

Therefore, Hermione firmly decided to start this day with the most optimistic mood she was capable of.

Positive thinking. Everything will be fine. He's just... getting used to it.

"Well," Draco rolled up the parchment on which she'd been recording experiment results, "are you done with your notes? Can we go to breakfast now?"

His voice was discontented, impatient.

"Yes, let's go," Hermione hid the parchment in her bag. "And don't make such a discontented face. By the way, I'm doing all this not just for myself."

Draco chuckled, and they silently headed toward the exit from the room. Hermione fastened her robes, adjusted the bag on her shoulder. Draco walked ahead, keeping his distance—not too great, but noticeable.

At the exit from the room, they were hailed from the portrait:

"Good morning, young people."

Madam Harmony greeted them restrainedly, looking over her pince-nez. Her gaze first slid over Hermione, then lingered on Draco.

"Miss Granger looks lively," she stated, "but Mr. Malfoy... someone clearly got up on the wrong side of the bed."

"I always get up on the right side," Draco answered coldly, straightening up.

"Of course, young man," the portrait nodded imperturbably. An almost imperceptible smile trembled at the corners of her mouth. "It's just that sometimes this right side turns out to be the left one."

She adjusted her glasses with an elegant movement.

"I hope you remember that cooperation begins with basic courtesy?"

Hermione saw how Draco's face began to darken, how his jaws clenched. He opened his mouth, clearly about to say something sharp. She hastily grabbed his robe sleeve and pulled him toward the corridor leading to the Great Hall.

"Let's go, or we'll be late for breakfast."

"I don't understand," Malfoy muttered discontentedly when they'd moved away from the portrait, "what I did to deserve this punishment."

He jerked his arm, freeing himself from her grip.

"What did I do to get a governess in a frame in addition to you?"

"I think it's karma," Hermione suggested innocently, unable to resist a slight smile. "For all your good deeds."

Draco gave her such an angry look that she hastily added:

"All right, all right." She raised her hands placatingly. "Today it's your turn to have breakfast at the Slytherin table. I hope that at least lifts your mood a bit, and you'll stop ruining mine."

They'd agreed to alternate meals between house tables—a fair solution, though not ideal. Once at the Gryffindor table, another time at the Slytherin table.

Yesterday Draco had yielded to Hermione the right to choose—a surprisingly noble gesture on his part. She sat at the table with her friends, but the atmosphere was tense, almost unbearable. Draco and Ron stubbornly looked at their plates as if there was something incredibly interesting there, and Harry and Hermione didn't dare start a conversation, afraid of provoking a conflict.

The silent dinner lasted forever.

"Granger, stop," Draco suddenly stopped her at the entrance to the Great Hall.

She turned around, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

"We established that we can be thirty-three feet apart without consequences," he said, and hope sounded in his voice. "So please, use that and sit farther away."

"With pleasure," Hermione answered coldly, crossing her arms over her chest. "But if you suddenly feel sick, don't expect me to run to you across the entire table."

"Won't come running," Malfoy snorted. "How will I survive that."

On the way to the Great Hall, they caught strange looks from students. Those followed them unwaveringly, whispered, pointed fingers. Someone even demonstratively stepped aside, letting them pass.

Hermione wasn't bothered by this at all—after years of friendship with Harry Potter, she'd gotten used to attention. But Draco was clearly nervous. He quickened his pace, straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin—as if wanting to show everyone that he wasn't walking with her, just happened to be going in the same direction.

When they entered the Great Hall, she was immediately called out:

"Hermione!" Ginny waved her hand from the opposite end of the Slytherin table, where she sat next to Theodore Nott. "Sit with us!"

Hermione settled next to her friends, glancing briefly at Draco. He headed to the far end of the Slytherin table, toward Blaise and Pansy, as far from her as possible.

Exactly thirty-three feet, no less.

"How are things with your roommate?" Harry asked cautiously, pouring her pumpkin juice. "And why didn't he sit with you?"

"Not great," Hermione sighed, spreading butter on toast. "But what can you do."

She bit off a piece, chewed.

"We figured out that thirty-three feet of separation isn't dangerous for us. So at least now we can eat in peace. Relative peace."

"If he does anything, tell us immediately," Ron said seriously, meaningfully clenching his fist. "I'll have a talk with him. Man to man."

"I can handle it," Hermione assured him, smiling warmly. "But thank you."

After the Malfoy topic was closed—or rather, suspended, because Hermione saw that Harry was still worried—the atmosphere at the table became more relaxed.

Ginny told a funny story about how the Weasley twins had sent her samples of new joke products from their shop so she could test them "in field conditions." Ron complained about the amount of Transfiguration homework. Harry shared plans for the upcoming Quidditch match.

Hermione listened, laughed, inserted comments. Over breakfast and conversation with friends, she perked up, felt almost like before.

Almost.

Because out of the corner of her eye she still saw Draco at the far end of the table. Saw how he talked with Blaise, how he laughed at someone's joke—really laughed, not with that cold smirk she'd seen.

Something inside her pricked unpleasantly.

──⊱⁜⊰──

The combined Herbology lesson took place in the largest, sixth greenhouse. Here under the thick, humid air, plants with character stretched upward—capricious, dangerous, requiring special care. The greenhouse walls were covered with condensation, running down in slow drops.

Professor Sprout stood near several large clay pots in which dark green plants writhed. Their long tentacles swayed lazily in the air like seaweed.

"Today we'll be collecting leaves from Venomous Tentacula," she announced when everyone had gathered. "These leaves are extremely valuable in potion-making. But be careful—the plant will actively resist!"

The professor swept her gaze over the hushed students.

"You'll need clear coordination: while some distract and hold the tentacles, others quickly cut and collect the leaves at the base. Work in groups of four."

"Professor," Dean raised his hand, "why can't we just immobilize the plant with a spell? That would be safer."

"Venomous Tentacula senses magic," Neville explained. "Spells irritate it, make it more aggressive. Besides, it's weakly susceptible to magical influence, and a flow of power directed at it will only aggravate the reaction."

He blushed to the tips of his ears, hastily lowering his gaze.

"Sorry for interrupting you, Professor."

"You spoke correctly, Mr. Longbottom! Ten points to Gryffindor. If there are no more questions—begin. And don't forget: cut the leaves carefully, at the very base, evenly and without jerks—a careless cut can damage the root system."

Hermione ended up in a group with Draco, Blaise, and Pansy. The atmosphere was tense but businesslike. They stood around the pot, studying the writhing plant cautiously.

"All right," said Blaise, assessing the Tentacula. He crossed his arms, squinted. "We'll do this. Draco and I will hold the tentacles, and you ladies cut the leaves. You have more nimble hands for precise work."

"Just be careful, Granger," Pansy added, casting her a condescending look. "This isn't the school library where you can calmly turn pages. Here you need speed and deftness."

"I can handle it," Hermione answered coldly, taking out protective dragon-hide gloves and garden shears.

"We'll see," Blaise shrugged, pulling on his gloves. "Draco, grab the left tentacle, I'll take the right."

The guys carefully approached the plant. Grabbed the writhing tentacles simultaneously—on Zabini's command.

The reaction was instantaneous. The plant immediately began to break free, jerking from side to side. It made an angry hissing like enraged snakes. The pot rocked violently.

"Faster!" Draco said through clenched teeth, holding his tentacle with both hands. His face tensed with effort. "This thing is stronger than it looks!"

Pansy deftly approached the plant, crouching down. She began cutting leaves at the very base—with confident, precise movements. One, two, three leaves flew into the prepared basket. Hermione followed her example but acted more cautiously. She studied exactly where to cut, at what angle, so as not to damage the plant.

"Granger, are you going to spend the whole lesson cutting one leaf?" Pansy snorted without even turning to her. "Hurry up!"

In the neighboring group, a loud, panicked cry rang out. Hermione turned and saw Ron hanging upside down. He'd managed to get tangled in his Tentacula's tentacles and now dangled in the air upside down, desperately trying to free himself.

Harry, Dean, and Seamus pulled the plant in different directions, which only made the situation worse. The Tentacula clearly enjoyed the chaos.

"Don't pull!" Ron yelled, dangling in the air. "You'll tear my leg off!"

"And you don't jerk!" Seamus shouted back, trying to grab the slippery tentacle.

The plant slowly, as if mocking, began swaying Ron from side to side. Rhythmically, hypnotically, like a pendulum.

Potter looked around, grabbed a coil of rope lying on the neighboring table. He deftly threw a loop over one of the free tentacles and jerked sharply—the Tentacula was distracted for a moment, loosening its grip. That was enough for Seamus and Dean to pull Ron to the floor.

"Merlin, thank you!" he groaned, trying to stand. "I thought it would eat me."

Professor Sprout was already running toward them, waving her wand.

"Excellent work, Mr. Potter," she said, nodding approvingly. "Though somewhat... improvisational. The main thing is everyone's alive, including the plant."

"I'm not at all surprised," Draco chuckled, watching Ron brush off dirt. Open mockery sounded in his voice.

"At least he's trying," Hermione defended him, quickly cutting leaves.

"Defending your ginger friend," Pansy noted snidely, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Even when he's hanging like a bat. How touching."

Draco and Blaise simultaneously snorted with laughter. So synchronously that Hermione even rolled her eyes.

"Of course I'm defending him," Hermione smirked coldly. "Unlike some people, I don't laugh when someone's in trouble."

"Right," Pansy narrowed her eyes. "Nobility is your house's diagnosis."

"And you apparently have chronic meanness," Hermione parried, cutting another leaf.

Pansy raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth curving in a predatory smile.

"Careful, Granger," she said quietly. "In this greenhouse, someone really might bite."

Hermione shot her an angry look—sharp as a blade.

"Easy, Pansy," Draco drawled lazily, "Granger has scissors in her hands. She's for nobility, of course, but who knows when it'll run out."

"Enough," Blaise said warningly, gripping the tentacle tighter. "If you distract her and she messes up, we'll all get it from Sprout. And lose points."

At that moment the plant jerked especially hard, Draco almost lost his grip, staggering.

"Granger, finish faster!" he hissed, regaining his balance. "My hands are going numb!"

"Almost done," Hermione cut the last leaf and jumped back, pressing the basket to her chest.

The guys immediately released the tentacles. The Tentacula angrily coiled back into the pot, clearly displeased with the interference.

"Not bad for a first time," Pansy admitted reluctantly, examining the collected leaves. "Though you could have been faster. I already collected half while you were trimming one branch."

"But carefully," Blaise noted, approaching closer. "Look at these clean cuts. And yours, Pans, half the leaves are torn at the edges."

He winked at Hermione.

"Don't exaggerate, we all did great."

Hermione involuntarily smiled at Blaise—he was much more pleasant to interact with than she'd expected. Nothing like the image she'd formed.

Draco immediately darkened. His eyebrows drew together, lips pressed into a thin line.

Zabini noticed the change in his friend's mood and smirked, leaning toward him:

"What's wrong, Draco?" his voice was quiet, but Hermione still heard. "Jealous that I so easily find common ground with your... roommate?"

"Shut up," Draco muttered, turning away.

Hermione pretended not to hear Zabini's words. Though something inside clenched unpleasantly.

The task was completed, and now she awkwardly shifted from foot to foot next to the Slytherins. They chatted animatedly about their own things—about Quidditch, some party in the common room, and how first-years had mixed up a vial with growth potion, turning one student's toad into a creature the size of an armchair.

Hermione stood slightly apart, not participating in the conversation. Observing.

And involuntarily noticed how different Malfoy looked next to his friends. Relaxed. Content. He laughed—really, openly. Gestured when telling some story. Even his posture was different—not so tense, arrogant.

A pang of envy pricked her chest.

Hermione swallowed, looking away. She didn't strive for friendship with him—of course not. That would be absurd. But constantly seeing the expression of disgust on his face when he looked at her... Knowing that he found her very existence nearby repulsive...

There was little pleasure in that.

When she raised her eyes again, Draco was already looking at her. Meeting her gaze, he instantly tensed, as if caught at something. His face became cold, closed—the mask returned to its place. She could see he was about to say something sharp. His mouth was already opening.

But their attention was drawn by Professor Sprout, clapping her hands loudly:

"Excellent! You handled the task well, twenty points each!"

Then from the opposite end of the greenhouse came shouts—someone had gotten into trouble again. Professor Sprout sighed and hurried there.

Hermione collected her things, mentally noting that the lesson had gone better than she'd expected. At least no one in their group had been hurt. And they'd worked quite smoothly.

Maybe everything isn't so hopeless, she thought.

Maybe.

──⊱⁜⊰──

In the evening, after all classes, when the sun was already setting, they went to the library. Hermione suggested it after dinner, and Draco, surprisingly, agreed without argument.

The Hogwarts library greeted them with its usual silence and the smell of old books. Hermione inhaled deeply—this smell always had a calming effect on her. Dust, paper, leather bindings. The smell of knowledge accumulated over centuries.

Madam Pince sat at her desk, vigilantly watching the readers, ready at any moment to shush violators of the silence.

Hermione and Draco silently headed to the section with books on curses. They passed several tables with diligently studying students—some were writing essays, some were cramming material from textbooks, some were simply dozing, faces buried in open books.

They found a free spot in the far corner of the library, where the oldest shelves stood and dim lamps burned. Almost no one was here—too gloomy, too quiet. Ideal for serious research work.

"Let's start with general works on curses," Hermione said quietly, taking out parchment, quill, and inkwell. She carefully arranged everything on the table, smoothed the parchment. "And then we'll move on to more specialized sources. We need to systematize the search."

"Agreed," Draco nodded.

This surprised her. Usually he argued with her plans on principle, found something to criticize. But now, as soon as it came to research on removing the curse, all his arrogance, all his superiority seemed to evaporate.

He was focused. Businesslike.

They split up: Hermione began studying shelves with books on ancient curses, and Draco headed to the "Magical Accidents and Anomalies" section.

The first half hour passed in absolute silence, broken only by the quiet rustling of pages and the scratching of quills on parchment. Hermione examined book after book. She read quickly—years of practice had taught her to pick out key information, skipping the unnecessary. Made notes.

Blood curse—doesn't fit.

Place curse—also wrong.

Family curses—no.

Draco sat at the neighboring table, bent over a thick tome in a worn leather binding. He frowned, writing something down.

"Granger," he called quietly after some time. "Look at this."

Hermione set aside her book, approached the table. Leaned over to see.

Before Malfoy lay a truly ancient book—pages yellowed, edges frayed, stains visible in places. "History of Magical Accidents. Volume II"—the cover proclaimed.

"Here," he pointed to a paragraph written in small handwriting. "Read."

Hermione squinted, peering at the text:

"In 1897, wizard Reginald Morley was magically bound to witch Eleanor Selwyn as a result of a rare astronomical phenomenon—the Transit of Venus across the Sun's disk."

She froze, her heart beating faster. Just like us.

"The incident occurred during their fierce argument on the Astronomy Tower. According to eyewitness accounts, at the moment of highest emotional tension between them, a bright red light flashed in the sky, after which both felt sharp pain in their chests."

Draco straightened, meeting her gaze. Hermione saw how he'd gone even paler. He continued reading:

"The victims could not be at a distance of more than fifty feet from each other without experiencing physical ailment. Symptoms included dizziness, weakness, chest pain, chills..."

"That's almost our situation!" Her voice came out too loud in the library's silence.

"Shhh!" Madam Pince hissed menacingly from somewhere behind the shelves.

"Sorry," Hermione whispered guiltily.

She pulled a chair closer to Draco, sat next to him.

"Read further. Faster."

Draco nodded, running his finger along the lines:

"Attempts to remove the curse continued for two months. Various methods were tried: potions to suppress magical bonds, use of anti-magical amulets, cleansing spells. The best specialists of that time were consulted. Nothing produced results. After which the victims mysteriously disappeared. Their further fate is unknown."

Heavy, oppressive silence. Hermione swallowed.

"Perfect," she muttered. "Mysterious disappearance sounds very encouraging."

The sarcasm didn't hide the anxiety in her voice.

"There's another case," Malfoy turned the page. "Here. 1902, Aurora Malfoy and Sebastian Burke..."

"Your relative?" Hermione raised an eyebrow in surprise, interrupting him.

"Yes," he nodded without taking his eyes from the book. "Great-great-great-grandmother or something like that. But I know practically nothing about her. She's barely mentioned in family chronicles."

He continued reading aloud:

"Were cursed during a duel by an unknown spell. The nature of the spell was never determined. Symptoms included inability to be at a distance from each other of more than thirty-three feet..."

Hermione involuntarily straightened. Thirty-three feet. Like us.

"...At first, symptoms manifested as mild headaches and loss of orientation, then—temporary weakening of magical abilities and suffocation attacks during separation. Both experienced instability of their magical core, as if energy constantly sought to unite. In their case, a potion to suppress magical bonds helped."

"Potion to suppress magical bonds," Hermione repeated, frowning. "But it suppresses any magic, not just the bond. That's risky."

Draco nodded grimly and continued studying the books.

Hermione rose and returned to her shelves. Continued searching with new enthusiasm—now that there was at least some lead. After some time she found a volume "Binding Curses and Magical Obsession"—a thick book in a dark red binding with gold embossing. Brought it to the table and immersed herself in reading.

"Here," she called Draco with a gesture. "Description of symptoms very similar to ours."

Malfoy, standing by a bookshelf with another tome in his hands, approached. Stood behind, leaned over her shoulder to see the text.

A light, fresh scent came from him—clean, like air after rain. Not intrusive, but somehow attractive. She felt something strange stir somewhere under her ribs, and it frightened her. She involuntarily shuddered and blinked, chasing away the spell, and cleared her throat.

Concentrate. Book. Read the book.

"Those bound by the curse experience physical discomfort when removed from each other to a critical distance. Symptoms include: weakness, rapid heartbeat, fever or chills, chest pain, difficulty breathing..."

"Well, not exactly, but some symptoms match," Draco noted, and his breath burned her ear. "What about removal methods?"

Hermione flipped through several pages, having difficulty focusing on the text. She read quickly, diagonally.

"Various methods are described here, but..." she frowned, rereading the paragraph twice, "essentially, they all only work for curses cast intentionally. When there's a caster, there's a spell structure. But ours is accidental."

"Is there a difference?" Draco asked, straightening up.

Hermione sighed with relief—she could breathe freely again.

"Huge," she explained, turning to him. "Intentional curses have a certain structure laid down by the caster. They can be deconstructed, weak spots found, a counterspell applied."

She tapped her finger on the book.

"But accidental curses... they're unpredictable. Like a magical accident. No structure, no logic. It's wild magic, tied to emotions, circumstances, chance."

Draco thoughtfully tapped his long fingers on the table—rhythmically, measuredly.

Hermione involuntarily followed this movement with her eyes. Elegant fingers, well-groomed nails...

What am I thinking about?

She fidgeted in her chair, as if wanting to move away, create more space between them. Draco wordlessly caught her discomfort and took a step back. Put his hands in his pockets.

"Logical," he said finally. "Then let's look for information specifically about accidental magical bindings. There must be something."

The next two hours they methodically combed through the library. Hermione moved from shelf to shelf, took out books, looked through them, returned them or set them aside "for later." She compiled a list of literature for further study.

Draco turned out to be an unexpectedly useful research assistant. He not only read quickly—almost as fast as she did, which was rare—but could find key points, connect information from different sources. See patterns where she missed details.

Unlike Harry and Ron, whom she undoubtedly loved with all her heart, but who after half an hour of such work would start yawning, complaining about boredom and distracting her with off-topic conversations, Draco was focused and methodical. Disciplined. Working with him was... pleasant. Unexpectedly pleasant.

If only he were always like this, a treacherous thought flashed. Hermione immediately chased it away.

Late in the evening, when it had grown dark outside the window and most students had dispersed to their dormitories, Madam Pince began making rounds of the tables, coughing meaningfully.

"The library closes in five minutes," she announced sternly.

Hermione and Draco collected their things, notes, annotations. Went out into the corridor. Walked silently, each thinking over the information found.

The castle at night was quiet, almost deserted. Torches burned dimly, portraits dozed in their frames. Somewhere in the distance the poltergeist Peeves was making noise, clanging a bucket, whistling some tune off-key and clearly waiting for a new victim for his pranks.

"Here's what's interesting," Malfoy suddenly spoke, breaking the silence.

Hermione looked at him.

"In the book 'Theory of Magical Bonds' it was indicated that forced bonds often form in moments of strong emotional tension or magical surge," he spoke slowly, thinking over each word. "Such bonds can be extremely stable because they're based not on spells, but on the very magical essence of the bound persons. On their internal magic."

Granger frowned, stopping in the middle of the corridor:

"You're saying that our magic itself created this bond? By itself?"

"Possibly," Draco also stopped, turned to her. "This is just a theory so far. But if you think about it... That night on the tower. We were both at the limit of emotions. I—because of father's letter, you—because of... well, probably because of me."

Hermione chuckled:

"Thanks for reminding me who's the cause of all troubles in this story."

"Always happy to be useful," he responded, the corners of his mouth curving in a familiar smirk.

"Actually the theory is interesting," she admitted. "I'll need to think it over."

She walked forward again, and Draco followed her.

"I think we did good work today," he added after some time. A rare note of approval sounded in his voice.

"Quite tolerable," Hermione drawled, as if deliberately emphasizing indifference.

But inside something skipped. These were the first really pleasant words from this insufferable Slytherin in recent days. Without sarcasm, without barbs.

Maybe everything isn't so hopeless, she thought again.

When they entered the room, Hermione felt strange relief—the day had gone better than she'd expected. Before she could remove her robes, Crookshanks immediately approached her. He rubbed against her legs, as if checking whether everything was all right with her. Malfoy only grimaced, casting a short, irritated glance at the animal.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the window—sharp, insistent.

Tap-tap-tap.

Draco approached the window, threw it open. An owl flew into the room—large, gray, with intelligent amber eyes. In its talons the bird held a neatly rolled parchment sealed with wax bearing the Malfoy crest.

"This is Nox, my father's owl," Draco explained, extending his arm.

The owl importantly settled on his wrist, and Malfoy scratched the bird under its beak. Nox hooted contentedly, pressing against his hand.

Draco took the letter, untied the ribbon. The owl wasn't hurrying to fly away, settling on the chair back—clearly expecting a reply.

Malfoy opened the parchment, began reading. Hermione watched as his face gradually darkened. Eyebrows drew together. Lips pressed into a thin line.

"What happened?" she couldn't help asking.

Draco slowly raised his head:

"Father expects me at an important reception next weekend."

Hermione felt everything inside clench.

"What?" Her voice came out higher than she wanted. "That's wonderful, of course, but I will absolutely not be visiting your manor!"

Malfoy Manor. Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa Malfoy. All those pure-blood prejudices under one roof.

No way.

"And no one was going to take you!" Draco flared up, sharply throwing up his hand.

The owl hooted discontentedly, ruffled its feathers.

Malfoy clenched his jaws, inhaled deeply—once, twice. He looked as if he was counting to ten to keep from losing it. Finally, he exhaled noisily and added more calmly:

"It doesn't matter. This isn't your problem. I'll figure it out myself, think up a reason why I can't attend."

He turned away sharply, sank into a chair at the desk and took out clean parchment. Dipped his quill in ink. Froze, staring at the blank sheet.

Hermione watched as he tried to find words. As he started writing several times and crossed it out.

She suddenly felt a bit sorry for him.

What was it like—to be so afraid of disappointing your father?

She almost allowed herself to pity him—and immediately waved away the thought. Turned away and headed to the bathroom to prepare for bed and end this long, strange day.

Chapter Text

Draco woke up quite early, warm dawn light seeping through gaps in the heavy curtains, painting the room in muted pink tones. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. The castle was still sleeping—that rare silence of early morning when even the ghosts had quieted.

Over the years at Hogwarts, he'd grown accustomed to these morning hours. The silence gave him time to think, to collect his thoughts before the day plunged him into the daily bustle of classes, homework, and his father's endless demands.

Malfoy lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, thinking. Several days had passed since their 'housewarming'—he mentally smirked at the word—and he was beginning to get used to the sounds Granger made in the mornings. First a quiet, sleepy sigh and stretch in bed. Then the rustle of clothes as she got up. The creak of the floorboard by her nightstand—she always stepped on that particular board. The splash of water in the bathroom—she always washed for a long time, methodically. Neat, almost inaudible steps around the room.

Strange to realize he already distinguished these sounds. Knew her morning ritual by heart, though he'd never consciously paid attention to it.

Habit is a strange thing.

Every evening after dinner they went to the library and until closing—until Madam Pince drove them out with a stern look—studied books and records about curses, magical bonds, accidents. It had become their unspoken ritual. Silent cooperation toward a common goal. No unnecessary conversations, no small talk—only business.

Draco turned on his side, settling more comfortably. The pillow was cool against his cheek. The blanket smelled pleasantly of lavender and something herbal, calming. He listened.

Granger's breathing at the other end of the room was quiet, even. She was still asleep. Crookshanks too—Draco heard his low purring, like a working mechanism.

How did I get to such a life, he thought grimly, that I can distinguish Granger's breathing and her ugly cat's snoring.

But thinking about the past days, he was forced to admit—they'd surprised him. More precisely, not the days themselves. But his new roommate.

At the very beginning, Draco had expected the worst. He'd imagined that facing such a nightmare as forced cohabitation with him, she would constantly complain. Become hysterical, complain to teachers. Make scenes. Cry into her pillow at night. Salazar, if he were a girl in her place, he'd definitely have thrown a grand scandal.

Instead of all this, she simply... adapted. Without unnecessary drama.

She endured his barbs—and he, it must be admitted, didn't skimp on them—and didn't even always respond. Just ignored him, as if he were an annoying fly, unworthy of attention. Calmly worked with Blaise and Pansy in Herbology, though the Slytherins didn't particularly try to be friendly. Methodically searched for information in the library without complaining about fatigue. Her endurance was impressive.

Draco grimaced, remembering how Blaise had pulled him aside yesterday after Potions class.

"You know, Draco," Zabini drawled with a smirk, "in this whole situation, you, not Granger, are acting like a drama queen. She's calm, collected, working on solving the problem," he began counting on his fingers. "And you're eternally frowning, snapping, as if the world owes you something. So who's the girl here?"

Draco had told him where to go. But the words stuck in his head—an unpleasant residue.

Maybe he's right?

Draco turned on his back again, throwing his arms behind his head. He looked at the ceiling, where the dawn light played with soft shadows. He remembered his recent antics—deliberate rudeness, demonstratively cold behavior, barbs at every opportunity, contemptuous looks.

Why?

Probably because he hated. He'd always thought he hated her. Granger—the upstart, know-it-all, girl who tried too hard, read too much, too desperately proved her right to be in the magical world.

But now he understood—this wasn't about her. These were his own attitudes, his father's words, stuck somewhere deep inside. She wasn't proving anything. Just living as she saw fit. Unlike him. He had to meet others' expectations, submit to pressure that hadn't let go since childhood.

He'd been taught hatred. To hate meant to be right, loyal to family, loyal to blood.

He wasn't ready to admit he'd been wrong. But somewhere deep in his soul he already understood: all this irritation, all the anger—not from hatred. Rather from the fact that Granger was destroying the familiar order in which it was so convenient to hide. So he tried to be as unpleasant as possible to create distance—a wall between them.

The library work especially surprised him. Draco had expected to see a typical bore who would lecture him in her know-it-all tone. Pressure him with knowledge. Demonstrate superiority at every opportunity. Correct him, point out mistakes, roll her eyes. Instead, he found an intelligent, focused girl with whom it was... interesting.

The word stuck in his throat, even mentally it was hard to pronounce.

She didn't try to show her superiority. Didn't criticize his ideas, didn't smirk when he made mistakes. Listened to his hypotheses attentively. Analyzed with him. Complemented his thoughts rather than refuted them. Sometimes even praised him, and each time it confused him. He didn't know how to react. Frowned, looked away, pretended not to hear, though inside for some reason a strange, unfamiliar feeling warmed.

Draco turned to his other side, face to the wall. Closed his eyes, though sleep had finally receded.

He thought that perhaps—perhaps—he should be a bit softer with his new roommate. Draco had almost convinced himself of the rightness of this decision when he heard Granger stir in her bed.

A quiet sigh. The rustle of the blanket.

He instinctively froze, pretending to be asleep.

Why am I pretending? Idiot.

But he continued lying motionless, listening to her morning ritual. First—that same sleepy sigh and stretch in bed. Steps to the nightstand. The creak of that same floorboard. Then—steps to the bathroom. The door closed quietly.

Draco finally opened his eyes, exhaled. He thought that the new day might be the beginning of something... less terrible.

Or at least—not so unbearable.

──⊱⁜⊰──

Today's Transfiguration lesson was particularly tense. Professor McGonagall stood before the class, straight as an arrow, hands folded before her.

"Today," she began, and her voice sounded such that all conversations instantly ceased, "we begin one of the most difficult and dangerous topics of seventh year."

She paused, sweeping the class with her gaze.

"Human transfiguration."

McGonagall began pacing between the desks, hands behind her back, robes rustling behind her.

"Remember," she said, stopping at several desks for a second, "human transfiguration is extremely risky. The slightest mistake can lead to irreversible consequences."

She tapped her wand on the board, and words appeared on it, written in fiery letters:

"CAUTION. PRECISION. CONCENTRATION."

"With incorrect transfiguration, you can cause internal organ damage. In the worst case, it can be fatal. That's why the Ministry strictly regulates the use of such magic."

Complete silence reigned in the classroom. Even Ron stopped fidgeting in his chair.

"Therefore," the professor returned to her desk, "we'll start with the simplest and safest option. Changing the color and structure of hair."

A relieved sigh rolled through the class.

"Don't relax," the professor added dryly. "Even this will require utmost caution."

McGonagall removed her hat and, pointing her wand at her own head, pronounced:

"Capillus Mutatio."

Her neat bun of gray hair instantly loosened, turned into a thick mane of long fiery red hair, cascading in waves to her shoulders. The color was so bright it seemed the hair glowed from within. Several girls gasped in admiration.

McGonagall waved her wand again, and the hair returned to its former appearance.

"See? Complete control. Full change, but reversible." She put away her wand. "Now try it yourselves, but divide into pairs. One transfigures, the other is the object of transfiguration. Then switch. And remember—caution above all, don't harm each other."

The class stirred—students began dividing into pairs. Hermione turned around, about to suggest Harry work together, but he'd already paired up with Ron. Everyone quickly found partners. She wanted to approach one of the remaining Gryffindors, but suddenly felt a presence nearby. Turned around—and saw Malfoy standing right at her desk. Hermione blinked in surprise. She'd expected him to pair up with one of the Slytherins, but definitely not with her.

"We're partners," Draco stated, not even asking.

"Fine," Hermione nodded, moving her things aside, clearing space.

She looked around. Nearby Harry and Ron had settled, animatedly arguing about who would ruin the other's hairstyle first. Zabini paired with Nott—they were quietly talking about something, smirking. Parkinson teamed up with Millicent Bulstrode, and both were already taking out mirrors, discussing what color to choose. Pansy, however, kept casting sidelong glances at Hermione, in which clear irritation showed. Granger caught one of them and, frowning, looked back in bewilderment. But before she could say anything, Malfoy spoke nearby:

"Who goes first?" he asked, taking out his wand.

Hermione looked at it warily. The smooth hawthorn wand gleamed in the light—elegant, with a dark matte handle.

"You go," she answered, a bit nervous.

An inner voice warned: This is Malfoy. He could do something terrible to you. Turn your hair into green slime. Or leave you bald altogether.

But another part—the one that had observed him these past days in the library, saw his concentration and precision, whispered: He won't. Not now.

Malfoy carefully directed his wand at her hair, carefully pronouncing the incantation. Hermione felt a light tingling on her scalp—strange but not unpleasant, as if thousands of tiny needles simultaneously touched her. Then—warmth spreading from roots to ends of her hair. She instinctively squeezed her eyes shut.

"Done," Draco said in a calm voice, lowering his wand. Not a hint of malicious glee.

Hermione cautiously opened her eyes, looked at him. Tried to understand from his face what he'd done. But Malfoy just looked at her thoughtfully, tilting his head slightly.

"Now my turn," she said, taking out her wand.

Granger directed it at his platinum hair. Concentrated, remembering the wand movement Professor McGonagall had shown.

"Capillus Mutatio."

The spell worked easily, almost effortlessly. Hermione didn't particularly think about the color choice, didn't plan ahead. Just let instinct take over. And for some reason—not understanding why herself—she conjured him long, shoulder-length, silky black hair. Raven-wing color, deep, rich, with soft waves.

Draco raised his hand, touched his hair. Took a strand, brought it to his eyes, examining it.

"Interesting choice," he muttered.

With the contrasting dark color, his gray eyes looked even more expressive. Hermione involuntarily noted what a deep shade they had—not just gray, but with silver sparks, almost mercurial.

Stop staring at him!

"Done," she said, looking away. "We need a mirror to see the result."

"Let's make one," Malfoy nodded.

He pointed his wand at the heavy Transfiguration textbook lying nearby.

"Speculum Facio."

The book trembled, flowed, and turned into a wide oval mirror in a bronze frame. Large enough to see both of them, but still fit in their hands. They simultaneously leaned toward it to see the result.

And froze.

Both had exactly the same hair—dark, blue-black, softly waving to their shoulders.

"We're..." Hermione began.

"Identical," Draco finished, looking alternately at his reflection and at her. He ran his hand through the new hair, as if checking it wasn't a hallucination.

"Strange," Hermione muttered, also touching her hair. "I didn't even think about the color beforehand, just... did it. It happened by itself."

"Me too," Malfoy quietly admitted, still examining his reflection with bewilderment.

"Oh, Merlin!" Theo's loud exclamation made them both flinch.

Nott turned to them, saw—and burst out laughing.

"You've already synchronized so much you've become twins!" He nudged Blaise with his elbow. "Look, look!"

Blaise turned, whistled:

"Indeed. Impressive."

"Confess, who copied from whom?" Theo continued, wiping away tears.

"Shut up, Theo," Draco muttered, but without his usual venom. More weary than angry.

"Wow," Pansy drawled, approaching closer and examining them with curiosity, "really do look like twins. Creepy."

She tilted her head, studying.

"Though black suits Granger. Unexpected."

"I think it's interesting," Blaise noted thoughtfully, squinting. "Maybe your magical bond affects subconscious decisions?"

Hermione felt several pairs of eyes stare at them from other desks. Whispers and glances didn't go unnoticed.

"Attend to your assignments," Professor McGonagall said curtly. "The lesson isn't over yet. Or do you want me to add an additional essay?"

Students hastily turned away, returning to their task partners. But the interest in their eyes didn't disappear—Hermione felt it on the back of her head. She quickly surveyed the class, distracting from the awkwardness.

Many had already finished the task. Harry's hair had become dark chestnut and slightly wavy—Ron, apparently, was inspired by Hermione's color before transfiguration. Ron himself sported long smooth strands of emerald green. Pansy's hair had turned into golden curls, Millicent—with a short red haircut.

"Excellent work, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall's voice made them both straighten up.

The professor stood nearby, carefully examining the result of their transfiguration.

"The technique is flawless," she stated, nodding approvingly. "Even color, hair structure changed perfectly. Twenty points each."

McGonagall held her gaze on Granger—long, studying. Then added:

"Miss Granger, stay after class. I need to talk to you."

Hermione's heart skipped. Draco looked at her questioningly, but she just shrugged, pretending she had no idea what it might be about.

──⊱⁜⊰──

When the last student besides Hermione left the office—the door closed behind Draco, who turned and sent her a concerned look—the professor heavily sank into the chair behind her desk. She removed her glasses, placed them on the desk, rubbed the bridge of her nose with two fingers. For the first time Hermione saw her so tired. Not just tired after a long day, but exhausted. This frightened her more than any words.

"Sit down, Miss Granger," she indicated the chair before the desk. "I'm afraid I have not very good news for you."

"Is it about the curse?" Hermione asked quietly.

"Exactly," McGonagall folded her hands on the desk, interlaced her fingers. "Professor Snape, myself, and several other teachers conducted additional research. We consulted with experts from the Ministry—from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, studied the archives..." She paused. "I'm afraid your curse cannot be removed."

Hermione felt cold wash over her. Her hands went numb, her ears rang. The words sounded like a sentence.

"How... how 'cannot be removed'?" She swallowed, trying to moisten her parched throat.

McGonagall stood, approached the window, turned her back to Hermione. She looked at the castle grounds—at the Forbidden Forest in the distance, at the lake reflecting the sky.

"Accidental magical bonds like yours are extremely rare," she began slowly, carefully choosing each word. "In the known history of magic, no more than ten such cases have been recorded in the last thousand years."

She turned, looked at Hermione.

"And they all have one common feature: they're practically unbreakable."

"Why?" Granger forced out.

"Because they form not from outside, but from within. At the level of a person's magical essence." McGonagall returned to the desk but didn't sit, leaning her hands on the desktop. "This isn't a spell that can be removed with a counterspell. This isn't a curse in the classical sense that someone imposed from outside."

She leaned forward, and pain could be read in her eyes—pain from having to say this to her student.

"This has become part of you. Part of your magic, your essence."

The room spun. Hermione grabbed the edge of the chair, trying to maintain balance.

"The only way we know to break such a bond," McGonagall continued, and her voice became even quieter, "is the death of one of those bound."

"Death..." Hermione echoed.

The office walls seemed to move closer. There wasn't enough air. Hermione took a deep breath, then another, but her lungs wouldn't fill.

I'm bound to Draco Malfoy for the rest of my life. For the rest. Of my life.

"Miss Granger, breathe," McGonagall said sternly, instantly at her side. "Slowly. In. Out."

She placed a hand on Hermione's shoulder—warm, firm. The girl focused on breathing. Inhale—count to four. Pause four seconds. Exhale—count to four. Pause four seconds. Again. And again. Gradually the panic receded, leaving behind emptiness and dull pain somewhere in her chest.

"I understand how this sounds," the professor said gently, returning to her desk and sitting again. "I understand what shock you're experiencing."

She straightened, and steel notes appeared in her voice.

"However, I'm not going to give up. And you shouldn't either." McGonagall leaned forward, and her gaze became piercing, brooking no objections. "We'll continue research. Study more ancient sources—there are libraries to which Professor Dumbledore has access, but which require time to obtain permission. Perhaps there are some forgotten rituals, lost knowledge. Something we've missed."

She tapped her fingers on the desk.

"Magic has existed for millennia. We're far from knowing everything about it. Perhaps there exists a method we simply don't know about yet. However, Hermione, you must understand the reality of the situation. Research of this kind can take a very long time. Months. Years. Most likely longer than your academic year."

The words hung in the air. Hermione felt something compress inside, but simultaneously—the desire to act, control, help only intensified.

"Then let me help!" She leaned forward, and her voice sounded more confident, insistent. "I can participate in the research!"

"Miss Granger," McGonagall interrupted her gently but firmly.

"But I really can help!" Hermione didn't back down, words tumbling faster. "I handle research work well, you know that yourself. You've seen my essays, my projects. And Malfoy too—he turned out to be very capable in analyzing information, sees connections I sometimes miss. We could work parallel with you, double the efforts..."

"No," McGonagall stood from behind the desk, walked around it, sat on the edge. An informal gesture meant to soften the categorical refusal.

"Listen to me carefully, Hermione," she began, and maternal care rather than teacher's strictness sounded in her voice. "This is your last year at Hogwarts. Seventh year. N.E.W.T.s—the most important exams in your life. The choice of your future profession."

She leaned closer, and Hermione saw real concern in her eyes.

"You've dreamed of working at the Ministry all these years, right? In the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, changing laws, helping those who can't protect themselves."

Granger nodded, feeling a treacherous lump rise to her throat.

"For this you need the highest scores. Impeccable teacher recommendations. A perfect resume," McGonagall continued seriously. "If you now immerse yourself in serious curse research, and this will require an enormous amount of time, energy, and emotional strength—your studies will inevitably suffer."

She carefully placed her hand on Hermione's shoulder and squeezed slightly—a simple gesture, but it held more support than any words.

"I can't allow this to happen. Not when your career and dreams are at stake. Not when you've worked so hard all these years."

"But this is my life!" Hermione's voice broke, and the despair she'd been trying to contain burst through. "Isn't my life now more important than some exams?"

The professor straightened, and her face became stricter.

"Your life is not in immediate danger, Miss Granger," she said firmly. "The curse isn't killing you. Isn't destroying your health. It simply... limits your freedom of movement. Yes, it's extremely inconvenient. Yes, it changes your plans. But you're alive, healthy, can study and build your future."

She returned to her desk, sat, folded her hands before her.

"Here's what I'll suggest to you." Her voice became businesslike, decisive. "If we—the Hogwarts teachers, Ministry experts, ancient magic specialists we'll turn to—if all of us together don't find a solution by the end of this academic year..."

She made a significant pause.

"Then—and only then—I'll allow you and Mr. Malfoy to join full research. After graduation. When you don't have exams, when you receive diplomas with honors, as you deserve, and don't jeopardize your professional future."

McGonagall leaned forward, and her gaze became piercing, brooking no objections.

"But until then you must focus on your studies. On what you came to Hogwarts for seven years ago. On your education, which no one and never will be able to take from you, whatever circumstances arise in the future. Education is what will stay with you forever."

She stood, making it clear this matter was closed.

"But sometimes the most reasonable and most difficult thing we can do is trust those who have more experience, more knowledge, more resources. Let us take this upon ourselves."

McGonagall approached closer, placed both hands on Hermione's shoulders, looked into her eyes.

"Trust me, Miss Granger. Trust us. We'll do everything possible—and even impossible—to help you. But you must give us time and continue living your life. Promise?"

Hermione slowly nodded, feeling a faint spark of hope kindle somewhere deep inside, but with it came bitter awareness of her powerlessness.

"Good," McGonagall nodded with satisfaction, stepping back. "And now I need you to do something for me."

"Anything," Hermione immediately responded.

"Don't tell anyone what you learned today."

Hermione blinked, not expecting such a request.

"No one? But..."

"No one," McGonagall repeated implacably. "At least until we've exhausted all possibilities. Time is our ally. The longer we can stretch it, the more chances to think of something, find a solution."

"Even..." Hermione hesitated. "Even Malfoy?"

The professor turned sharply.

"Especially Mr. Malfoy," she pronounced, and steel sounded in her voice. "Miss Granger, I want you to be especially careful." Her voice became quieter. "I don't think badly of Mr. Malfoy. He's a capable student, and lately I see in him... changes."

Pause.

"But he's his father's son. And Lucius Malfoy is not a person to trust with such information."

A chill ran down Hermione's spine.

"You think... you think they might try to harm me?"

Her voice sounded alien, frightened.

McGonagall straightened, crossed her arms.

"I think Lucius Malfoy is a man who always looks for ways to turn a situation to his advantage." She approached the window again, looked at the sunset sky. "And you're currently in a very vulnerable position. Magically bound to his son. Muggle-born."

She turned around.

"Who knows what might enter his head. Who knows what plans he might make. Or what pressure he might exert on Draco upon learning about the irreversibility of the situation."

Hermione nodded, feeling everything inside compress with fear.

Lucius Malfoy. Former Death Eater. A man who buys and sells influence.

"You may go," McGonagall said gently, returning to her usual tone. "And remember: if anything seems suspicious to you, if Mr. Malfoy starts behaving strangely, if you feel threatened—immediately come to me. Or to the headmaster. You're a smart and capable girl, Miss Granger. I believe you'll manage and won't let circumstances break you."

Hermione stood on trembling legs, feeling her knees buckle. Somehow made it to the door, placed her hand on the handle.

"Professor?" she called without turning around.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For the honesty."

"You deserve the truth," McGonagall answered. "However hard it may be."

Hermione stepped into the corridor—and immediately saw Draco.

He stood by the opposite wall, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. Relaxed pose, but she saw tension in his shoulders, in his clenched jaws. When he saw her face, he immediately straightened, pushed off from the wall.

"Granger?" He stepped closer, peering. "What happened? You're white as a sheet."

Probably so.

"Nothing," she answered quickly, avoiding his gaze.

She lowered her head, took a step to the side, about to pass by.

"Everything's fine."

"Don't lie to me," Malfoy said sharply. He grabbed her wrist—not painfully, but firmly, forcing her to stop. "What did you talk about?"

Hermione raised her head, met his gaze. Gray eyes looked at her intently, demandingly. And... with concern?

Can't tell. Especially him.

"Just..." She pulled her hand away, stepped back. "Just about my performance. She wanted to discuss my career plans after Hogwarts."

He looked at her distrustfully but didn't argue. Turning toward their shared room, they silently moved through the empty corridors. Malfoy didn't lag behind but didn't insist or question her further. Just walked nearby—slightly behind, but close enough to maintain a safe distance.

And Hermione thought feverishly.

Tell him? Now? Or wait?

McGonagall is right—it's dangerous. Lucius might...

But doesn't Draco have the right to know? It's his life too.

But what if he tells his father? What if...

Thoughts spun in an endless circle, giving no peace.

"By the way," Draco broke the silence when they turned toward their shared room.

His voice deliberately casual.

"I wrote father that I can't attend the reception in his honor."

Hermione stopped, turned to him.

"That's... that's good," she forced out.

Good wasn't the word. Less contact with Lucius—better.

"Did you tell him about our curse?"

Draco shook his head:

"No, not yet. I decided we'd search for information ourselves first. And perhaps one of the teachers will find a solution before we have to inform our parents."

He stuck his hands in his pockets, looked away.

"Besides, father... his reaction might be quite stormy. To put it mildly."

Hermione nodded, not knowing whether to rejoice at this or worry even more. On one hand, Lucius Malfoy didn't know yet. That was good. It gave time. On the other—now, knowing the truth about the irreversibility of their situation, she understood: sooner or later the Malfoys would have to find out anyway. And then... She didn't want to think about what would happen then.

"Wise decision," she said quietly.

They reached their room. Madam Harmony dozed in her frame, glasses slipped to the tip of her nose. Hearing their steps, she opened her eyes, adjusted her glasses, and nodded amiably.

"Compromise and agreement," Hermione whispered.

The door opened soundlessly. Draco let her go first, followed. Closed the door. Turned to her, determination readable on his face.

"Are you sure everything's all right?" he asked again, carefully studying her face. "You look like you were told about the end of the world."

If only you knew how close to the truth...

"Just tired," Hermione lied, looking away. "Today was a hard day."

She walked to her bed, sank on the edge, hugged herself.

Draco stood a bit longer, clearly wanting to say something. But then waved his hand and headed to his part of the room.

They didn't talk more that evening. Closer to night, Hermione mechanically changed into her nightshirt, washed up, lay in bed. But sleep wouldn't come. She lay staring at the ceiling, listening to Draco toss and turn in his bed. He wasn't sleeping either. Thoughts about the conversation with McGonagall circled in her head, giving no peace. She turned on her side toward the wall, pulled the blanket higher, as if trying to hide from reality.

Silence. Long silence.

Then:

"Granger," Draco called quietly.

His voice cautious, almost uncertain.

"Are you awake?"

"Yes," she answered just as quietly, not turning around.

The rustle of blankets—he also turned over, apparently facing the center of the room.

"I keep thinking about what happened today in Transfiguration," he continued.

In the darkness his voice sounded different. Softer. Without its usual coldness and sarcasm.

"Those identical hairstyles... Do you think it could be a simple coincidence?"

Hermione closed her eyes.

Identical hairstyles. A trifle compared to what I learned.

She desperately wanted to share. Tell the truth. Not carry this burden alone.

"Possibly," she answered carefully, trying to keep her voice even. "Blaise said something about influence on subconscious decisions."

"Blaise says a lot of things," Draco snorted.

Pause.

"But... what if he's right? What if this curse is changing us more than we think?"

Something like fear sounded in his voice.

He's afraid.

Hermione turned to her other side, peering into the darkness where Draco lay. She could only distinguish a silhouette—a dark spot against the slightly lighter wall.

"I think," she said slowly, "it was just a coincidence. But if it wasn't..." She swallowed. "Does it frighten you?"

Long silence. So long that Hermione had already decided he wouldn't answer. Or had fallen asleep.

And then:

"Honestly? Yes. It frightens me."

He sighed—that same heavy sigh she'd learned to distinguish.

"I've known all my life who I am. Draco Malfoy, heir to an ancient house, Slytherin. I had clear boundaries, rules, expectations. I knew who I should be, how to behave, what to think."

Rustle—he apparently ran his hand over his face.

"And now... now I don't know where I end and you begin. What of my thoughts are mine, and what's the curse's influence. It's... it's confusing."

Hermione felt something compress in her chest.

He's afraid too. Feels lost too.

"I understand," she said quietly. "I'm scared too."

She pulled the blanket higher, pressed it to her chin.

"I'm used to controlling my life. Planning every step, knowing what comes next. I always had plan A, plan B, even plan C in case something went wrong. And now..."

"And now you're bound to a vile Slytherin," Draco finished bitterly for her.

"You're not vile."

The words burst out on their own, unexpected even to herself.

Hermione fell silent, surprised at her own frankness. But in the darkness, not seeing each other, it was easier to talk. Embarrassment receded to the background.

"Arrogant, yes," she continued quieter. "Conceited—definitely. Sometimes unbearably irritating. But not vile."

Silence.

Then—Draco's quiet chuckle. Not mocking. Rather surprised.

"You know what surprises me most?" he said, and some softness sounded in his voice. "You're not at all what I imagined you to be."

"And what did you imagine me to be?"

"A boring know-it-all who only lectures and shows everyone her superiority."

Hermione grimaced in the darkness, though he couldn't see it.

"And you..." Draco paused, choosing words. "In the library you were... normal. You worked, didn't lecture. Listened to my ideas, even when they weren't quite right. Didn't criticize immediately, didn't roll your eyes. It was... unexpected. And pleasant."

Hermione felt strange warmth spreading in her chest. Not physical—emotional.

He appreciates this. Appreciates me. Not as a rival, but as... a partner?

"Sleep," she said quietly, before this warmth made her say something even more candid. "Tomorrow's another long day."

"Yes," Draco agreed, and weariness sounded in his voice. "Good night, Granger."

"Good night, Malfoy."

Silence returned. But this time it wasn't so heavy. Almost... cozy.

Hermione lay listening as Draco's breathing gradually became even and deep. He'd fallen asleep.

And she still couldn't.

She lay staring into the darkness, thinking about how unbearably difficult it would be to hide the truth. The truth from a person who was beginning to become... not just a roommate. Not just a forced companion. Someone more. Perhaps even a friend.

And somewhere on the edge of sleep and wakefulness, exhausted emotionally and physically, Hermione finally fell into a restless, nightmare-filled sleep.

Chapter Text

Several days had passed since the conversation with Professor McGonagall. Days that Hermione spent in constant tension, as if balancing on the edge of an abyss. The secret she was hiding pressed heavier with each hour.

Sleep had practically disappeared again. Every night she lay staring into the darkness, replaying the same agonizing question in her head: Tell him or stay silent? When she finally fell into restless slumber toward morning, she had nightmares—Draco learning the truth and looking at her with hatred; Lucius Malfoy appearing in Hogwarts corridors; her own death as the only solution to the problem for a pure-blood family. She woke in cold sweat, heart pounding, and understood she wouldn't fall asleep again.

Every morning she woke exhausted, with heaviness in her chest—not from the curse, but from the burden of unspoken words. The circles under her eyes grew darker, her skin acquired an unhealthy pallor, and in the mirror a gaunt, almost ghostly face looked back at her. But worst of all was the irritability she could no longer control.

Harry and Ron, of course, noticed the sharp change.

"Hermione, you look terrible," Ron said bluntly at breakfast, looking her over with undisguised concern. "Seriously, like a Dementor kissed you."

"Maybe it's the curse?" Harry frowned, leaning closer and peering at her face. "Maybe it's draining your life force?"

"Or Malfoy's draining it," Ron said, sipping his tea. "I always knew he feeds on others' misery. Look how smug he's sitting there."

Hermione tried to smile, but it came out as a pitiful grimace:

"Don't talk nonsense. Malfoy has nothing to do with it. It's just... just a lot of homework. N.E.W.T.s are coming, remember?"

"Homework," Ron repeated skeptically. "Hermione, you've always done tons of homework, and you've never looked like this."

"Seriously," Harry insisted. "Maybe go see Madam Pomfrey? Let her check if the curse is affecting..."

"Everything's fine!" Hermione cut him off more sharply than she'd intended. "I'm just tired, leave me alone!"

She stood and left, leaving her friends exchanging worried looks.

If only they knew... That this guilt is slowly devouring me from within.

Every time Draco looked at her, she felt everything inside compress with shame and guilt.

He has the right to know.

It's his life. His future.

How can I stay silent?

But she immediately remembered McGonagall's words—stern, warning: "Especially Mr. Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy is not a person to trust with such information." And Granger again pressed her lips together, swallowing the truth that was bursting to get out.

Sometimes, lying awake at night and listening to Draco's even breathing at the other end of the room, she thought: Maybe it would have been better if I'd never known anything at all? Better if McGonagall had just said: "We're working on it"—and that's all. Without details. Then she could sleep peacefully. Hope. Believe a solution would be found. Instead she knew too much, and this knowledge corroded her from within like acid.

Is ignorance truly bliss?

But worst of all was that Draco had changed. Over these few days he seemed to have thawed, no longer snapping at every word. Didn't roll his eyes, didn't throw barbs at the first opportunity. Moreover—he himself began starting conversations, or even helping her.

The day before yesterday, for example, in Potions class, they were working at neighboring tables—each brewing their own potion for the assignment. But when her attention unfocused due to sleep deprivation, she accidentally added the wrong component. The liquid in the cauldron instantly began to bubble; Malfoy, who for some reason was glancing in her direction, lightning-fast extended his hand and threw in neutralizing powder.

"Careful," he muttered, not looking angry. "This potion explodes if overheated after adding dried mandrake."

"I know," she started to say, but he'd already turned back to his cauldron, pretending to be completely absorbed in his own work.

Slughorn walked past, gave her cauldron a critical look and smiled with satisfaction. The potion was saved, but the whole situation became a real disaster for Hermione—she, the best student in the year, had nearly failed an elementary potion. The guilt over what was happening with Malfoy was beginning to affect her ability to concentrate on studies. She desperately ran her hands through her hair, wanted to cry from her own helplessness.

"Everyone has bad days, Granger," Malfoy added quietly, not raising his eyes from his cauldron. "Even know-it-alls."

And though irony could be heard in the last word, from his voice it was clear he was barely holding back a smile. Hermione looked at his back in surprise, and something warm stirred in her chest.

The most pleasant and comfortable hours of the entire day were their joint evening research sessions in the library. There, among old books, Hermione could briefly let go of the anxious thoughts that pursued her throughout the day. She worked, searched for a solution, applied all her strength and knowledge to finding a way to remove the curse.

I'm not just staying silent, she reassured herself. I'm acting. I'm helping both of us.

It helped. A little. Let her look Draco in the eyes when they sat opposite each other at the library table. Let her not feel like a complete liar.

I'm hiding the truth, but I'm not doing nothing. I'm trying to fix this.

Yes, she'd promised the professor to focus on her studies. Promised not to participate in research until graduation, so as not to jeopardize her N.E.W.T. grades and future career. But she hadn't promised to sit idle. McGonagall had asked her not to participate in full-scale research. She hadn't forbidden spending a couple of hours a day on independent study of the matter. Just... looking through books. Making notes. Nothing serious that could interfere with studies.

Two hours a day isn't that much, Hermione convinced herself. I devote all the rest of my time to homework anyway. My grades won't suffer.

She knew it was self-deception. Knew McGonagall had meant complete abstention from research. But Hermione couldn't make herself just wait while "adults" decided their fate. Control. She needed at least some control over the situation.

Late in the evening, when she and Malfoy were returning from the library, Hermione stumbled on an uneven step. A strong hand instinctively grabbed her elbow, kept her from falling.

"Careful," Draco said, and his voice sounded more concerned than irritated.

Hermione raised her head, and their eyes met. His hand still held her elbow—firmly but carefully. They stood like that for several seconds, frozen in the middle of the empty corridor. Torches cast soft light on his face, and Hermione saw in the gray eyes a glimpse of something she hadn't expected. It seemed to be care.

"Granger," he began quietly, not releasing her arm. "Are you really all right?"

"What?" She blinked, confused. "I just stumbled."

"Not about that," Malfoy interrupted, shaking his head. "In general. Are you really all right?"

He squeezed his fingers slightly on her elbow—not painfully, but noticeably.

"You've looked these past days..." he hesitated, choosing words, "exhausted. Pale. Distracted in classes, always with books, but it's obvious you're not reading, you're constantly thinking about something."

His gaze became softer.

"And you... changed," he continued, clearly struggling to find words. "When we first started working together, you were... I don't know... more enthusiastic, I guess? Approached research with enthusiasm. Even when we found dead ends, you still said something like 'well, at least we eliminated another possibility.'"

He frowned, looking somewhere to the side.

"And now you're somehow... extinguished. Very negative. As if you no longer believe a solution will be found."

Draco looked at her again, and genuine concern could be read in the gray eyes.

"And I can't help thinking..." he hesitated, swallowed. "Maybe I did something wrong? Maybe said something offensive without thinking? Or your patience with me just overflowed? I know I'm not the most pleasant roommate, but if I did something wrong, tell me. I'll try... to improve. Be more tolerant. Or give you more space. Anything, just..."

He sighed.

"Just tell me it's not because of me you look like this."

Hermione stood, unable to utter a word. Her throat constricted, tears burned her eyes.

He blames himself. But the problem is me. My lie.

"It's not..." her voice failed, and she cleared her throat. "Malfoy, it's not because of you. Not at all because of you."

"Then why?" he asked quietly.

Tell him. Tell him the truth. Now. Right now.

But the words stuck in her throat. McGonagall's promise. The warning about Lucius. Fear.

"If it's because of the curse..." Draco sighed, looked away for a moment, then looked at her again. "I'm uneasy too. And anxious. This damn curse weighs on both of us."

She nodded uncertainly. Malfoy released her elbow but didn't step back. Looked into her eyes, seriously.

"Don't despair, we'll find a solution. The teachers are working on it, we're searching for information ourselves. Something has to work out. And anyway, I don't need a roommate who'll faint from worry in the middle of a corridor. Carrying you to the hospital wing every time will be extremely tiresome."

The last phrase was said with light mockery, an attempt to defuse the tension. But Granger saw the truth in his eyes—he really was worried.

"I..." her voice trembled traitorously. "I'll try. Thank you."

Draco nodded briefly, then cleared his throat, hiding awkwardness, and continued down the corridor.

"Let's go already. It's late."

Hermione followed him, feeling everything inside turn over. The guilt she'd tried to suppress with library work returned with doubled force.

──⊱⁜⊰──

The weekend arrived unnoticed. On Saturday, when they were walking from Ancient Runes class, discussing another assignment from Professor Babbling, their path was suddenly blocked by the tall figure of Professor Snape. He appeared as if from nowhere—soundlessly, as always. Black robes billowed behind him, and his face wore the usual expression of cold contempt he typically reserved for Gryffindors. And especially for Hermione Granger.

"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger," he pronounced, slightly inclining his head in a semblance of greeting.

Hermione instinctively straightened, tensed. Encounters with Snape rarely led to anything good.

"Good afternoon, Professor," Draco answered evenly.

Snape swept them both with a long, studying look. Lingered on Hermione a bit longer, and something she couldn't recognize flickered in his dark eyes.

"I received a letter from your father, Mr. Malfoy," he began, addressing Draco but still looking at Hermione.

Draco instantly tensed beside her. She felt it—by how his breathing changed, how his shoulders compressed. Mention of his father always evoked such a reaction in him.

"Lucius demands your presence at a family celebration this evening," Snape continued imperturbably. "For some reason he decided that I am the obstacle preventing you from leaving the school."

Barely perceptible irony sounded in the last words. Snape paused, and something like irritation flashed in his eyes.

"I was prepared to keep silent, as Professor McGonagall requested," he added in an even tone, in which, however, cold anger was distinctly audible. "However, I've begun to be drawn into your games. Lucius Malfoy is extremely displeased that his son refers to my instructions as the reason he cannot leave the castle."

He cast Draco an icy look.

"I don't intend to become your shield from your father, Mr. Malfoy. If you've decided to use my name as an excuse, be so kind as to deal with the consequences yourself."

"Professor, I already wrote father that I can't..." Draco began, but Snape raised his hand, stopping him.

"Under the current circumstances," he interrupted in a cold, cutting tone, "Miss Granger also receives permission to leave Hogwarts for one day."

He fell sharply silent, formulating the next thought:

"Though I reported nothing to Lucius about... the details of your situation."

He pronounced the word "details" with particular emphasis, and Hermione felt a chill run down her spine.

"I suppose," the professor continued, and a cold smirk trembled at the corners of his mouth, "you'll speak with your father yourself. Explain the situation... as you see fit."

Draco swallowed. Hermione saw his Adam's apple bob.

"Yes, Professor," he forced out.

Snape shifted his gaze to Hermione. And what she saw in his eyes made her go cold. Not contempt. Not mockery. Cold, almost serpentine curiosity.

"By the way, Miss Granger," he drawled, tilting his head slightly to the side, "you did tell Mr. Malfoy the details about the nature of your curse?"

Her heart plummeted.

No.

No-no-no.

"About what we discovered at the current stage of our research?" Snape took a step closer, and Hermione felt the smell of potions that always surrounded him.

Time seemed to slow. Granger heard her own heartbeat—booming, panicked. Saw Draco slowly—very slowly—turn his head toward her.

"What details?" Draco's voice sounded quiet. Slow. Dangerously quiet. "What's he talking about?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but her throat constricted. She couldn't force out a sound. Shifted her gaze from Draco to Snape and back, like a cornered animal.

"I..." she began, but her voice broke.

"Mr. Malfoy knows nothing?" Snape slowly, with obvious pleasure, raised one eyebrow. "How... interesting."

There was so much venom in the word "interesting" that Hermione felt nausea rise.

He's doing this deliberately. He enjoys seeing how he's cornered me.

"What should I know?" Draco's voice grew colder with each word. "Granger, what the hell is he talking about?"

He grabbed her shoulder, turned her to face him. Gray eyes looked straight into her soul—demanding, angry, with dawning understanding.

"I think," Snape pronounced, stepping back and folding his arms behind his back, "you should discuss this in private."

He turned, his robes swept up behind him, and immediately disappeared around the corridor turn. Footsteps faded, dissolving into the castle's hum.

Draco slowly unclenched his fingers on her shoulder. Stepped back one step. Two. Looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Or as if he didn't recognize her.

"Let's go," he finally said. "Immediately."

Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed her elbow—not roughly, but firmly, leaving no choice—and dragged her down the corridor. Hermione tried to free herself, but his grip was iron.

"Malfoy, wait..."

"Shut up."

They walked fast, almost ran. Past surprised students, past portraits that turned to watch them and talked among themselves. Draco didn't look back. Didn't slow down. Just dragged her along, jaws clenched so hard his jaw muscles worked.

He's furious. And there's nothing I can say to fix it.

They reached their shared room in minutes, though it seemed like an eternity to Hermione.

"Compromise and agreement," Draco said through clenched teeth.

Madam Harmony in her frame opened her mouth to say something, but seeing the expression on his face, wisely kept silent. The door flew open. Draco pushed Hermione inside. Not roughly, but decisively.

Barely had they crossed the threshold when Crookshanks jumped out from under the bed—apparently missed his mistress and decided to greet her. The huge ginger cat purred joyfully and rushed toward them, right under Draco's feet.

"GET OUT OF HERE!" he roared with such fury that Hermione flinched.

Crookshanks, offended and frightened, let out an indignant loud meow and darted under the sofa, where he hid, whimpering pitifully. The door slammed behind them with a deafening crash.

Draco slowly—very slowly—turned to face her. His gray eyes blazed. Not just with anger. With something more: rage, pain. Betrayal.

"Speak," he said quietly, but in this quietness was more threat than in any scream. "What are you hiding?"

Hermione backed away, instinctively, until her back hit the wall. Her hands clenched into fists.

"Malfoy, calm down..."

"DON'T YOU DARE!" he exploded, and his voice echoed off the walls. "Don't you dare calm me down and sweet-talk me!"

He stepped closer, looming over her.

"What was Snape talking about? What did you learn from McGonagall? WHAT ARE YOU HIDING FROM ME?"

He shouted the last words, and Hermione saw veins bulge on his neck, saw his knuckles whiten as his fists clenched. She clenched her own fists harder, nails digging into her palms painfully.

"There's a high probability the curse can't be removed. It's unknown how long the research will take. The only known way at this time... only if one of us dies."

Draco froze. Didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Just stared at her with wide eyes.

"What..." His voice failed, turned into a rasp. "What did you say?"

Hermione felt tears burn her eyes but forced herself to continue:

"Professor McGonagall said that accidental magical bonds like ours are extremely rare and practically unbreakable," words tumbled faster, choking. "It's too complex and unpredictable a phenomenon. They form at the level of magical essence, become part of us. At this time the only known way to definitely remove the curse is..."

She swallowed.

"The death of one of those bound."

Draco slowly—very slowly—stepped back. Then another step.

"But the professor said they're not going to stop searching!" Hermione quickly added, stepping toward him and nervously rubbing her hands. "They're studying ancient sources, consulting with experts, maybe they'll find..."

"And you..." Draco's voice trembled. Not from fear. From rage that was slowly, like lava, rising from within. "You KEPT SILENT about this?"

He took a step forward, and Hermione backed away again.

"How many days have you known?" His voice rose with each word. "Since that Transfiguration class? HOW LONG?!"

"Yes, but..."

"WHY?!" He struck the wall with his fist beside her head, and Hermione flinched. "Why am I the last to know about my own damn fate?!"

His face was so close she could see every emotion flashing through the gray eyes. Hurt. Bitterness. Disappointment.

"You decided for me what I should know and what not?" His voice became quieter, but only more frightening for it. "Who do you think you are? My mother? My guardian?"

"McGonagall asked me not to tell anyone for now!" Hermione shouted back. "She said..."

"ANYONE?!" Draco recoiled as if struck. "Or ME?!"

He turned, paced the room, ran his hands through his hair—a desperate gesture, on the edge of breaking.

"I'm not an outsider in this situation! This is MY life! MY future!" He turned, jabbed a finger in her direction. "What's the reason I shouldn't have known?!"

He breathed heavily, looking at her.

"What were all those evenings in the library for?" His voice became almost a whisper, but full of pain. "Were you just trying to distract me? Entertain me while adults decide our fate? What are you scheming?"

"I'm not scheming anything!" Hermione shouted, and her voice broke. "I just wanted to think it all through first! Understand how to tell you!"

"Think it through?!" Draco laughed coldly, bitterly.

The sound was terrible—devoid of all mirth, full of poison.

"What's there to think through? Come up and say: 'Malfoy, we're bound forever, one of us has to die to free the other.' That's it! Three simple sentences!"

He stepped closer, and flames blazed in his eyes.

"Or did you decide I'm such a moral freak that I might harm you, learning this?" His voice became dangerously quiet. "That I have no moral principles at all?"

He pronounced the last word with such bitterness that Hermione flinched.

"You might not," she blurted out without thinking, "but your father is capable of that and more!"

The words burst out on their own, and she immediately regretted them.

No. I shouldn't have.

"Your family has too questionable a reputation!" she added, unable to stop herself.

Malfoy froze. His eyes widened for a moment—from shock, from pain—then narrowed to slits. He straightened sharply, stepped back. Cast her a look full of such contempt that Hermione felt everything inside compress.

"So that's it," he said slowly, enunciating each word. "That's what this is about."

He smirked coldly.

"Can't believe I allowed the thought that you and I could coexist normally together." He shook his head, as if not believing his own stupidity. "What the hell made me softer toward you? You're a liar and manipulator."

He took a step toward her, and his voice became even quieter, even more venomous:

"Would've been better if you'd really died. Then at least I'd be free."

Hermione froze as if doused with ice water. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. She stood, breathing in gasps, nails digging into her palms so hard blood appeared. Tried to hold back the tears that burned her eyes, rose to her throat in a lump.

Don't cry. Just don't cry in front of him.

Draco looked at her for several more seconds—long, agonizing seconds. Then turned sharply, approached his nightstand. Jerked open the drawer, grabbed several things—she didn't see what exactly, her vision blurred with tears. Shoved everything in his robe pockets. Silently headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Hermione's voice sounded uncertain and hoarse.

Draco stopped at the door but didn't turn around.

"I'll spend tonight at Malfoy Manor at the formal reception," he said evenly, without emotion. "And you think about your behavior here. If, of course, you live until my return."

"What are you talking about?!" Hermione stepped forward, and her voice trembled with panic. "The curse will affect you too! You won't be able to..."

"I'll manage somehow," he cut her off, finally turning around.

His face was a cold, impenetrable mask.

"I'll endure one day at least. And then we'll see. Maybe father knows better ways than our pathetic library searches."

He stepped across the threshold and slammed the door behind him. The sound echoed in the suddenly empty, too large, too quiet room.

Hermione collapsed on her bed, buried her face in the pillow—and could no longer hold back tears. They poured in a torrent—hot, bitter, unstoppable. Sobs shook her whole body, wouldn't let her breathe. All those days when she'd thought they were beginning to understand each other, that something like trust had appeared between them. Maybe even friendship. It had all been an illusion.

Worst of all was that somewhere deep down she understood his anger. She really had hidden the truth from him. Deceived him. Day after day looked him in the eyes and lied.

But what was I supposed to do?

How could she explain the fears that tormented her after the conversation with McGonagall? How could she say: "I'm afraid your father will try to kill me, learning that I'm the only obstacle to your freedom"?

Hermione cried until the tears ran out. Until her throat was hoarse. Until nothing remained but emptiness. She lay staring at the ceiling with empty eyes, thinking only one thing: How will they both survive this night apart?

A quiet pitiful meow came from under the sofa. Crookshanks, still frightened and offended, cautiously crawled out and jumped on the bed. Settled next to Hermione, pressed against her with his warm side, purring comfortingly. She hugged him, buried her face in the ginger fur.

And cried again.

Chapter Text

Stepping out of the fireplace and brushing ash from his robes, Draco looked around. Malfoy Manor greeted him with its usual cold luxury. Each step on the marble tiles echoed hollowly in the spacious hall, and the air was saturated with the smell of wood polish, slightly tart, with a barely perceptible citrus scent—that very smell that had haunted him since childhood. High ceilings with ornate molded patterns and carved scrolls towered overhead, and grim portraits of ancestors watched his every move, reminding him that nothing escaped their gaze in this house. Everything that once filled him with pride in belonging to an ancient house now seemed stifling and oppressive.

And yet, despite the oppressive atmosphere, Malfoy realized with surprise that he felt... good. The anger that boiled in him after the quarrel with Granger seemed to have become a source of energy. It pulsed in his veins instead of blood, warming from within better than any potion. No weakness, no cold—only pure, searing rage.

Who was she to decide for me? the thought pounded in his temples in time with his heartbeat. He was hurt. Really hurt—not offended, not unpleasant, but genuinely hurt, as if she'd stuck a knife between his ribs and twisted it with cold precision. The realization made him nauseous. Who was he and who was she, why did it affect him so strongly? Why did the betrayal of some Gryffindor know-it-all wound more deeply than all his father's reproaches over the past years?

Because you trusted her the nasty little voice in his head whispered. For the first time in a long while, truly trusted someone.

He ran his palm over his face, as if trying to wipe away traces of weakness—these stupid, treacherous emotions. Unworthy of a Malfoy. He needed to summon familiar indifference. At least the appearance of control.

A quiet pop interrupted his grim thoughts—a house-elf materialized nearby. Hoggy looked even more pitiful than usual—his pillowcase was washed to holes, and his huge eyes watered with excitement.

"Welcome home, young Master Draco!" the elf squeaked, bowing so low his long nose touched the floor. "Hoggy is very glad to see the heir in his home! Will Hoggy help with things?"

"No need," Draco answered curtly, noticing how the elf shrank from his sharp tone.

"Draco, dear!" his mother's gentle voice echoed in the spacious hall, soft and enveloping.

Narcissa Malfoy descended the wide staircase, each step measured and smooth. Elegant, as always. A dark blue dress in a deep shade flowed down the steps like a silken waterfall, and long sleeves softly framed her graceful hands. Silver jewelry with family emeralds complemented her aristocratic beauty. Hair arranged in an elaborate coiffure was held by silver pins shaped like snakes—Lucius's gift on their wedding anniversary.

She smelled of jasmine and something bitter, possibly calming potion.

"Mother, I'm glad to see you," he hugged her, feeling her return the embrace, gently stroking his back.

"I'm so glad you came after all," she whispered. "Father was... to put it mildly, displeased with your initial refusal."

Draco clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. Of course he was displeased, who would doubt it. Lucius Malfoy was used to his orders being followed unquestioningly. Once Draco had looked at his father with admiration, dreaming of becoming as powerful and strong. However, with each year his pressure on his son created an ever-widening chasm between them, each word, each gesture caused dull irritation, like an itch under the skin.

"Where is he?" Draco asked, pulling away from his mother.

"In his study. Sorting through some business papers before the evening." Narcissa placed a cool palm on his cheek and peered intently into his eyes. "You look tense, dear. Are you feeling well? Is everything all right at school?"

If only you knew, mother...

"Everything's fine," he lied, feeling the lie scratch his throat. "Just tired."

"Of course," his mother nodded, but the worry in her eyes didn't disappear. "Go freshen up. Guests will start arriving soon. And, Draco..."

"What?"

"Among the invited will be several very worthy young ladies. I thought you should meet them."

Draco's heart plummeted, like falling from a broom. Brides. Of course. Merchandise at the vanity fair.

"Mother, I'm not ready for such..." he hesitated, choosing words. "Let's return to this conversation at least after finishing school."

"Draco, dear," Narcissa's voice was still soft, but steel notes appeared in it, "you're the only heir to the Malfoy line. You have obligations to your ancestors and future generations, don't forget that. And the sooner you begin fulfilling them, the better."

Before he could answer, heavy doors opened and Lucius Malfoy appeared on the threshold. His platinum hair was perfectly combed and gathered in a neat ponytail. Dark green suit of expensive fabric, snow-white shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, emerald tie clip in the shape of a snake—every detail emphasized his aristocratic origin.

"Draco," he pronounced coldly. "Finally you deigned to appear."

"Father," Draco answered just as dryly, feeling the air between them become dense with tension.

"I hope you have valid reasons for your initial refusal?" Lucius slowly descended the steps, his cane tapping measuredly on the marble: one, two, three, like a countdown before execution. "Or did you decide that family obligations are less important than... what do you have there at Hogwarts? Quidditch games?"

Draco felt anger flare up in him again. A hot wave rose from his stomach to his throat. It seemed that after the altercation with Granger there was no room inside for new emotions, but it was enough to hear his father's voice, and the flame inside blazed with new force.

"Studies," he answered curtly, clenching his fists in his pockets. "Seventh year requires a lot of time."

"Studies," Lucius repeated with light mockery, savoring the word like expensive wine. "I hope your grades finally exceed the results of that Muggle girl? What's her name... Granger? It would be... awkward if a true pure-blood wizard, heir to an ancient house, yielded in knowledge to a Mudblood."

Draco tensed so sharply his jaw cracked. He felt a metallic taste in his mouth—bit his tongue. Lucius, noticing his reaction, smirked—coldly, triumphantly.

"Ah, still a sore subject? So many years have passed, and you still can't accept that some upstart surpasses you? Perhaps the problem is in your abilities?"

"Lucius," Narcissa said warningly.

He nodded to her almost imperceptibly, as if acknowledging her remark but not truly agreeing.

"For now, let's leave this topic. I hope you don't forget what's more important than book knowledge?"

"What exactly?" Draco said through clenched teeth.

"Connections. Reputation. The fact that after Hogwarts you'll have to take your place in society. A place I've prepared for you," Lucius stopped directly before his son. "You need the right acquaintances. The right wife. Pure-blood, from a good family, who will bear you an heir and not disgrace the line."

The right wife. Draco imagined telling his father the truth—about the curse, about how he would literally die without Hermione Granger, about how there could be no "right wives" in his future. He imagined Lucius's expression—first disbelief, then disgust, then rage. And he caught himself with some almost sadistic satisfaction wanting to see it live.

But then dead Granger appeared before his eyes. Pale, bloodless, with glazed stare—because Lucius Malfoy wouldn't tolerate such disgrace. Draco blinked, trying to erase this vision.

"I remember my obligations, Father," he said instead, feeling the words scrape his throat like broken glass.

"Excellent." Lucius stepped back, satisfied with the submission. "Then go freshen up. And try to hide that sour expression. Draco, tonight I'm counting on you to behave like a true Malfoy. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Father."

"You may go."

Draco turned and headed for the stairs, feeling Lucius's heavy gaze on his back. Each step required effort, everything blurred before his eyes. He felt wrung out to the last drop of blood. As if his father had drawn from him not only strength but will—leaving inside emptiness where one thought rang hollowly: he would never be free.

──⊱⁜⊰──

The room greeted him with cool semi-darkness. Heavy dark green velvet curtains were drawn, letting in only thin strips of light. A massive dark wood bed occupied the room's center. The writing desk by the window, once piled with school supplies, was now perfectly clean—only an old inkwell stood in the corner.

Malfoy collapsed on the bed, arms flung to the sides. The dark silk bedspread chilled his skin even through clothing. He stared at the ceiling with carved patterns of intertwining serpents. As a child he'd spent hours examining them, making up stories, imagining how they came alive and whispered secrets to him. Now they seemed like nooses.

Where was his place? At Hogwarts he no longer wanted to be—every corridor, every classroom would remind him of her. Traitor Granger, who'd hidden the truth about his own fate from him.

And at home... at home his father pressed on him from all sides. How to study, whom to marry, with whom to associate, how to behave. As if Draco had no right to his own opinion, his own desires. His own life. Lucius saw in him only continuation of the line, an instrument for maintaining the Malfoys' high status in pure-blood circles. And what did Draco himself want? Who was he if you removed the surname, money, all expectations and obligations?

Nobody the nasty little voice in his head whispered. You're nobody without all that.

But perhaps, he thought, looking at the intertwining serpents on the ceiling, therein lay strange irony of fate. All his life he'd been taught he was special because of the blood flowing in his veins. Pure, noble, ancient. And now this very blood couldn't exist without the blood of one his family despised. As if magic itself had mocked their prejudices, binding together what should never have been united.

He closed his eyes, feeling exhaustion wash over him like a wave. Anger at Granger still warmed him inside, but now other feelings mixed with it. Confusion—he didn't know what to do next. Loneliness—he couldn't tell any family member the truth. Fear—what if the symptoms returned?

"Young Master Draco!" the house-elf's squeaky voice cut through the silence. Draco's eyes snapped open.

Hoggy stood at the door, nervously fidgeting with the edge of his pillowcase.

"Hoggy begs forgiveness for the disturbance, but young master is late for the reception! Guests have already begun arriving, and Master Lucius asks where the heir is! Master Lucius is very displeased, he already kicked Hoggy twice!"

Draco rolled his eyes, sat up in bed and rubbed his face with his hands.

"How much time do I have?"

"The reception began half an hour ago, Master Draco! Mistress Narcissa ordered Hoggy to tell young master he must come down immediately!"

"Damn," Draco cursed under his breath. "Hoggy, tell Father I'll be down in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir! Hoggy will tell! Hoggy will be very fast!"

Malfoy rose from the bed, feeling his head spin. He needed to play the role of perfect son and heir. Again. As always.

He approached the wardrobe—a huge cabinet of dark wood that occupied half the wall. Inside hung dozens of suits, sweaters and robes. All of the highest quality, impeccably ironed and cleaned. He chose a graphite-colored suit—impeccably tailored, from expensive fabric with barely noticeable sheen. Snow-white shirt with high collar, black silk tie. On his wrists—silver cufflinks shaped like small snakes with tiny emeralds for eyes, his father's gift on his sixteenth birthday. Dragon-hide shoes polished to mirror shine.

Draco stood before the tall mirror in a carved frame and critically surveyed his reflection. Platinum hair perfectly styled, suit fitting like a glove, posture—impeccably aristocratic, chin proudly raised.

A true Malfoy. The perfect pure-blood heir.

Only his eyes betrayed his true state—tired, dim, with shadows under them. In them played the emptiness of a person who's been playing a role so long he's forgotten who he really is.

Deep breath in, out. Shoulders back, light haughty smile on his lips. Time to play the role.

──⊱⁜⊰──

The great hall at Malfoy Manor greeted him with a cacophony of sounds and smells. Crystal chandeliers cast soft light on guests in expensive dresses and suits, muted chamber music played, and the air was filled with aromas of expensive perfume.

Representatives of the most influential pure-blood families strolled leisurely through the hall, discussing business, politics and society news. Every gesture, every glance, every word was measured and had subtext. Draco recognized many—Greengrasses, Notts, Rosiers, Parkinsons and many others, all who comprised the magical society's elite.

By the window stood Marcus Flint—former captain of Slytherin's Quidditch team. He noticed Draco and, grinning, saluted him with a glass of sparkling wine. Beside him—a young wife with perfect posture and lifeless gaze, in a light pink dress. Mrs. Flint, née Travers—from an old family, of course. It seemed her presence didn't interest her husband at all: Marcus didn't even look in her direction, continuing to talk animatedly with Rosier about something.

With each minute Draco felt worse. At first there was light weakness that could be blamed on fatigue. His fingers began going numb, and he imperceptibly clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to restore sensation. Then dizziness began, at one point the world tilted so much he had to lean against the wall, pretending to examine a painting.

By mid-evening cold had crept under his skin, spreading through his veins like ice water. He felt his hands trembling and hid them in his trouser pockets. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead, he constantly wiped it surreptitiously with a handkerchief.

Not now, he mentally pleaded. Just not now, not in front of all these people.

The anger at Granger and at his father that had warmed him inside an hour ago began to fade. Fear came instead—sticky, suffocating. What if he lost consciousness right here? What would his father say? How to explain to the guests?

He wondered why he'd been able to hold out so long without Granger. Perhaps they'd sufficiently "fed" on each other over recent weeks, which allowed them to be apart longer. Or his rage really was giving him strength, drowning out the curse's symptoms—like adrenaline that lets the body move even when strength is running out.

"Draco!" a familiar voice made him struggle to focus his gaze.

Theodore, Pansy and Blaise were approaching. Theodore wore a strict black suit that combined with his pale face made him look like an undertaker. Pansy had chosen a dress in deep wine shade with décolletage that left little to imagination. Blaise, as always, looked impeccable in a dark blue suit emphasizing his dark skin. All three had pleased smiles playing on their faces. Draco mentally grimaced: why was he forced to live by the conditions the curse dictated when they could carelessly enjoy themselves, depending on no one and nothing?

"Didn't expect to see you here without your... companion," Theo smirked, and mockery could be heard in his voice.

"And where, actually, is Granger?" Pansy asked, looking around with exaggerated curiosity. "Thought you were now inseparable, like Siamese twins. Or didn't she pass the dress code?"

"Decided to come alone," Draco answered curtly. Words came with difficulty, he tried with all his might not to show how sick he felt.

Blaise narrowed his eyes, carefully examining his friend. His dark eyes noticed every detail—trembling hands, perspiration on his forehead, how haggard Malfoy looked.

"You look terrible. What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Draco tried to straighten up, but the world swayed and he had to lean on the wall again.

"Draco," Pansy frowned, and real alarm appeared in her voice, "you're all wet with sweat. And shaking. It's because of the curse, isn't it? You've been too long without her?"

He wanted to wave it off, say something caustic, but at that moment a particularly strong wave of weakness washed over him. His knees buckled and he grabbed the nearest chair to keep from falling. The carved back dug painfully into his palm.

"That's it, we're leaving," Blaise said decisively, taking his friend's arm. His grip was firm, confident. "Guys, cover for us."

Theo and Pansy exchanged quick glances and nodded without unnecessary words. Zabini dragged Draco to a small sitting room in the east wing—away from curious eyes.

"Start talking," Blaise demanded, pouring water from a decanter on the table. Crystal clinked against glass. "What happened with Granger? Why aren't you together?"

Draco took the glass with trembling hands and took a sip. The water was ice-cold, burning his throat.

"She hid the truth about the curse from me," he forced out. "Turns out it can't be removed. At all. Only if... only if one of us dies."

Blaise whistled and sank into the chair opposite.

"Salazar, what a mess... And you just learned this today?"

"I did, but she knew several days ago. Snape revealed everything today. And she kept silent." Malfoy squeezed the glass so hard his knuckles whitened. "Kept silent, as if I have no right to know about my own fate."

"So there are absolutely no options?" Blaise clarified.

Draco smiled bitterly.

"Research will continue, of course. But as I understand it, chances are extremely slim. Maybe years will go into searching, and there'll be no result."

"And as a result you yelled at her—that wasn't a question."

"I... yes. Said all kinds of things to her. Even said it would be better if she died."

He pronounced the last words barely audibly. Blaise shook his head.

"Draco, you're an idiot. She was afraid of exactly that—your reaction. And your parents' reaction."

"Whose side are you on anyway?!" Malfoy exclaimed.

"In this case, hers," Blaise leaned forward, his dark eyes serious. "Think about it yourself—your father will lose his mind if he learns you're bound to a Muggle-born, and the only way to remove the curse is death of one of you. Not surprising she fears for her life."

Draco closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Deep down he understood and realized everything. That's why he still hadn't told his family the truth.

"I got carried away," he admitted quietly and reluctantly. "Yelled at her. Said nasty things. Research on removing the curse will continue, of course... But chances are extremely slim," he smiled bitterly.

"You need to return to Hogwarts and apologize."

"But she lied to me!"

"Did she have a choice?" Blaise asked harshly. "Draco, look at yourself. You're dying without her. Literally. So stop acting like a drama queen, get it through your head that right now you're bound and shouldn't be on opposite sides."

"Draco, dear!" Narcissa's voice interrupted their conversation.

She entered the sitting room with a radiant smile, but Malfoy saw tension at the corners of her eyes. Behind her followed a girl fragile as a porcelain figurine, with dark hair arranged in an elaborate coiffure. An ivory-colored dress made her look like a bride.

"There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you." Narcissa gestured for the girl to come closer. "I want to introduce you to charming Elizabeth Burke. Her parents are a wonderful family, they own half the magical plantation in Southern France. Elizabeth just returned from Beauxbatons, where she studied..."

The world around Draco finally swam, as if he were looking through water. The cold inside became unbearable—as if he'd swallowed a flask of liquid nitrogen. His mother's words echoed in his head. The last thing he remembered was the floor rapidly approaching his face, his mother's frightened cry, breaking glass and Blaise's shouts:

"Send him to Hogwarts immediately! Right now! He's dying!"

──⊱⁜⊰──

Draco slowly opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was a white ceiling with barely noticeable cracks forming a pattern resembling lightning. Hogwarts hospital wing. He'd recognize these cracks out of thousands—had lain here many times after Quidditch matches.

Silvery moonlight poured through the windows, casting long shadows. So it was deep night. The air smelled of medicinal herbs. His bed was pushed right up against the neighboring one, forming almost one sleeping space. On the second bed lay Granger, curled into a ball.

She looked terrible. Her skin was deathly pale, with a bluish tint, like a drowned person. She trembled all over despite the blankets covering her. Hair tangled, stuck to her sweaty forehead. Even in sleep she looked exhausted, her face distorted with suffering, brows furrowed, and she moaned quietly, as if having a nightmare. Draco also felt lousy. He was severely chilled, every joint ached. But seeing Granger in such condition, he stopped thinking about his own suffering. She looked... dying. As if life was slowly draining from her, leaving only a shell.

Shame washed over him in a wave, hot and suffocating. He hadn't thought at all about what it was like for her all these hours. While he was angry, stubborn, playing at wounded innocence—she suffered. Because of his pride, stubbornness.

Overcoming weakness and dizziness, he carefully moved to her bed. The mattress creaked under his weight, but Granger didn't even react. She was as if delirious, quietly muttering something incoherent.

A strange thought came to him, looking at her pale face in the moonlight. They were like two halves of a broken vessel—each by itself couldn't hold life, it leaked through the cracks. Only together, only pressed against each other along the fault line, did they become whole. Imperfect, with a scar down the middle, but capable of existing.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, carefully pulling her to him. She was ice-cold, as if she'd been lying in a freezer. "Forgive me, Granger. I was a complete idiot. Selfish, stubborn idiot."

He embraced her, pressing her to his chest, sharing his body's warmth. She was so small in his arms, so fragile. Like hugging a bird with a broken wing—one careless movement and she'd crumble.

He pressed his lips to her forehead—the skin was cold and damp. He felt her shudder at his touch. Unconsciously, without waking, she wrapped her arms around his torso and pressed close.

"I'm sorry," he repeated again. "I didn't mean to... Merlin, I'm so sorry. I said terrible, unforgivable things to you."

A loud voice rang out in the corridor, breaking the night silence. Heavy footsteps, the sound of a cane on stone floor.

"What kind of devilry is going on here?!" Lucius Malfoy's voice echoed off the walls. "WHY AM I HEARING ABOUT THIS CURSE FOR THE FIRST TIME?"

"Mr. Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey answered dryly, "if you have questions, address them to the headmaster. And now stop shouting near the ward—the children need rest!"

"But my son..."

"Your son needs rest and quiet! You're behaving unacceptably!"

Tense silence followed, then the sound of retreating footsteps.

Draco held Hermione tighter, feeling strength gradually—very slowly—beginning to return to him. Warmth spread through his veins, driving away the icy cold. Pain in his joints subsided, breathing evened out. Granger also began breathing more evenly, her trembling gradually subsiding. Color began returning to her face, blueness leaving her lips, tension departing her features.

"Never again," he muttered, falling asleep. "Never again will I leave you alone."

And he fell into deep, healing sleep, holding Granger tightly to him.

Chapter Text

Hermione slowly woke from deep sleep, feeling unusual warmth beside her. She felt so cozy and calm that she didn't want to wake up completely. She felt wonderful, unlike last evening: long hours of terrible cold that pierced her to the bone. Granger instinctively pressed closer to the source of warmth, not wanting to wake fully.

Consciousness returned slowly, bringing with it scraps of memories. She remembered how she'd collapsed on the floor in the room several hours after Malfoy left. How her body convulsed with cramps, as if invisible hands were twisting every joint. Harry and Ginny had found her trembling and barely alive when they came to check on her. She vaguely remembered Ginny's frightened face, Harry's voice breaking with panic. They immediately carried her to Madam Pomfrey, who fought for her life all night.

And now... now she felt good. Safe. As if the whole world had shrunk to this small cozy space where curses, obligations, and difficult decisions didn't exist. Only peace.

But at the same time something wasn't right... The warm air near her face moved too evenly, as if someone was breathing nearby. Too close. She cautiously opened her eyes, blinking from morning light penetrating through the curtains. And froze. Draco Malfoy slept so close that barely any space remained between them.

His face was so close she could make out every detail. In sleep he looked completely different—younger, calmer, almost defenseless. The usual mask of cold superiority had disappeared, and before her lay simply a boy. Long lashes cast light shadows on pale cheekbones, lips slightly parted. Platinum hair tousled on the pillow, several strands fallen on his forehead, softening his features even more.

Hermione caught herself admiring him. When Malfoy was silent—not caustic, not looking down on others—he was... beautiful. Aristocratically elegant, like one of those marble statues in a museum that you can look at for hours, finding ever new details. Sharp cheekbones, straight nose, perfect jawline—everything revealed innate refinement.

His hand lay on her waist—heavy, warm. Her own palm rested on his chest, and she felt the even beating of his heart through his shirt. They slept embracing, and it was so natural that for a moment she almost forgot...

Memories washed over her like an icy shower.

Their quarrel, his cruel words, each striking like a blow. She felt humiliated, devastated. How could she forget? How could she lie beside him and admire, as if nothing had happened?

Hermione abruptly pushed him away and recoiled to the edge of the bed, nearly falling on the floor. The blanket tangled around her legs, and she had to awkwardly disentangle herself.

"Don't you dare touch me!" she hissed, feeling her cheeks flush with anger and hurt.

Draco instantly woke. His eyes flew open, for several seconds he blinked, disoriented, trying to understand where he was. Then his gaze focused on her—on her angry face, clenched fists, tense posture.

"Granger? What..." he broke off, seeing her face full of fury. Understanding flickered across his face. "Listen, I..."

"I don't want to hear anything!" Hermione cut him off, moving even further away until her back pressed against the cold metal bed rails. "How dare you?! How dare you lie in the same bed with me and touch me, after all the words you said!"

"You're right!" Draco tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but his arms buckled, he was still weak. "Granger, I'm sorry, I..."

The ward door flew open, Madam Pomfrey entered with a tray of healing potions. Her gaze darted from Hermione, pressed against the foot of the bed like a cornered animal, to Draco, reaching toward her with a guilty expression.

"What's going on here?" the healer asked sternly, setting the tray on the nightstand with a loud thud. Vials rattled. "Mr. Malfoy, lie back down immediately, you're still weak! Miss Granger, you too. No sudden movements!"

"I won't lie in the same bed with him!" Hermione declared.

Madam Pomfrey sighed so heavily, as if all the weight of Hogwarts teenage dramas had landed on her shoulders.

"That won't be necessary. I see you're both better—you're strong enough to quarrel. So the beds can be separated."

She waved her wand, pronouncing a spell. The bed Draco lay in smoothly levitated to the opposite corner of the ward, leaving the maximum possible distance between them.

Then Madam Pomfrey turned to Malfoy, her eyes narrowing to slits:

"And you, young man, how could you possibly think you could leave the castle alone? After all my warnings!"

"I didn't know it would be so..." Draco began, but broke off under her gaze.

"Didn't know?!" Pomfrey exclaimed, her voice rising an octave. "Didn't know you could die? That Miss Granger could die? Body temperature dropped to critical levels, pulse was barely detectable! If Mr. Potter and Miss Weasley hadn't found her in time, if your father hadn't managed to deliver you to the castle... You pull such stunts after I personally explained the consequences of your curse?!"

Draco paled even more, if that was even possible. His hands gripped the sheets so hard his knuckles whitened.

"And you, Miss Granger!" the healer turned her formidable gaze on her. "Why didn't you go with him? Weren't you told that prolonged separation could be deadly? You're the brightest witch of your generation!"

"No one invited me," Hermione answered quietly, studying the pattern on the hospital sheet.

"Then you should have insisted!" Madam Pomfrey threw up her hands, her usually neatly arranged hair escaping her cap. "You're adults, finishing Hogwarts, and you act like children! Your personal grievances, pride, stubbornness—all of it isn't worth your lives!"

Tense silence hung. The healer sighed loudly and rubbed her temples.

"Now drink the invigorating potion, every drop, and don't look at me like that, Mr. Malfoy. Rest, you need to restore your strength. By lunch, if there are no complications, I'll release you. But," she raised a finger, "with the strictest warning: you're not permitted to stray far from each other, and this isn't a recommendation, it's an order. Otherwise next time I might not make it."

Madam Pomfrey left, but before the door closed behind her, it flew open again—with such force it hit the wall. Harry and Ron burst into the ward.

Harry looked like he'd just dismounted his broom after practice—his hair stuck out in all directions even more than usual. His green eyes behind round glasses burned with fury. Ron was even more frightening—his face had reddened so much it almost merged with the color of his hair; fists clenched, veins bulging on his neck.

"You!" Ron pointed at Malfoy. "Bastard!"

"Ron, Harry..." Hermione began, but they weren't listening.

Harry crossed the ward in three steps and grabbed Draco by his shirt, jerking him up from the bed:

"How dare you?! How dare you leave her to die?!"

Malfoy swayed—he was still weak, but straightened, meeting Harry's gaze:

"Let me go, Potter."

"I'll let you go when you answer for what you did!" Harry shook him. "We found her on the floor! She was at death's door! AT DEATH'S DOOR, understand?!"

"Oh, sod off..." Draco tried to push Harry away, but he held him firmly.

"Stop it!" Hermione tried to get out of bed, but her head spun.

"Hermione, don't get up!" Harry released Draco and rushed to her.

"I'm fine," she pushed his hand away. "Stop immediately! All three of you!"

"You're as vile and nasty as your daddy!" Ron shouted, grabbing Malfoy by the collar.

"Don't you dare talk about my family, Weasel!"

Draco broke free from the grip and shoved Ron. He nearly fell but caught himself and swung his fist.

"What have you started here?!" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed, flying into the ward. "In my hospital wing?!"

Ron slowly lowered his fist and jabbed a finger at Malfoy:

"From this moment don't even think about approaching her!" he spat out.

"We're bound by a curse, idiot! I NEED to be near her!"

"ENOUGH!" Madam Pomfrey threw up her hands. "Mr. Potter! Mr. Weasley! OUT. RIGHT NOW!"

"Madam Pomfrey, we just..." Harry began.

"SILENCE!" she waved her wand, and both Gryffindors found themselves at the door. "Out! Immediately! And I don't want to see you here!"

"But..." Ron tried to object.

"OUT!"

She literally pushed them out the door and slammed it. Then turned to Draco and Hermione:

"And you! You should be resting, not staging showdowns! Mr. Malfoy, into bed immediately!"

Draco obediently lay back on his bed. A bruise was forming on his cheekbone—apparently Ron had managed to catch him after all.

"Miss Granger, you lie down too! And until lunch—complete silence! If I hear a single sound—I'll keep you here for a week! Clear?!"

"Yes, Madam Pomfrey," they answered in unison.

When the healer left, slamming the door so hard the windows shook, awkward silence hung in the ward.

The next several hours passed in oppressive silence. Hermione demonstratively turned to the wall, studying cracks in the plaster—one of them resembled the constellation Orion. Draco lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

But she felt his glances. Quick, cautious, as if he feared she'd notice. Each time she stirred or sighed, she heard his bed creak—he was turning his head. And when she did turn around, he sharply looked away, suddenly finding something incredibly fascinating in the pattern on his blanket or the empty wall opposite.

It would have been almost funny if it wasn't so painful.

The walk to their room after lunch passed in the same tense silence. Hermione walked ahead, her back straight as an arrow, heels tapping a determined rhythm on the stone floor. Draco followed at a respectful distance—close enough that the curse wouldn't activate, but far enough to give her space.

Several students they met in the corridors looked at them with curiosity. News at Hogwarts spread too fast.

Madam Harmony met them at the entrance with arms crossed over her chest. The expression on her face was so eloquent you could understand her without a single word.

"And how should I understand this, Mr. Malfoy?" her voice was cold and stern. "You should have seen what state they carried Miss Granger out of the room in yesterday! Barely breathing, poor child!"

"Madam Harmony, don't..." Hermione began wearily.

"How can I not?" the portrait exclaimed. "Young lady, you deserve respect!"

"Thank you for your concern," Hermione said gently. "Password—'Compromise and agreement.'"

Madam Harmony snorted but opened the passage. Before they entered, she added, looking directly at Draco:

"I hope you feel better, Miss Granger. And you, young man, I advise you to remember: true strength isn't in pride, but in the ability to admit your mistakes. Compromise and agreement—not just a password, but life wisdom. Those who aren't capable of compromise are doomed to loneliness."

Draco grimaced but said nothing. As soon as the door closed behind them, he headed to his part of the room but froze halfway.

"What the..." he froze by the bed.

In the middle of his perfectly made bed, right on the green silk bedspread with the embroidered Slytherin crest, sat an impressive pile of cat excrement. And nearby, curled in a ball on his pillow, lay Crookshanks, looking at him with an expression of complete satisfaction on his flat face.

"GRANGER!" Draco roared. "Your damn cat crapped on my bed!"

Hermione approached and looked over his shoulder. Her lips trembled and she was clearly trying to hold back laughter:

"Oh god... Crookshanks, how could you!"

The cat lazily stretched, jumped off the pillow and walked past them with dignity, brushing Malfoy's leg with his tail. On his way he meowed—the sound was clearly triumphant.

"This isn't funny!" Draco waved his wand, removing the consequences of feline revenge. "He did this deliberately!"

"Don't be silly, it's just coincidence..." Hermione began.

"He understands everything perfectly!" Draco looked at the cat, who was now washing himself by the fireplace, periodically casting malicious glances at him. "And he clearly holds a grudge against me for... for our quarrel."

Hermione bit her lip, trying not to laugh:

"Well, technically, you wished me dead. Perhaps Crookshanks just... expressed his opinion on the matter."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply:

"I'm sorry." The word burst out with difficulty, as if he were spitting broken glass. He raised his eyes and looked directly at her. "Forgive me, Granger. For everything I said. For leaving and abandoning you alone. For putting you in danger. For being a selfish bastard."

Hermione remained silent, arms crossed over her chest.

"When I learned the truth about the curse..." he ran his hand through his hair, tousling it. "I just exploded. All my life I've been manipulated. Father decided what I should study, who to befriend, whom to marry. And when I learned you'd also hidden the truth from me... It seemed to me you were the same. Another person deciding for me."

He fell silent, choosing words.

"But that's no excuse. You had the right to be afraid. Afraid of me, my reaction. Afraid of my family." His voice became quieter. "Especially my father. If he'd learned the only way to free me was your death..."

"And yet you think I should have told you," it wasn't a question.

Draco nodded:

"Yes, I do. Because it concerns me too. It's my life, my future. I had the right to know. But..." he fell silent again. "I understand why you were afraid. And I had no right to say what I said. Especially... especially about death."

Hermione looked at him for a long time, studying his face. Searched for signs of lies, manipulation, but saw only sincere remorse. His shoulders were lowered, his usual haughty posture had disappeared. He looked... broken.

She took a step toward him, then another:

"I apologize too." The words came easier than she'd expected. "For hiding the truth. You're right—you had the right to know. I made a decision for both of us, and that was wrong. But thank you for trying to understand me," she added more quietly.

"Then let's make a deal," he also took a step forward, now they stood close to each other. "We'll be allies. Really. No more secrets concerning the curse. No lies. Complete honesty."

He extended his hand to her. Hermione shifted her gaze to his palm, then to his eyes. Gray, like a stormy sky, but now there was no coldness in them. She placed her palm in his:

"Agreed. Allies."

And then something happened she was completely unprepared for. Draco smiled. Not his usual cold smirk that never reached his eyes. Not that mocking grimace he usually addressed to Gryffindors. This was a real, warm, genuine smile. It transformed his face—hard lines disappeared, eyes warmed, becoming like molten silver, barely visible wrinkles appeared at the corners. Hermione had never seen such a smile before. Even when he communicated with his Slytherin friends, his smiles were restrained, controlled. But this... this was defenseless. Open. Real.

And it was meant only for her. Maybe it was just her imagination, but...

Hermione froze, unable to look away. Her heart skipped a beat, then pounded with doubled force. This was him—the real Draco Malfoy, without masks and defense mechanisms. Vulnerable, able to admit mistakes, ready to trust.

Something warm and dangerous stirred in her chest, spreading through her veins like slow poison.

Oh no... Not this.

Their palms still touched, and she felt warmth, light roughness on fingertips—traces from Quidditch training. It seemed little lightning bolts ran up her arm from this touch.

When their hands finally unlocked—too slowly, as if neither wanted to break contact—Hermione felt treacherous heat flood her face. She hastily turned away, hoping he wouldn't notice her burning cheeks.

No, no, no! Not this! Don't you dare fall in love with Draco Malfoy! This is absurd, stupid, impossible! We've only just started getting along somehow, and I'm already... No. This is just gratitude. He apologized, showed his humanity, and I was moved. Nothing more. This will pass.

Fortunately, Draco was distracted—the family owl flew to the window with a letter in its talons. Seeing it, Malfoy immediately darkened. The smile vanished from his face as if it had never been. His features became harder and colder.

"Something wrong?" Hermione asked cautiously, still feeling heat on her cheeks.

"Don't know," he muttered, opening the window. Cold air burst into the room, bringing the smell of autumn dampness. "But I don't expect anything good from Father. Especially now that he knows the whole truth."

The owl flew into the room and perched on the chair back. Draco untied the letter and immediately began reading.

Hermione tactfully moved to her part of the room, giving him space to read. She sat on the sofa by the fireplace and picked up a book, but letters blurred before her eyes, thoughts whirled in her head. When she stealthily glanced at Malfoy, his face was motionless, almost impassive—but she seemed to already know how to read what was hidden beneath this mask. Slight jaw tension. Parchment edge crushed in his fingers. A shadow of pain flickering in gray eyes.

And at that moment her heart trembled—not fearfully, not confusedly, but... tenderly. Warmly. Anxiously. Falling in love with Draco Malfoy was the worst idea of her life. This was a catastrophe, she understood that. But the feeling was already taking root deeper, and she couldn't, didn't have time—to stop it.

Chapter Text

Draco sat on the bed in the semi-darkness of the room, clutching his father's letter so tightly the parchment crumpled under his fingers. Outside the window a storm raged—wind hurled rain drops against the windowpane, creating a restless drumming rhythm. But this sound seemed almost soothing compared to the storm raging in his own head.

Lucius's words burned his eyes, each line saturated with cold contempt and disappointment. That special disappointment only his father could express—without shouting, without emotion, only the icy statement of fact about your inadequacy.

"Draco,

Dumbledore has informed me of the details of your... predicament. I must say, I'm extremely disappointed to have learned of this last. Moreover, I hope in future such news I will learn directly from you.

But even more concerning are rumors that you're beginning to feel some attachment to this Mudblood. You spend more time in public with this student than the curse dictates. I suppose there's no need to remind you of basic things, but apparently I must: forced proximity does not mean personal interest.

Don't forget that Malfoys don't lower themselves to emotional connections with those beneath us in blood and breeding. This curse is a temporary inconvenience, nothing more. Don't let it cloud your mind.

I've already begun my own search to remove this curse. Don't forget that I have many connections both in the Ministry and among private researchers who can help solve this problem. We will find a way to free you from these bonds.

Until then, behave with dignity. Don't forget your position and don't give this girl reason to think she means anything to the Malfoy heir.

Your father,
Lucius Malfoy"

Draco reread the letter again, then again. With each reading he felt the familiar suffocating pressure of his father's expectations squeezing his chest. Here it was—the shackles he'd worn since childhood, never daring even to admit to himself how heavy they were.

If father knew what happened yesterday in the hospital wing. How he'd embraced Granger, how he'd pressed her to him, feeling pain leave and warmth return. How for the first time in years he'd felt whole—as if some important part of himself had finally fallen into place. And needed. Really, desperately needed by someone—not as a tool, not as heir to an ancient house, but as a person. Without him she would have died. It was a frightening, dizzying thought—but it also filled him with something warm and right, something he'd never felt before.

Draco ran his hand through his hair, tousling it, and carefully stood, trying not to make noise. Granger had been asleep for a while—he could hear her even breathing. No. Father must never learn what happened yesterday. What he'd felt. He sat at the desk, took up his quill and began writing a reply, carefully choosing words. Malfoys always knew how to lie beautifully:

"Father,

Thank you for your concern about my situation. I hasten to assure you that I have no emotional attachments to Granger and cannot have any. I remember perfectly well my breeding and our family's status.

Coexistence with her is dictated exclusively by survival necessity, nothing more. I regard her only as a temporary inconvenience to be endured until the problem is solved.

I would be grateful for any efforts on your part to find a way to remove this curse. I'm ready to provide any additional information that may be required.

Your son,
Draco Malfoy"

He reread the letter, his lips curling in a disgusted smirk. The words seemed right, perfectly chosen... and absolutely empty. He sealed the letter with green wax bearing the Malfoy family seal and attached it to the owl's leg, who sat patiently, having watched the movement of his quill all this time.

Draco rose and opened the window—a gust of cold wind burst into the room along with rain spray. He heard rustling from Granger's direction, she stirred in her sleep. Draco froze, listening, but a moment later her breathing became even again. The bird looked at him, then at the raging weather outside the window and clicked its beak with displeasure.

"You can wait it out if you want," Malfoy said quietly, almost hoping the bird would stay.

But the owl merely turned its head, looked at him with amber eyes—almost with understanding—and beat its wings, disappearing into the night darkness and streams of rain.

Draco leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands. Lies. The entire letter was one solid lie. What he'd written to his father and what he actually felt were absolutely opposite to each other.

A quiet sound made him flinch. From under Hermione's bed appeared a squashed ginger muzzle. The cat slowly, with dignity, crossed the room and settled next to Draco's chair, watching him with an attentive, almost hypnotizing gaze.

"Well, ugly?" Draco said quietly, unexpectedly extending his hand to the cat. There was no usual malice in his voice, rather weariness. "Can't sleep either?"

Crookshanks first recoiled from the extended hand, but then curiosity won out. The cat cautiously stretched his neck, sniffed Malfoy's fingers, his whiskers tickling the skin. Hesitating another moment, as if making a contradictory decision, he finally allowed himself to be scratched behind the ear.

"Maybe you're not as repulsive as I thought," Draco muttered, carefully scratching behind his ear.

Crookshanks purred quietly, but didn't close his eyes—remained vigilant. Strange. Quite recently Draco had considered this cat a walking ball of fur, aggression and problems. And now here he sat, petting him, finding some strange comfort in it.

"You know, beast," Draco continued quietly, almost in a whisper, as if afraid someone might hear this sudden frankness, "I'm glad Granger forgave me. Damn glad, to be honest."

Crookshanks purred in response, and Draco smirked. Of course, what could the cat understand about his problems? But it was still nice to speak to at least someone, even if that someone just purred in response.

Apologizing to her had been one of the hardest things in his life—Malfoys weren't accustomed to admitting their mistakes. Malfoys are always right, even when they're wrong—this had been hammered into his head since childhood. But when he saw her in the hospital wing, so weak and defenseless, something inside him broke. He felt his responsibility for her, and this feeling was simultaneously frightening and right.

No attachments, he mentally repeated his father's words. But could the desire for peaceful coexistence be called attachment? He simply wanted there to be no constant war between them. So they could live in one room without trying to kill each other with looks. So they could simply sit together without feeling tension in the air. That was reasonable, wasn't it? That was just... logical?

Draco ran his hand along Crookshanks's back, feeling warm fur under his fingers. Now the cat couldn't hold out, closing his eyes with pleasure.

Malfoy also felt that when they weren't quarreling or conflicting, he was comfortable with Granger. And this frightened him more than he was willing to admit. He understood that none of this could be shown to his father under any circumstances—he needed to continue playing the role of obedient son to keep her safe. And still, deep down, he hoped his father wouldn't harm an innocent girl.

──⊱⁜⊰──

The next few days were... strange. Strange in their unexpected normality, which brought surprising calm. Draco quickly got used to the new morning routine, and this simultaneously surprised and frightened him—how easy it turned out to be to get used to Granger's presence. Increasingly often they woke almost simultaneously, their gazes meeting across the room—a moment of awkwardness, a quick "good morning" nod, and then each went about their business.

Hermione went to the bathroom first—they'd established this unspoken rule. While she freshened up, Draco slowly came to himself, lying staring at the ceiling, listening to water running behind the door, how she hummed something to herself (usually something completely unmelodious and with an impressive number of false notes). Then they switched places.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom—always perfectly groomed, in impeccably pressed uniform, with the barely perceptible scent of expensive cologne—she was already fully dressed and gathering textbooks. Always these textbooks. And a good half of them clearly weren't part of the Hogwarts curriculum. He suspected she carried half the library with her.

"Good morning," she'd say without raising her eyes from her bag, where she was carefully arranging another tome.

"Morning," he'd answer, and these simple words no longer sounded strained or sarcastic. Just a normal greeting. Normal. Human.

The walk to the Great Hall had also changed beyond recognition. Before, if someone had told Draco he'd voluntarily walk beside Hermione Granger discussing homework, he would have laughed in that person's face. And now... now it seemed natural.

"We have double Potions today," Hermione said as they approached the Great Hall.

"I remember," Draco nodded, holding the door for her (when had he become such a gentleman?). "I have some notes on how to more effectively stabilize temperature when brewing particularly capricious potions. If you want, I can share."

"Really? That would be great!"

They entered the Great Hall—as always noisy, filled with morning bustle. Long tables groaned with food: mountains of toast, dish after dish of bacon and sausages, jugs of pumpkin juice and milk, bowls of fruit. Barely had they crossed the threshold when they heard Ron calling out, waving actively:

"Hermione! Hey, Hermione!" Weasley stood by the Gryffindor table actively waving his arm like a windmill. "Come join us!"

Hermione turned to Malfoy, their eyes met. A quick, almost apologetic smile flashed across her face, and she went to her Gryffindors. Malfoy followed her with his gaze, and only then headed to the Slytherin table where Blaise was already waiting for him.

Zabini sat in his usual place, casually sprawled on the bench, and had been watching them from the moment they entered the hall. A smirk played on his face that promised inevitable interrogation.

"So," Blaise began as soon as Draco sat across from him and began pouring pumpkin juice, "how are things with Granger? You look... peaceful. Almost friendly, I'd even say."

"Everything's fine," Draco answered, trying to speak as casually as possible. "We agreed not to fight. It's logical, given the circumstances."

"Agreed?" Blaise raised an eyebrow, spreading butter on toast. "This is after you nearly died from your own stubbornness? Well, miracles do happen."

"I apologized to her," Draco lowered his voice, leaning forward so the others at the table wouldn't hear. The last thing he needed was all of Slytherin discussing his personal life. "For what I said then. For... everything. She also apologized for hiding the truth about the curse, for knowing and staying silent."

"And? Did it help?" genuine curiosity could be heard in Blaise's voice, without mockery.

Draco thought, biting a piece of bacon. Crispy, salty, perfectly fried. Hogwarts house-elves knew their business.

"Yes," he finally admitted. "It became... easier. We're no longer trying to kill each other with looks. We even sometimes work together on homework in the evening."

"Wow," Zabini pretended to widen his eyes, putting his hand to his heart. "Draco Malfoy learned to apologize. And works in pairs with Gryffindor's best student. Who would have thought."

"Shut up," Draco muttered, but without any malice, even with a shadow of a smile. He threw a crumpled napkin at Blaise, who deftly caught it.

They finished breakfast in comfortable silence, occasionally exchanging remarks with Theo and Pansy, who joined them. Draco stealthily glanced at the Gryffindor table, where Hermione was animatedly explaining something to Neville, pointing to something in a textbook. She seemed completely absorbed in the conversation and didn't even notice his glances.

Strange, he thought. I'm no longer angry looking at her. Even the opposite—I'm somehow... calm.

──⊱⁜⊰──

A few days before the Slytherin versus Hufflepuff match, news swept through the castle that made all Slytherins nervous. Damian Avery, that same fifth-year who'd replaced Draco as Seeker, ended up in the hospital wing with a severe stunning curse after an unsuccessful experiment in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Rumor had it Avery tried to demonstrate an advanced version of Stupefy and somehow managed to stun himself. Madam Pomfrey was not pleased.

"Maybe this position really is cursed?" Theo joked at lunch, breaking a roll. "First you were removed because of a curse, now Avery's in the hospital wing unconscious. I'd think twice if I were the next candidate."

"Very funny, Theo," Draco muttered, but his thoughts were occupied with something completely different.

His head was filled with thoughts of Quidditch. He missed the game so much it almost physically hurt. Missed the whistle of wind in his ears, the adrenaline of chasing the Snitch. This was his element, the place where he considered himself the best. But the curse prevented him from leaving Granger for more than a few hours.

Or did it?

That evening, when they were both in their room—Hermione on the sofa with a thick tome on Ancient Runes, Draco at his writing desk, pretending to write an essay on History of Magic—she was first to raise the topic that had tormented him all day.

"Malfoy," she called, looking up from her book and marking the page with a bookmark. He turned around. "You remember when you were recently home, we managed to spend several hours apart. True, later we both felt sick, but the fact remains—we held out for some time."

"I remember," he nodded slowly, setting down his quill. His heart beat a bit faster. He understood what she was getting at. "I've been thinking about that too. Constantly thinking, to be honest. When we're together for a long time, we seem to... recharge from each other. Accumulate some reserve, and then can function separately for some time, almost autonomously."

Hermione nodded, closed the book, and turned to face him completely.

"Exactly. This could give you time to play," her eyes looked at him seriously, without a shadow of mockery. "Quidditch matches can last long, of course, but if you catch the Snitch quickly... Theoretically, we could try."

Draco felt something ignite inside. Hope. Excitement. Anticipation.

"You're suggesting I take a risk?" he asked, rising from his chair and approaching closer. He wanted to see her face, understand how seriously she was speaking.

"I'm suggesting we try," she answered, but immediately frowned. "The team needs a Seeker. And you need Quidditch. But on the other hand, it's dangerous, Malfoy. What if you feel sick right on your broom, at altitude? What if you fall?"

"I'm ready for that risk. Or are you just worried about me, Granger?" Draco smirked, narrowing his eyes, watching her.

"No, of course not! Don't make things up," she crossed her arms, frowning and looking at him with displeasure. "I just don't want to be blamed later for letting you get hurt. I don't need that responsibility."

"Of course, of course," Malfoy drawled.

"But just in case," Hermione sighed, "I'll come to the stadium during the match too. I'll be in the stands. Just in case, so the distance between us isn't too great."

"Will you cheer for me?" Draco couldn't resist a pleased smirk. "Well, for Slytherin, of course."

"Perhaps," she shrugged, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her with a semblance of a smile. "Circumstances force it, as you see. Don't think it means anything."

She took the book and demonstratively returned to reading, but Draco didn't miss that little smile.

"I'll go find Selwyn," he said, heading for the door. "Need to discuss my participation with him. Also check if we really can be apart longer. I'll be quick."

Happy, with a boyish smile, he dashed out of the room. Draco found Edric Selwyn, captain of Slytherin's Quidditch team, in the Slytherin common room. Edric was a sixth-year—tall and wiry, with black hair and dark, almost coal-black eyes. In them always shone cold, calculating cunning. He was playing chess with Pansy, lazily tapping his fingers on the table—as if calculating not just the game before him, but everyone around. From Pansy's expression it was clear she was about to win.

The board stood on a low table between green leather armchairs. Pansy sat propping her chin on her fist, her eyes gleaming with excitement. Edric frowned, studying the position.

"Edric," Draco called, approaching closer, "You haven't found a new Seeker yet?"

Selwyn raised his head, relief readable in his eyes—clearly glad to interrupt the losing game.

"There are a few candidates, but they're..." he grimaced, "let's say, not suitable. We'll have to take someone anyway so the team roster is complete, but you wouldn't envy our position."

"I'm ready to take the field," Draco blurted out.

Edric and Pansy stared at him like he was crazy.

"Have you already dealt with the curse?" Selwyn asked cautiously, narrowing his eyes.

"No, but certain circumstances became clear..." Draco caught Pansy's distrustful look and hurried to add: "Anyway, never mind, the details are complicated. Main thing is there should be enough time during the game to manage without Granger's presence nearby. We tested it, it works. I can play."

"Are you sure?" Edric narrowed his eyes even more, studying his face as if searching for signs of madness or lies. "Only if you're ready to take responsibility for this decision. Snape will have my head if you feel sick during the game."

"Yes," Draco said firmly, straightening up. "I'm taking full responsibility. I officially declare it. If something happens—it's my decision, my risk."

Pansy was just reaching for the chess board, about to make the decisive move, when Selwyn suddenly jumped up so abruptly he accidentally hit the board with his elbow. Pieces flew in all directions.

"Hey!" Pansy exclaimed, jumping up. "I was almost winning! You can't ruin a game like that!"

"Pansy, we'll sort it out later!" Edric paid her no attention, all his focus on Draco. Fire lit in his eyes, the excitement of a captain who'd suddenly gotten a chance at victory. "Excellent! This is... this is just excellent! I'll arrange with Snape right now that you're playing tomorrow."

He rushed to the exit from the common room, nearly knocking over a first-year with an armful of textbooks.

Pansy snorted with displeasure, looking at the pieces scattered on the carpet. She waved her wand and the pieces obediently returned to the board, arranging themselves in starting position.

"Thanks so much," she muttered. "Now I'll have to start over."

Draco approached and settled in the chair Selwyn had vacated. He leaned back, crossed his legs and sighed deeply. Relief. Anticipation. Joy. Everything mixed into one intoxicating cocktail of emotions.

"So how are you?" Pansy asked, turning to him. Curiosity was readable on her face. "Glad to be back in the game? Haven't seen you this pleased in a long time. Your eyes are literally glowing."

"Glad," Draco admitted sincerely, and this admission came easily. "Didn't think I'd miss Quidditch this much. I feel like I'm in a cage without it. Like part of me was cut off."

"And how does Granger feel about it?" Pansy's fingertips touched the king standing on the board, but her gaze was fixed on Draco. "Does she understand the risk? That the curse could trigger at any moment?"

"It was her idea," Draco was surprised himself to hear these words aloud. It sounded almost unreal. "She was first to suggest trying. Said the team needs a Seeker, and I need Quidditch."

Pansy raised an eyebrow:

"Interesting," she drawled, thoughtfully twirling the black queen in her fingers. "I thought she'd be against any risk. She's so... proper. Careful. Miss-I've-read-all-the-books-in-the-library-and-know-all-the-rules."

"I thought so too," Draco shrugged. "But she... she understands it's important to me. She even agreed to come to the match to be nearby, just in case."

"Mmm," Pansy looked at him attentively, studying his face as if seeing him for the first time. "And how do you feel? How's such... cohabitation? With her? Honestly."

Draco was silent, choosing words. It was a difficult question.

"Better than I expected. We're no longer trying to kill each other. We even... communicate normally sometimes."

"Never thought I'd hear that from you," Pansy smiled sadly. "Draco Malfoy praising a Gryffindor. And Granger at that. Times are changing."

"I'm not praising!" he objected quickly. "Just stating a fact."

"Of course, of course," Pansy laughed, but the laugh sounded a bit strained. "As you say. Will you play a game with me?"

Draco had already opened his mouth to accept the challenge—he never backed down from a challenge, especially from Pansy—but immediately lost all enthusiasm:

"Sorry, another time," he rose from the armchair. "I've been away from Granger too long already. Need to get back before it gets worse."

"I see," Pansy nodded, and again that expression—something between understanding and sadness. "Go. And good luck tomorrow at the match, Draco. Catch us that Snitch."

"Thanks, Pans," he smiled warmly at her, then winked. "I'll definitely catch it. You can count on me."

He headed for the exit from the common room, feeling her gaze on him.

About an hour had passed since he'd left Granger in their room. Draco listened attentively to his sensations, analyzing them with meticulous precision. Yes, there was slight weakness. Yes, there was that unpleasant cold in his chest that slowly spread. But they were barely perceptible, tolerable, not at all as sharp and frightening as at the manor when he'd literally been twisted with pain.

Progress. There was definitely progress.

Draco rejoiced—both from this discovery and from being able to participate in the match tomorrow. Quidditch! Finally Quidditch! He'd return to the sky, feel the wind, the chase, the excitement.

He entered their room, and the first thing he saw—Granger was still reading her book, as if she hadn't moved. Crookshanks had settled nearby, laying his squashed muzzle on her lap. A picture of domestic coziness.

Draco sat next to her on the sofa—quite close, closer than would have been appropriate a few weeks ago—and casually threw his legs right on the coffee table. He knew this annoyed her. And yes, maybe he did it precisely for that reason. Some habits died hard.

He extended his hand and scratched Crookshanks behind the ear. The cat purred contentedly with a low, vibrating sound, but didn't stir from Hermione's lap.

"Traitor," Draco muttered to the cat, but without malice.

Hermione at the sight of legs thrown on the table pressed her lips together—a thin line of disapproval—but said nothing. She knew if she started lecturing him, they'd slide back into arguments. Progress, definitely progress.

Draco smirked, catching her glance:

"How's your wellbeing, Granger? Didn't miss me?"

"Tolerable," she answered, returning her gaze to the book, but the corners of her mouth trembled. "I think our plan worked. An hour apart—that's already a result. Did you arrange to participate?"

"Yes, everything's great, I'm playing," Draco leaned back on the sofa back, closing his eyes. "Selwyn was so happy he almost kissed me. Pansy lost her chess game because of his joy, now she's sulking."

"Good," Hermione simply said, and approval could be heard in her voice.

Draco sat, enjoying the silence, feeling how beside Hermione he became calm. The cold from his chest quickly disappeared, replaced by pleasant, almost cozy warmth. As if after a long day in the cold he'd returned home to a fireplace where fire burns and you can warm up.

As if now he was finally, truly home. Maybe home is simply a place where you're calm. Where you're warm. Where you can simply be yourself. Even if that place is a small room in Hogwarts that you share with a Gryffindor to whom you're bound by a curse.

Life is strangely arranged.

Chapter Text

On the morning of the match, Draco woke with heaviness in his stomach from nerves that twisted his insides into a tight knot. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the first rays of dawn slowly crawl across the room's stone walls, painting them pale pink. Usually he was confident before a game, even overconfident—this was his forte, his element. But today...

His hands trembled slightly when he pulled them from under the blanket and looked at his fingers. He tried to clench and unclench his fists, but the trembling didn't go away. Excitement. Nervousness. Fear.

He hadn't trained for several weeks, and it felt like an eternity. Muscles had grown unaccustomed to the broom, reflexes had dulled. And today's match was especially important. Not just because the team desperately needed a win—Slytherin had already lost to Gryffindor in a friendly match, which had somewhat undermined team spirit. No, this was his personal chance. A chance to prove to himself and everyone else—that the curse hadn't broken him. That Draco Malfoy was still who he was before. That he hadn't become weaker.

"Malfoy, are you getting up?" Granger's voice came from the other end of the room.

Draco blinked, returning to reality. She'd already managed to go to the bathroom—he hadn't even noticed, too absorbed in his thoughts. Her hair was still damp and gathered in a neat bun, water drops leaving dark spots on the shoulders of her gray sweater.

"Getting up," he answered hoarsely, his voice sounding foreign even to himself.

His throat was dry. He cleared his throat, sat up in bed and ran his hands over his face, trying to shake off the remnants of anxious thoughts. It didn't help.

──⊱⁜⊰──

At breakfast he ate almost nothing. On his plate lay eggs and toast with bacon, a glass of pumpkin juice was filled to the brim, but nothing would go down. He mechanically picked at the food with his fork—moved pieces here and there, broke toast into small bits.

"Draco, are you even listening to me?" Pansy leaned toward him, slightly frowning.

He blinked, raising his gaze.

"What?" Draco asked absently.

"I just told you about Snape and his new Potions assignment," Pansy rolled her eyes. "But you're clearly floating somewhere in the clouds."

"More like on a broom," Blaise smirked, sipping juice. "Malfoy's already mentally chasing the Snitch."

"Or falling off his broom, judging by his expression," Theo added with light mockery.

Draco was about to snap back, but at that moment the Great Hall seemed to buzz louder. Everyone was discussing the upcoming match. At the Hufflepuff table a festive mood reigned—the badgers were confident of victory, it was readable in every smile, in every loud laugh. At the Slytherin table the atmosphere was more tense.

Edric Selwyn, the team captain, sat several seats away from Draco. He leisurely sipped pumpkin juice, watching the Hufflepuff table with a light smirk.

"They're already celebrating," Goyle noted, sitting closer to the captain, nodding toward the badgers.

"Let them celebrate," Edric responded calmly, and his voice, though quiet, cut through the hum of conversations. Draco involuntarily turned. "Let them think we're still mourning Gryffindor."

The friendly match several weeks ago had been disastrous—Gryffindor had crushed them with a humiliating score.

"That match," Edric continued, and his voice became quieter but sharper, "was a lesson. Painful, but useful. We played on their terms. Let Potter and his lions dictate the pace of the game." He swept the team with a hard look, lingering slightly on Draco. "This mistake won't be repeated. Or am I wrong?"

"No, captain," Crabbe muttered.

Edric nodded and turned his gaze directly to Draco.

"Malfoy, you look like you're going to a duel, not a Quidditch match."

Draco straightened, meeting the captain's gaze. From the corner of his eye he noticed Pansy freeze with a cup in her hand, and Blaise barely perceptibly smirk.

"Isn't it the same thing?"

Edric smirked—briefly, but with approval.

"In a sense. But remember: a duel is won not by who takes defeat harder, but by who learns from it." He again swept the team with his gaze. "Gryffindor beat us because we were predictable. Hufflepuff thinks we'll be just as predictable today. But we're Slytherins. We don't repeat others' mistakes. We learn from our own."

"Does Summerby have weaknesses?" Theo inquired skeptically, surveying the Hufflepuff table. "Because if not, Malfoy will have to rely only on speed."

"Everyone has weaknesses," Edric answered, and something predatory flashed in his dark eyes. "Summerby is good, I won't argue. But he's noble. Too noble. He'll play fair even when it's disadvantageous." He looked at Draco again. "And you, Malfoy, play to win. That's your advantage, use it. After the friendly match with Gryffindor you should be hungrier for victory than all the badgers combined."

The words sounded like a challenge, but there was also faith in them. Draco nodded. The defeat to Gryffindor still burned like an unhealed wound. But Selwyn was right—this wasn't weakness. This was fuel.

Edric raised his cup of juice, and there was something serpentine in his gesture—smooth, confident.

"To cool heads, fast brooms and short memory for defeats. But long—for lessons."

Crabbe and Goyle chuckled and raised their cups in response. Draco felt the tension that had been squeezing his chest all morning begin to recede. The captain's words seemed to switch something in his head—instead of the anxious hum of thoughts came clarity. Not confidence in victory, but readiness to fight for it at any cost. And that, perhaps, was even better.

"Well, back with us?" Blaise asked quietly, nudging him with his elbow.

Draco turned to his friends. Pansy looked at him with a light smile, Theo raised an eyebrow, awaiting an answer.

"Yes," Draco answered shortly and finally drank from his glass. "Back."

Pumpkin juice no longer seemed so cloying. His chest felt lighter, though the excitement stirred by the curse didn't completely recede. Several times Draco caught Granger's gaze, who was watching him from the Gryffindor table.

"Nervous?" she asked quietly when they were leaving the Great Hall.

She'd approached him unnoticed, separating from her company, and now walked beside him down the corridor. Morning sun broke through the tall windows, casting long strips of light on the floor.

"A bit," Draco admitted reluctantly, shoving his hands in his robe pockets. "Haven't trained in a while. And if something goes wrong... if the curse activates right in the air..."

"It won't," she said firmly, stopping and turning to face him. In her brown eyes was amazing confidence that made something lurch in his chest. "We tested it yesterday, you can be away from me calmly for at least an hour, hour and a half. Besides, I'll be in the stands, right near you, literally within sight. Don't worry, Malfoy."

Draco stopped too, turned to her. The corridor was empty, only somewhere in the distance a door slammed and someone's laughter echoed off the stone walls.

"Will you really come?" he asked, and more hope sounded in his voice than he wanted to show.

"Of course," she answered simply, without a shadow of doubt. "I already promised you. And I always keep my promises."

Something warmed inside Draco. Not from the curse, not from this magical bond that held them together. Something else, more dangerous.

──⊱⁜⊰──

Already in the room, when Draco had gathered his Quidditch gear—green with silver uniform, protective gloves, helmet—he fastened the last buckle on the bag and exhaled. Time to go.

Granger sat on the sofa with a book, but wasn't reading. She was looking at him, biting her lower lip—a gesture he'd already learned to recognize as a sign of worry.

"Granger..." he hesitated, choosing words. Malfoys don't thank. Malfoys don't show weakness. But what the hell. "Thank you. For supporting me. Really."

For several seconds she just looked at him, and he saw different emotions flicker in her eyes: surprise, embarrassment, something else he couldn't name. Then, unexpectedly for both of them, she set aside the book, stood and stepped toward him.

And hugged him. Firmly, truly.

Draco froze for a second, all muscles tensed from surprise. His arms hung in the air, not knowing what to do. But then, slowly, carefully, as if afraid to scare away the moment, he placed his hands on her shoulder blades. She was warm and her bushy hair that tickled his chin smelled of something pleasant.

"For recharging," Granger muttered, pulling away, and her cheeks flushed pink. She stepped back, not meeting his gaze. "Purely practical consideration. So you have more reserve. Good luck."

But Draco still felt the warmth of her body, the imprint of her hands on his back. His heart beat faster—and this definitely wasn't from pre-game excitement. Something compressed in his chest, sharp and frightening. He wanted to step back, pull her to him again, embrace her tighter, bury his face in her hair and just stand like that. Feel her warmth, her closeness, that strange calm that came only near her.

And this scared him to hell.

This wasn't just the curse. The curse didn't explain how his fingers reached for her on their own when she pulled away. Didn't explain this feeling of loss when she stepped away.

Draco abruptly turned away, grabbing the bag with gear.

"Of course," his voice sounded more even than it should. He even smirked, pulling on his usual mask. "Practical approach. I appreciate it."

He headed for the door, but stopped on the threshold without turning around.

"I need to stop by Theo's before the match. Pick up... something." The lie came surprisingly easily. He just needed to get out of there, immediately, before he did something stupid. "Meet me at the stadium entrance in ten minutes. Don't be late."

"All right," she answered.

He left the room, closing the door behind him, and leaned against the corridor wall, closing his eyes. His heart still pounded like mad.

Pull yourself together, Malfoy, he ordered himself. It's just the curse. Magic. Nothing more.

He pushed off the wall and strode down the corridor, gripping the bag strap so hard his knuckles whitened. He needed to focus on the game. Only on the game. This he knew how to do. This was safe.

And everything else... He'd deal with everything else later.

──⊱⁜⊰──

At the stadium, near the changing rooms, stood Harry and Ron, waiting for Hermione. They wore their Gryffindor scarves—scarlet and gold, but ready to cheer for Hufflepuff out of pure antipathy to Slytherin.

When Draco and Hermione approached closer—Theo was also walking with them, whistling some tune—Weasley immediately frowned.

"Hermione," Ron began, and poorly concealed displeasure was in his voice, "are you really going to cheer for Slytherin? For them! You weren't even at all our games, but you came to cheer for the snakes!"

His ears reddened—a sure sign Weasley was angry. Potter beside him stayed silent, but looked questioningly.

"Not for Slytherin," she quickly corrected, and Draco noticed how she avoided their gazes, looking somewhere to the side. "Just... circumstances force me to be at the match. It's necessity, not choice."

"What circumstances?" Ron frowned even more, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Because of the curse I can't be too far from Malfoy during the game," Hermione explained patiently. "If I stay in the castle and he's here, we'll both feel sick. It's physical necessity, Ron. Actually I can't stand Quidditch and would prefer to spend time on homework."

Ron and Harry exchanged glances, sharing that silent communication that happens only between close friends.

"Hermione," Harry said gently but seriously, stepping forward, "are you all right? Malfoy isn't forcing you? Isn't hurting you, intimidating you?"

Genuine care sounded in his voice, and Draco felt a stab of irritation. Potter and his eternal heroic complex—always has to save someone. Until that moment he'd been walking behind with Nott, but approaching closer, he stood next to Granger.

"Potter," he frowned, assumed that very pose—hands in pockets, chin raised, gaze cold, "Granger and I settled our differences long ago, so you can stop playing mother hen."

"Well, Malfoy," Harry smirked crookedly, clearly deciding not to deepen this topic, "I wish you luck in the game. Against Summerby you'll really need it, he's an excellent Seeker. I'll cheer for Hufflepuff, of course. Nothing personal."

"How touching. Right, better save your support for a team that needs it. We don't need it."

"Oh, I don't know," Nott drawled, who until that moment had been enjoying the exchange silently, and now his lips stretched in a wide grin. "Draco now has a personal fan. Granger will shout his name from the stands. 'Come on, Draco! You're the best!'"

He even demonstrated waving arms and an enthusiastic face.

"Nott..." Hermione began warningly, but Theo laughed.

"Joking, joking. But it would be cute."

Harry and Ron watched this scene with growing bewilderment—how easily Hermione communicated with Slytherins, how Malfoy stood beside her, protecting her from questions. The world had turned upside down.

"It's just necessity," she muttered stubbornly, looking at the ground. "The curse. That's all."

"Of course," Theo agreed with a pretend serious look, putting his hand to his heart. "Absolutely practical considerations. No personal interest. We believe you."

Draco elbowed him in the side—not hard, but enough to make his point: enough. Theodore only grinned wider.

──⊱⁜⊰──

The stadium roared.

Malfoy and the team emerged onto the field, and a wave of sound washed over him. The stands were packed—it seemed all of Hogwarts had come to watch the match. Green with silver Slytherin flags waved on one side, yellow with black Hufflepuff on the other. Scarlet patches of Gryffindors and blue Ravenclaws were scattered everywhere.

Draco's gaze involuntarily darted to the stands, seeking one specific face. And surprisingly, found it quite quickly. Granger sat slightly apart with Ginny, Luna, Harry and Ron—the usual company, but for some reason she still stood out among them, like the only point Draco's gaze caught on.

"Welcome to the match between Slytherin and Hufflepuff!" rang out the familiar lazy voice from the commentator's booth.

Blaise Zabini had taken on commentator duties after Lee Jordan's graduation, and it must be admitted, suited the role perfectly—witty, ironic, though sometimes not too objective.

"Today the cursed Seeker position on the Slytherin team is taken by Draco Malfoy!" Blaise announced, and a smirk could be heard in his voice. "Let's hope he doesn't fall off his broom right in the middle of the match, that would be awkward."

The Slytherin stand exploded with welcoming shouts. Draco rolled his eyes but couldn't hold back a smile.

Madam Hooch walked to the center of the field with a trunk from which Bludgers were struggling to escape. Team captains—Selwyn and Smith—shook hands. Firmly, challengingly, looking each other in the eyes.

"Mount your brooms," Madam Hooch commanded. "Three... two... one..."

The whistle cut through the air.

Draco soared upward, feeling the familiar dizzying sensation of flight. Gaining altitude, he hovered over the field, watching the game and looking for the Snitch. He stealthily glanced at the commentator's booth where Blaise sat with a megaphone, waved at him with a wide grin.

"And the ball is in play!" Blaise announced enthusiastically. "Hufflepuff takes possession of the Quaffle. What a surprise, turns out badgers can fly."

Draco smirked. Typical Blaise.

The first half hour of the game passed in tense struggle. This was real war in the air.

Slytherin Chasers attacked Hufflepuff's hoops, but the badgers' Keeper Zacharias Smith deflected most throws. The guy was good, had to admit—fast, with good reactions, read trajectories well. Beaters from both teams raced around the field like possessed, directing Bludgers at opponents. Draco had to dodge sharply several times when a Bludger whistled past his head.

"Smith deflects another ball!" Blaise commented, and annoyance could be heard in his voice. "Must admit, the guy plays well. And Selwyn tries to break through the defense... feints right... throws... and misses the hoops! Edric, seriously? Apparently the 'fly and throw' strategy doesn't always work!"

Draco hovered high above the field, slowly moving, looking for the Snitch. Hufflepuff's Seeker, Oliver Summerby, patrolled the space nearby. A tall seventh-year with perfect posture and confident flying style. He was good—Draco admitted it, albeit reluctantly. Their gazes met from time to time, appraisingly, each trying to guess if the other saw the Snitch.

At the fortieth minute of the game, when the score was 20:60 in Hufflepuff's favor, Draco noticed a golden flash near the far opponent's hoops. The Snitch! Adrenaline exploded in his blood. Without thinking for a second, Draco sharply turned his broom and rushed down, pressing against the handle, making himself as streamlined as possible. Wind roared in his ears, eyes watered from speed, but he didn't blink, afraid to lose sight of the golden ball.

But Summerby saw it too.

A real race began. Two brooms raced neck and neck, their owners bent over the handles, squeezing out maximum speed. The ground approached at frightening speed—green grass of the field, white markings, faces of spectators in the lower stands, all this became clearer.

The Snitch fluttered between the hoops, playing with them—now soared up, making them jerk their brooms sharply, now dove to the ground, now darted sideways in unpredictable zigzags.

"Excellent Snitch chase!" Blaise commented excitedly, and his voice became louder, faster. "Summerby and Malfoy flying like madmen! Look at that speed! Seems the Seekers lack self-preservation instinct!"

From the stands came shouts. Everyone stood, waving flags, posters. The Chasers' game receded to the background—everyone watched only the Seekers' race.

Draco felt familiar weakness beginning to build in his chest. Not now. Just not now! An hour of the game had passed, maybe a bit more, and the curse was beginning to make itself known. A chill somewhere inside, barely noticeable dizziness, light tremor in his hands.

But the Snitch was so close!

The golden ball darted right, Draco followed, tilting his broom almost horizontally. Oliver Summerby was on the right, also reaching out his hand. Their brooms were almost level, shoulder to shoulder, quite close to each other.

Summerby extended his hand closer to the Snitch, fingers almost touched the golden wings, a bit more, one more moment... Malfoy, without thinking, sharply jerked his broom, trying to push him aside. Their brooms collided with a dull thud, both swayed. Summerby deviated to the side, losing balance for a second.

And the Snitch slipped away again, darting upward.

"That was a dangerous maneuver by Malfoy!" Zabini commented, and approval could be heard in his voice. "Rough, but effective. Good thing they're both still on their brooms, not crashed to the ground!"

McGonagall clearly said something to him, because Blaise immediately added:

"I mean, of course, it was dangerous and wrong. Bad Malfoy. But still, it was cool."

Draco desperately searched for the Snitch with his eyes, feeling strength gradually leaving him. Weakness intensified—no longer barely noticeable, but quite palpable. His hands trembled on the broom handle, breathing became heavier. Cold in his chest spread like ice water.

His gaze fell on the stands almost instinctively, searching for her. And found her. Granger had half-risen from her seat, holding the railing, her face pale, eyes wide. She was clearly worried—lips moved soundlessly, as if she was saying something.

And then he saw it. The Snitch. It fluttered right above the Gryffindor stand, quite close to where Granger sat. Golden, shimmering in the sun, almost mockingly slow.

This was a sign. Or coincidence. But Draco didn't believe in all that.

Gathering his remaining strength, ignoring the growing weakness, cold and tremor, Malfoy turned his broom and rushed toward the stands. Full speed ahead, at maximum velocity, forgetting caution. Oliver headed after him, but Draco was closer. An advantage of a couple seconds, no more, but it was enough.

Draco extended his hand, stretched on the broom to the limit, fingers clenched...

Cold metal. Frantically fluttering wings under his palm. Got it!

"YES!" Blaise yelled so loud the megaphone hissed for a second. "DRACO MALFOY CATCHES THE SNITCH! THIS IS INCREDIBLE! This brings victory to Slytherin with a score of 170:60!"

The Slytherin stand exploded with joyful shouts. Green flags flew into the air, someone launched fireworks, confetti rained down from above.

But Draco looked at only one person.

Granger's hands shot up, on her face shone a sincere, genuinely happy smile. She was rejoicing at his victory—real joy, without falseness, without pretense. Eyes sparkled, cheeks flushed, and she applauded as if this was the most important event in her life.

And at that moment, looking at her radiant face, at how she rejoiced for him, at this pure, unclouded joy... Draco understood with crystal, frightening clarity:

He was done for.

Hopelessly, finally done for.

He liked her. Liked her too much. And this was far more dangerous than any curse.

Draco slowly descended to the ground, still surrounded by the team, everyone shouting and hugging. Edric Selwyn grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, yelling something. But all this was somewhere far away, behind a veil. Malfoy mechanically smiled, nodded, answered something, but his thoughts were about something completely different.

He was in deep, deep trouble.

Chapter Text

That evening in their room Draco still couldn't believe his victory. Adrenaline still hadn't completely released him, excitement still played in his veins. He changed out of his Quidditch uniform in the bathroom, pulling off the sweat-soaked green jersey, washing dust and dirt from his face and hands, remembering moments from the game and feeling the sweet sensation of victory.

Remembering her face. Her smile. Her joy.

He emerged from the bathroom in a simple black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair still damp, and saw Hermione sitting on the sofa with a book. Crookshanks had settled beside her, laying his head on her lap, and she absently stroked him while reading.

A picture of domestic comfort and calm.

"Thank you," he said, and his voice came out quieter than he intended. "For coming. For the support."

Hermione raised her head from the book, and a smile lit up her face.

"Don't mention it, Malfoy. You played excellently. That chase for the Snitch was... impressive."

"Granger," Draco took a step forward, shoved his hands in his sweatpants pockets, "in the Slytherin common room today they're celebrating the victory. A party, the whole team will be there, food, drinks..." he hesitated, then blurted out: "I'd like you to come too."

Hermione blinked, clearly surprised:

"Me? To a Slytherin party?" she shook her head. "I don't think that's the best idea."

"Apparently it won't be just Slytherins," he objected, not letting her refuse. "Theo said the little Weasley is coming too, and several other Gryffindors, and Ravenclaws. It'll be a mixed crowd. You won't be alone."

"Malfoy..."

"I'd like you to go," he said seriously. "I really would."

Hermione looked at him for a long time, studying his face, as if trying to read what lay behind those words. Draco held her gaze, not looking away.

Finally she sighed and closed the book:

"All right, I'll go. I need a little time to get ready and change."

Something in Draco's chest warmed and spread its wings:

"Take as long as you want. No rush."

Hermione emerged from the bathroom about twenty minutes later, and at the sight of her Draco nearly choked.

She wore a simple dark blue sweater—soft, cozy, form-fitting but not provocative—and a black skirt to her knees. Nothing special, nothing flashy or loud. But elegant. She'd gathered her hair in a neat low bun, but several unruly curls had escaped and framed her face, falling on her shoulders.

She looked... beautiful. Simply beautiful, without exaggeration.

Draco caught himself staring too long. On the desire to approach and tuck one of the strands behind her ear, run his fingers along her cheek, feel if her skin was as soft as it seemed...

He quickly looked away, cleared his throat:

"You... look good. Shall we go?"

Hermione nodded, blushing slightly:

"Yes, I'm ready."

The Slytherin common room was full of people. Emerald lights in lamps flickered and reflected in glass walls facing the lake, and vague shadows of huge underwater creatures sometimes swam past, casting shifting greenish light on the room. Tables were set out with snacks and drinks. And indeed, there weren't only Slytherins—he spotted several Ravenclaws, Gryffindors and even Hufflepuffs (apparently not all badgers held grudges).

Ginny and Luna sat in a corner on black leather sofas, chatting animatedly about something. Ginny laughed at something Luna was saying, who, as always, looked dreamy and slightly detached. Hermione headed toward them, clearly feeling uncomfortable among unfamiliar people, on Slytherin territory.

"To Slytherin's victory!" Edric Selwyn announced loudly, jumping onto a table (to the horror of some first-years) and raising a mug of Butterbeer high above his head. "And to the return of the best Seeker we've ever had! To Draco!"

"To Draco!" the others picked up, and dozens of mugs flew into the air.

Everyone raised their drinks, someone howled, someone whistled. Draco felt his cheeks burn slightly from embarrassment and pride simultaneously. He caught Hermione's gaze across the room—she too had raised her mug and smiled at him.

The next hour passed in pleasant bustle. Draco chatted with friends about the match, analyzing strategy, game moments, opponents' mistakes. But periodically his gaze returned to Granger. Again and again, like a magnet. He couldn't help but look. She was laughing at something Ginny said. Talking with Luna, leaning toward her to hear better in the noise. Drinking Butterbeer in small sips. She looked relaxed, calm and even happy.

When Blaise approached, with a slightly unfocused gaze and a mug of something definitely stronger than Butterbeer, Draco noticed how he kept sneaking frequent glances toward Luna Lovegood.

"Blaise," Draco said quietly, leaning toward his friend, "you're looking at Lovegood too often."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Blaise answered too quickly, nervously tapping his finger on the glass. Draco chuckled—he knew this habit of Blaise's, which manifested when he was lying or holding something back.

"Of course you don't," he smirked in response.

"By the way, your Granger fits into the Slytherin setting quite well," Blaise noted, nodding toward the girls.

"She's not mine," Draco objected too sharply.

Blaise burst out laughing:

"Oh of course, not yours. And you're not staring at her every two minutes. And didn't search for her with your eyes from the moment we walked in here. And didn't look like a satisfied cat when she agreed to come."

Draco didn't answer. He finished the remains of his Butterbeer and approached the girls' company.

"How's it going?" he asked, perching on the armrest of Hermione's chair.

"Everything's fine," Hermione answered, turning her head and smiling at him. "It's quite fun here, honestly. I expected something more... gloomy or something. But it's almost like a regular party."

"It is fun," Ginny agreed. "Luna was telling us about some carnivorous plants from South America. Very fascinating and a bit scary."

"Actually," Luna added dreamily, looking somewhere above their heads, "they use bioluminescence to attract prey. They glow in the dark, the prey thinks it's something harmless, comes closer... and snap!" she clapped her hands. "Like some people use charm to lure someone they fancy."

She turned and looked meaningfully directly at Blaise, who stood nearby and was just taking a sip at that moment. Zabini nearly choked, coughed, sprayed his drink. Theo, standing beside him, jumped back with displeasure.

Luna smiled—that same mysterious smile that made it unclear whether she was joking or serious.

Ginny giggled, Hermione covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hide her laughter.

Later that evening, much later, when many underclassmen had already gone to bed, when lighting became even more subdued and intimate—one of the upperclassmen brought a bottle of Firewhisky.

Real, aged Firewhisky that burned your throat and warmed from within. It was forbidden, of course, but who cared when it came to celebrating Slytherin victories.

The bottle went around. Draco drank very little—a sip, maybe two. He wasn't planning to get drunk. But even that was enough to feel pleasant warmth spreading in his chest, lightness in his head.

When someone turned on music—something modern, with good rhythm—several couples began dancing. The center of the common room turned into an improvised dance floor.

Ginny Weasley jumped up first, grabbed Luna and Hermione by the hands:

"Girls, get up! We're dancing!"

"Ginny, I can't..." Hermione began, but Ginny was already dragging her.

"Nonsense! Just move to the beat, everything else doesn't matter!"

Luna followed them with the same dreamy smile. Theo gallantly invited one of the Ravenclaws, a pretty sixth-year with long dark hair. Draco remained with Blaise by the wall, holding an almost empty glass, and watched.

Watched her.

Hermione was dancing. At first a bit uncertainly, stiffly, but then relaxed. She moved to the music naturally, without affectation, simply swaying her hips to the melody's rhythm, occasionally throwing her hands up, laughing at something. Several strands had finally escaped from her bun and fell on her shoulders, on her face. She fixed them mechanically, tucking them behind her ear, but they escaped again.

When she leaned toward Luna to whisper something in her ear, her sweater rode up slightly, revealing a strip of skin at her waist. Pale, smooth skin.

Draco swallowed, feeling his mouth go dry.

Firewhisky. Definitely the Firewhisky was to blame for the fact he couldn't tear his gaze away. To blame for the fact he was imagining, against his will, completely uninvited, how she danced only for him. How her hands slid over his shoulders, how she pressed against him, how he felt the warmth of her body...

He shook his head sharply, trying to chase away dangerous thoughts. But his gaze returned to her again and again, like cursed.

"Are you even listening to me?" Blaise smirked beside him.

"What?" Draco blinked, tore himself from contemplation, turned to his friend.

Zabini grinned, shaking his head:

"Malfoy, you're about to start drooling. You're staring so openly that even I'm embarrassed. And I have absolutely no shame."

"I'm not..." Draco began, but broke off.

Because lying to Blaise was useless. Blaise knew him too well, for too long.

"You're in trouble, my friend," Zabini clapped him on the shoulder. "Serious trouble. And you know what's funniest? I'm happy for you."

Draco didn't answer. He just finished the remains of his drink and looked at dancing Hermione again.

Yes. He was in trouble. Head over heels, hopelessly, completely.

Late at night, when most guests had dispersed to their rooms, when only the most persistent and most drunk remained, Draco finally decided:

"Granger," he approached her, "shall we go?"

Hermione really did look a bit tired—hair completely disheveled, makeup slightly smudged, but a happy spark still burned in her eyes.

"Yes," she nodded, yawning, "I'm tired. But it was fun, really. Thank you for inviting me."

On the way to their room Madam Harmony met them with a satisfied, almost maternal smile. All sternness had disappeared from her face:

"I see you're having a wonderful time together!" she sang out. "What a lovely picture! And congratulations on the victory, young man. You played brilliantly! Finally you've learned to support each other, value each other. I'm so glad!"

"Thank you, Madam Harmony," Draco answered, feeling slight dizziness from Firewhisky and fatigue.

She opened the passage and they entered their room. Strange silence hung in the room. Crookshanks was nowhere to be seen. The fire in the fireplace had almost burned out, only coals smoldered, casting reddish reflections on the walls. Hermione was about to go to the bathroom when Draco called out to her:

"Granger..."

His voice sounded hoarse, quiet.

She turned around, and something in her eyes—something soft, open, that he hadn't seen before—made him take a step forward. Then another.

Maybe it was because of the Firewhisky, though he hadn't drunk that much. Maybe because of adrenaline that still hadn't let go after the victory. Maybe—and this was most likely—because of how she'd looked at him during the match, how she'd rejoiced at his victory, how she'd smiled at him all evening.

Maybe simply because he could no longer hold back.

He came closer, stopped before her. Close. Too close. Draco cautiously approached, raised his hand and tucked the escaped strand behind her ear—the very thing he'd wanted to do all evening. Her hair was soft, silky under his fingers. Then uncertainly, slowly touched her cheek. Warm. Soft. She flinched slightly at the touch, but didn't pull away.

Granger froze, looked at him with wide eyes. Her breathing quickened—he saw how her chest rose and fell. Lips slightly parted.

"Malfoy..." she whispered, but didn't pull away.

Then he leaned in. Slowly, giving her time to pull away, push back, say "no." But she didn't say it. Didn't push away.

And he kissed her.

Gently. Carefully. Almost timidly, as if afraid to scare her or hurt her.

The world inside him exploded.

That was the only thing that could describe the sensation. Explosion. Flash of light. Fireworks somewhere in his chest, in his stomach, in every cell of his body. Her lips were soft and warm, and when for a moment she responded to the kiss, parted her lips, slightly leaned forward... all his thoughts disappeared. Simply dissolved in the air.

Only she existed.

Her closeness, breath that mixed with his, light scent of her skin. The taste of her lips was sweet, with a barely perceptible note of mint. Nothing tastier, nothing better had he tried in his life. It was like magic on his tongue—intoxicating, burning, unbearably sweet. His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair. The other hand landed on her waist, pulling closer. He felt every line of her body pressed against his, and it drove him crazy.

His heart pounded so hard he was sure she could hear it. It beat like mad, ready to jump out of his chest. This was better than anything he'd ever felt, better than any Quidditch victory, better than any achievements. Better than anything in his life before this moment.

Her hands landed on his shoulders, fingers slightly squeezed the fabric of his shirt, then began lightly stroking. This simple touch echoed with a wave of warmth that rolled through his whole body. Draco was about to deepen the kiss, press her closer to him, when suddenly...

She abruptly pushed him away. With both hands, hard, so that he stepped back, nearly stumbling.

"Malfoy," her voice trembled, eyes wide, a blush burning on her cheeks, "you just drank too much. This... this is Firewhisky. Alcohol. You're not yourself. Tomorrow you'll regret this."

She stepped back, hugging herself with her arms, as if protecting herself.

Draco felt everything inside go cold. Instantly, sharply. As if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over him.

He felt as if he'd crashed from height onto the ground, shattered on rocks. All that warmth, that euphoria—everything disappeared in one instant, leaving behind only emptiness.

She'd rejected him. For her the reason for the kiss was alcohol, a mistake, something to be forgotten. He felt stupid, incredibly, humiliatingly stupid. He'd thought that she... that he also mattered to her.

But no. He was wrong. Like a complete idiot.

Draco forced himself to straighten up, raise his chin. Pulled on that very mask of cold indifference he'd worn for years, perfected to perfection.

"Yes," his voice sounded cold, even, almost bored. Completely didn't reflect the storm of emotions inside that was tearing him apart at that moment. "Exactly right. I'm just drunk. Firewhisky went to my head."

He paused, and each next word came like a knife blow to himself. But Malfoys know how to endure pain.

"Otherwise I would never, never in my life have kissed you, Granger. It was a mistake."

Something inside collapsed. Fell into an abyss. Nausea rose to his throat—vile, acrid, from the realization of what he'd just said. Every word was a lie, each was poison that he himself swallowed, poisoning himself from within.

He saw how she flinched at his words, how something painful flashed in her eyes. Draco turned and, without saying another word, headed to the bathroom. Closed the door behind him—didn't slam it, just closed it, quietly and finally.

He leaned his hands on the sink and raised his gaze to his reflection in the mirror.

Pale face. Compressed lips. Cold gray eyes in which nothing could be read. Perfect Malfoy mask. No trace of emotions.

Idiot.

He hated the one looking at him from the mirror. Hated for that kiss. For giving in. For that moment of weakness when he allowed himself to feel something real.

He should have trampled all this in the bud. Long ago. Back when he first noticed how his heart beat faster when she was near. When he started memorizing her habits.

He should have strangled this. Harshly. Mercilessly. As father taught.

But he didn't do it. Dragged it out too long. Allowed himself too much. And here's the result.

Draco gripped the edges of the sink so hard his knuckles whitened.

"Control," he whispered to his reflection. "That's all you have. And you lost it."

The taste of her lips was still on his tongue. Sweet. Right.

And that was the worst part. Not that he'd kissed her. But how right it felt. That every cell of his body screamed that this was exactly what he wanted. What he still wants.

He ran his hand over his face, squeezed his eyes shut.

"Never again," he muttered, looking at the reflection. "You hear? Never again."

But even himself he didn't believe.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat over her Transfiguration homework in their shared room, staring at the book, but words blurred before her eyes, turning into meaningless squiggles. She reread the same paragraph about the theory of complex transformations for the fifth time already, but the meaning escaped her.

Instead of spells and formulas she saw Malfoy's gray eyes at the moment when he leaned toward her. Gray, with dark rims around the irises that she hadn't noticed before. She saw now, as if in reality, how he extended his hand and carefully tucked a strand behind her ear. That simple, incredibly tender movement that sent shivers across her skin.

She closed the book with a sharp movement that echoed through the room with a dull clap. Rubbed her temples where dull, aching pain was beginning to pulse. Headache had pursued her the last few days, refusing to recede even after a dose of potion.

A week of silence. A whole seven days during which they existed in one room like ghosts. Present physically, sharing one space, but avoiding any real contact, any eye-to-eye glance that could mean something.

Malfoy wasn't rude to her. If he'd been rude, angry, shouting, throwing barbs, perhaps it would have been even easier. Anger she could understand, to anger you can respond. But no. On the contrary—he became emphatically detached, answered her questions only business-like and briefly. "Yes." "No." "Don't know." "As you say." Not one extra word, not one intonation that could betray emotion.

At the same time he avoided her gaze. When she addressed him, he looked through her. As if afraid that their eyes would meet and he couldn't maintain this icy mask of indifference.

He often left, albeit briefly, just to avoid being in one room with her longer than necessary. Fell asleep turned to the wall. Before they sometimes talked before sleep—discussed the past day, shared thoughts about the curse, even sometimes joked. Now he simply lay down, turned away and fell silent. Sometimes she heard him toss and turn for a long time, not finding sleep, but never turned around.

They still spent most of their time together out of necessity—the curse gave no choice. But practically didn't interact. Like two strangers in a crowded train car, forced to stand nearby but trying not to touch each other even with the edge of a robe.

He was so tender, she thought, mechanically touching her lower lip. And uncertain. Not at all like the arrogant Malfoy I've known all these years.

She remembered every second of that kiss. Every moment was engraved in her memory with frightening clarity. The kiss itself... It was careful, almost reverent. His lips softly touched hers, at first without pressure, without demand, simply... touched. As if he was afraid she would disappear, dissolve, if he was too insistent. And when she responded—for one mad, intoxicating moment allowed herself to drown in this sensation, parted her lips, leaned forward... he pressed her closer, more boldly and freely.

That's when panic seized her. Covered her in a wave, made her recoil, push him away, break contact.

Hermione knew, at least tried to convince herself she knew—she'd done the right thing. Sensibly. Logically. But this knowledge brought her no relief.

For him it was just an impulse—the result of victorious euphoria and Firewhisky. Alcohol and emotions—a dangerous mixture that makes you do things you'll later regret. That's what she told herself.

Malfoy wasn't the type to take feelings seriously. He was used to getting what he wanted, then losing interest in it. She'd seen how he treated girls at school before—flirted, charmed, then cooled off and switched to the next one. And she wasn't ready to become another toy in the hands of a spoiled aristocrat. Hermione Granger wasn't made for games. If she loved—then with all her soul, if she trusted—then unconditionally. She didn't know how to do things halfway, and that's exactly why she couldn't allow herself to fall in love with someone who would sooner or later turn away from her. It would break her.

But deep inside, in that place she tried not to look, where she hid the most dangerous thoughts, she knew... Or hoped she was wrong.

In his gaze at that moment there was something more than alcoholic confusion. There was tenderness that couldn't be faked. There was need, not just physical, but something deeper, more important. There was vulnerability he never showed anyone. And this, perhaps, scared her even more. Because if she was wrong, if it really was something real, and she pushed him away...

Worst of all was that she missed their communication. Missed it so much it was almost a physical sensation—emptiness somewhere in her chest. Missed morning conversations while getting ready for breakfast, joint analysis of searching for information about the curse. Even their jabs at each other. Light ones, already without real malice. All of it was better, a thousand times better, than this icy, dead silence that filled the space between them.

──⊱⁜⊰──

Halloween had arrived.

Hermione stood before the mirror in their room, throwing on a black robe and sadly thinking about how she missed Muggle traditions—dressing up in funny costumes, going house to house for sweets. The smell of autumn leaves and cold air. Children's laughter in the streets. Hot mulled wine at home, after, when she and her parents sorted through the "haul."

In other years she'd enjoyed celebrating the holiday at Hogwarts, despite all the differences from home. Halloween magic here was real—not costumes and makeup, but real ghosts, genuine potions, live bats. It was thrilling, magical in the literal sense. But now the emptiness in her chest from the conflict with Malfoy made even her favorite holiday joyless. It caused even greater longing for home, where everything was simple and clear for her. Where mom and dad loved her simply for existing. Without complications and emotional torments, without constant pain somewhere under her ribs.

Hermione fastened her robe, fixed her hair, looked at her reflection and sighed. In the mirror a pale, tired girl looked back at her. Dark circles under her eyes that even magic didn't completely hide. Lips pressed in one line. Gaze dim, without that spark that usually burned in it. A week of tension was taking its toll. She slept poorly, tossed at night, listening to Malfoy's breathing, wondering if he was sleeping or also lying awake. Ate poorly—nothing would go down her throat, everything seemed tasteless. Concentrated poorly on studies, which for her was especially unusual and frightening.

"Granger, are you coming?" came Malfoy's displeased voice from the door.

"Coming," she answered without turning around.

They walked through the corridors in silence. Everything around was decorated for the holiday—cobwebs hung from the ceiling, pumpkins stood in niches, glowing from within with magical fire, bats rushed under the arches, emitting thin squeaks.

Other students walked past—in pairs and groups, laughing and discussing the upcoming celebration. The atmosphere was joyful, excited. Hermione and Draco walked side by side, but between them was space that neither violated. Stealthily she glanced at him—he looked handsome and impeccable as always, but tension could be read in his profile. Several times she opened her mouth to say something, but never dared to break the silence.

"Malfoy," she finally decided when they were climbing the stairs to the Great Hall. "Maybe we should talk? This situation... it's becoming unbearable."

"Talk about what?" Draco didn't even turn his head to her. "Everything's perfectly clear. You said I was drunk. I agreed. Topic closed."

"But we live in one room, and we'll have to..."

"We'll have to coexist until the curse is removed," he interrupted coldly. "We don't have to communicate at all."

His tone was so indifferent that Hermione's heart clenched.

"You're right," she said quietly. "Of course you're right."

They entered the Great Hall where students of all years had already gathered. The hall was transformed. The ceiling shimmered with stars through storm clouds—dark purple, almost black clouds slowly floated across the sky. The moon, full and huge, hung directly over the hall's center, casting silvery light. Thousands of real bats circled through the air, now and then diving over students' heads. Giant pumpkins floated under the arches, their carved faces glowing from within with dancing flames. Candles burned with ominous green and orange light, casting moving shadows on the walls. Skeletons in black robes were placed in the hall's corners, bowing to passing students. Music played softly, creating the holiday atmosphere.

Draco immediately headed for the Slytherin table without even saying goodbye. Hermione followed him with her gaze and slowly walked to her friends, feeling everything inside compress.

I wanted this myself, she reminded herself. I pushed him away myself.

But why did it hurt so much?

When all students had taken their seats, Dumbledore rose from the staff table. His robes were decorated with embroidered silver stars that shimmered in the candlelight, and his half-moon spectacles gleamed.

"Dear friends!" he began, and his voice carried through the hall. "Today we celebrate one of the most mysterious holidays of the year—Halloween. A night when the boundary between worlds becomes thinner, and magic is felt especially strongly."

He paused, surveying the hall full of attentive faces.

"Halloween reminds us that not everything in this world is what it seems at first glance. A pumpkin can become a lantern, an ordinary robe—a costume, and an enemy—a friend. Sometimes the most unexpected transformations turn out to be the most significant."

The headmaster's eyes lingered for a moment on the Slytherin table, then moved to the Gryffindor table.

"Therefore today I wish you not only to eat deliciously and dance merrily," Dumbledore continued with his characteristic warm smile, "but also to remain open to surprises. After all, sometimes what we fear most brings us the greatest joy."

He clapped his hands, and the tables instantly filled with festive treats: pumpkin pies, caramel apples, spider-shaped candies that stirred on plates, and cups with steaming punch from which colorful sparks rose into the air.

"And now—bon appétit to all, and remember: even on the darkest night of the year there's always room for light."

Hermione sat at the table next to Harry and Ron, mechanically poking at pumpkin pie with her fork and pretending to listen to the conversation. The food seemed tasteless to her. Her attention was riveted to the Slytherin table, though she tried to stop herself.

Draco sat surrounded by friends and looked completely relaxed. He was laughing at some joke from Zabini. And Astoria Greengrass sat next to him. Very close, constantly touching his hand. Leaning toward him, whispering something in his ear. And Draco smiled back at her.

Burning pain pierced Hermione's chest, as if a knife had been stuck in her heart. Jealousy—bitter, irrational, but no less painful for it.

He has the right to communicate and meet with whoever he wants, she reminded herself. I pushed him away myself.

But logic didn't help. The pain didn't recede.

"Hermione, have you eaten anything at all?" Ron worried. "You've been kind of strange lately."

"Everything's fine," she answered automatically. "Just a lot of studying."

"Sure everything's all right?" Harry asked gently, looking at her attentively. "You look tired."

Hermione nodded, but her gaze involuntarily returned to the Slytherin table. Astoria was now also laughing, her hand lay on Draco's forearm, gently stroking.

The knife turned in the wound.

──⊱⁜⊰──

When the dancing started, Hermione noticed Luna in Zabini's arms. They were spinning to a slow melody, and surprisingly to her, looked harmonious.

"Never would have thought Zabini and Luna..." Harry muttered.

But then his attention switched to another couple. Ginny was dancing with Theodore Nott. His hands lay too possessively on her waist, he leaned to her ear whispering something, and Ginny laughed merrily. The Slytherin clearly enjoyed the closeness. At the end of the dance she rose on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

Harry's face darkened.

"Harry..." Hermione began.

"Everything's fine," he said sharply.

When Ginny approached them, flushed and happy, Harry stepped back from her.

"Enjoyed dancing with Nott?" he asked coldly. "And the kiss at the end was especially sweet."

"Harry, what's wrong with you?" Ginny was surprised. "I just wanted to ask you to dance."

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing happened, don't come near me," he turned and left.

Ginny crouched by the wall, hugging her knees, her face contorted with pain.

"Why do you do this?" Hermione asked, crouching beside her. "Why provoke him?"

"I don't know," Ginny admitted, lowering her head. "For years he didn't notice me. Now... I enjoy any attention from him, even jealousy. Stupid, right?"

"Very," Hermione agreed. "You understand you could lose him?"

"I understand," Ginny stood up. "I'll go find him, need to apologize and try to fix everything."

She was about to leave but turned around:

"And why are you communicating so coldly with Malfoy? I thought you'd gotten along."

Hermione hugged herself and turned her head away.

"Everything's too complicated. He kissed me when he was drunk after winning at Quidditch, but I pushed him away."

"Hermione, you're just as foolish as me," Ginny shook her head. "Don't you see how he looks at you? Even now. Believe me, it definitely wasn't about alcohol. And he didn't drink that much then. If you have feelings for him, maybe it's worth taking a risk?"

She left, leaving Hermione alone with a storm of conflicting thoughts. She turned around and saw Draco's piercing gaze from the other end of the hall, directed at her. He himself at that moment was spinning the younger Greengrass in a dance.

Ginny's words gave no peace. Hermione sat at the table with Neville and started eating, watching the dancing couples. She felt determination growing inside. Maybe Ginny was right? Maybe it's worth trying?

She rose and headed for the Slytherin table. Draco now stood by the wall with a cup in his hand, watching the dances. Astoria had disappeared somewhere, he was alone.

"Malfoy," she called, approaching closer.

He turned, and surprise reflected on his face.

"Granger. Something wrong?"

"Want to dance?" she blurted out before she could change her mind.

Draco blinked, clearly not expecting such an offer.

"You... want to dance? With me?"

"Yes. If you don't mind."

He set the cup on the nearest table and extended his hand.

"All right."

They went onto the dance floor. Draco carefully placed his hand on her waist. Hermione placed one hand on his shoulder and felt the familiar warmth of his closeness—the curse reminded itself with pleasant tingling. They began moving to the music's rhythm.

"How are things with um... homework?" Hermione tried to start a conversation.

"Fine," he answered shortly.

"And the essay for History of Magic? Professor Binns assigned a very difficult topic."

"Managing."

Hermione sighed. He clearly wasn't going to get closer.

"Malfoy, I know everything's complicated between us, but I don't like your detachment..."

"What do you want from me?" he interrupted with irritation in his voice.

He smelled slightly of alcohol—not strongly, but noticeably.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked. "There are so many teachers here, how did you manage to bring in alcohol?"

Draco grimaced.

"Granger, can you not lecture and just dance with me? At least five minutes without moralizing?"

There was weariness in his tone, not anger, and this made her fall silent. They danced in silence, and Hermione felt him gradually relax. The hand on her waist became less tense.

When the melody ended, Draco stepped back.

"Thanks for the dance," he said, and a barely noticeable smile flickered on his lips.

For a moment Hermione thought something had improved between them, but Draco had already turned away from her and headed for the Slytherin table where his friends awaited him.

"Hermione!" Ron called to her. "Well, you danced with Malfoy, now is it my turn?"

She couldn't hold back a smile. Ron extended his hand with exaggerated gallantry, and she accepted it, letting her friend sweep her into a dance. He was clumsy—stepped on her feet, got confused in steps and apologized almost every five seconds, but his sincere joy was contagious.

"Ron, you dance like a troll in a china shop," she laughed when he once again stepped on her foot.

"Hey, I'm trying!" he protested, but smiled himself. "Besides, I can see you're laughing. So my mission's accomplished."

And indeed—Hermione was laughing for the first time all evening genuinely, without strain, without heaviness on her heart. Ron was spinning her awkwardly but with such enthusiasm it was impossible not to catch his mood.

When the song ended, Hermione hugged her friend, feeling gratitude.

"Thanks, Ron. You drove away all my bad thoughts."

"Always welcome," he smiled, blushing slightly from embarrassment. "Glad you're smiling again. That's what friends are for, right?"

Hermione nodded and stepped back, deciding it was time to leave on this note. She went looking for Malfoy to warn him about this. She walked around the hall and finally saw him by the far wall in company with Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle.

"...so, Draco, what's it like—living with Granger?" Goyle's voice reached her.

Hermione froze in her tracks.

"Exactly as I thought," Draco answered indifferently. "She's still just as prudish and annoying. Constantly lecturing, sticking her nose where it doesn't belong."

Blaise drank from his glass, looking away as if not wanting to participate in this conversation.

"And you thought a Mudblood would change?" Crabbe chuckled.

Blaise shook his head and quietly but clearly said:

"Draco..."

Now he'll tell them to shut up, she thought. Put them in their place.

But Draco didn't correct him. Just shrugged:

"Hoped she'd at least not be so annoying. But no—still the same bore you can't get rid of."

Hermione's heart seemed to stop. Nothing had changed from the very beginning. She was still the same "Mudblood" for him that he had to tolerate.

Crabbe glanced at her over Malfoy's shoulder and smirked. Draco turned and saw her. Horror reflected on his face.

"Granger..."

"Don't," she said coldly, approaching closer. Inside everything burned with pain and humiliation, but her voice was even as ice. "I understand. Glad you finally showed your true face. And I thought something had changed between us."

She turned and walked away without looking back. Behind her she heard scraps of conversations, but she didn't listen. The only thing she wanted now was to get to her room.

Granger wandered down the corridor, not really seeing ahead. Everything blurred in her eyes, strong pain pulsed in her temples. Only finding herself safe behind a closed door did Hermione allow herself to cry. Crookshanks immediately approached her, rubbed against her legs and meowed quietly—worriedly, as if sensing something was wrong. She sank to the floor right by the door and picked up the cat in her arms, pressing him to her chest.

With one hand she stroked Crookshanks, with the other she took from the nightstand an antique silver compass—the only thing she had left from her grandmother, and squeezed it painfully in her hands.

What a fool I am, she thought through tears. What a naive, stupid fool.

She thought she'd learned to protect herself from such blows. Years of mockery, disdain, insults should have hardened her. But why did Draco's words cause such acute pain now, as if someone was plunging a knife straight into her heart?

Because you fell in love with him, fool, she told herself mercilessly. All this time she'd deceived herself. Convinced herself they were just learning to coexist, that friendship was growing between them, mutual understanding.

The compass in her hands was warm, almost hot. She raised it to her eyes—the needle trembled but stubbornly pointed toward the door.

"The needle points to what you need most," she remembered her grandmother's words.

The door flew open, Draco burst into the room, breathless and agitated.

"Granger, wait, I can explain..."

Crookshanks instantly darted between them, stood before Hermione and arched his back, hissing. His ears pressed to his head and a warning growl came from his throat.

"Get out!" she shouted, rising from the bed. "I have nothing to discuss with you!"

"Hear me out..."

"Crookshanks, it's all right," Hermione said sharply, though her voice trembled. The cat cast her a doubtful glance but obeyed—stepped back to the bedroom door and, snorting finally, disappeared around the corner.

She turned to Draco, eyes sparkling with tears and fury:

"And what new will you tell me? Everything's already clear to me. That you consider me a Mudblood, or that I'm annoying to you and stick my nose in other people's business... Anything to add?"

"I really said it, but I regret it, I want to explain to you..."

"Don't come near me!" she stepped back.

But Draco kept approaching. When he extended his hands to her, Hermione slapped him across the face with all her strength. The sound of the slap echoed in the room's silence. Draco froze, touching his reddening cheek.

And then suddenly sharply stepped toward her and kissed her. Harshly, desperately, almost roughly. Pressed her to him so hard she could barely breathe. Kissed as if his life depended on it.

Hermione pushed him away, gasping:

"You... you kissed me again when you're drunk! What's wrong with you?"

"It's not because of Firewhisky!" he shouted. "I like you, Granger! Understand? I like you so much I'm going crazy! And I don't understand what to do with these feelings!"

She looked at him, unable to believe what she heard.

"Then why... why did you say those things to them?"

Draco lowered his head, and his voice became barely audible:

"Because I'm a coward. A pathetic coward who clings to his status, to the approval of the family that raised me to hate people like you. When I finally decided to accept what I feel, despite it being wrong, against everything I was taught, and kissed you, you pushed me away. I was angry. At myself, at you, at everything. And when Crabbe and Goyle started asking what it's like—living with you, I just... snapped. Said what they wanted to hear. What a Malfoy should say. And today..." he clenched his fists, "today I saw you dancing with Weasley, hugging him, glowing with happiness next to him. And it finished me off completely."

"I have nothing with Ron."

"I know."

"Don't you think I was happy next to him because he doesn't hurt me?"

He raised his eyes to her:

"I don't understand what you feel for me, and it drives me crazy. Forgive me. I've always been a coward, but never been so pathetic as to let them call you... that word. Stand nearby and stay silent when you were insulted."

Hermione was silent, her gaze fell on the compass in her hand. The needle that hadn't worked for years again confidently pointed... at Draco.

"What is it?" he asked quietly, noticing her gaze.

"A compass. Inherited from my great-grandmother," she answered dully. "She gave it to me before she died when she already had dementia. Said the needle doesn't point north but to what I need most. I didn't believe it then, since it hadn't worked all these years."

Draco looked at the compass, and his face paled.

"And now?"

"Now it points to you," she whispered. "Started pointing from the very moment they moved us into this room."

Awkward silence hung. They looked at each other, not knowing what to say.

"I don't know what to answer you," Hermione finally said. "I don't like cowards, Malfoy. Don't like when people hurt me... And so now I can't return your feelings. Don't know if I can trust you."

"I understand," he said quietly. "Just... know that everything I said to them is a lie."

"I need time," she whispered. "To understand what I feel."

"Take as much as you need," Malfoy nodded. "I'll wait."

He disappeared into the bathroom. Hermione collapsed on the bed, covered herself with the blanket over her head and turned to the wall, trying to become invisible.

When Draco returned and lay on his bed, she barely breathed, pretending to sleep. Darkness enveloped the room, bringing deceptive calm. Hermione had almost drifted off to sleep when she heard his voice, so quiet she could have thought she'd dreamed it:

"Granger... I lied to them. And lied to myself. The truth is that you're the best thing that's happened in my life, however strange that sounds."

Hermione pressed her lips together, pretending to sleep. But her heart pounded so loudly she feared—he'd hear it.

"You make me better. When I'm near you, I can just be myself. And that scares me."

Silence fell again. Hermione lay motionless, tears flowing down her cheeks. She understood that after tonight nothing between them would ever be the same.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke with the feeling her heart was tearing in half. All night she'd tossed in bed, now wrapping herself in the blanket up to her chin, now throwing it aside, the sheet was crumpled and twisted. Last evening's events played through her head again and again, like a record stuck on the same tormenting melody.

Draco's words seemed sincere to her, full of pain and desperation. Then turned into another cunning manipulation.

"You're the best thing that's happened in my life."

This phrase sounded in her head with obsessive insistence. She remembered how his voice faltered when he spoke those words. How such vulnerability splashed in his gray eyes that she'd never before seen in Draco Malfoy—eternally self-confident, cold and unreachable. And immediately remembered how indifferently he'd talked about how unbearable she was, how hard it was to share space with her. Pain from this memory pierced her chest with a sharp blade. She pressed her palm to her heart, as if trying to keep it from falling apart.

Looking at Malfoy's bed, empty with a perfectly smoothed bedspread, Hermione saw Crookshanks curled up there in a ball. Her ginger cat peacefully slept on Draco's pillow, occasionally twitching in sleep. Morning light played on his fur, creating whimsical highlights.

Traitor, she mentally reproached the cat, but felt no anger, only sad irony. Lately Crookshanks increasingly went to sleep with Draco himself, not with her. At first these were rare forays—the cat cautiously sniffed foreign territory, but now he felt at home there. Apparently her pet had also succumbed to Malfoy's charm. Or his bed is just softer, she tried to convince herself, understanding the absurdity of this thought.

But his kiss... She involuntarily touched her lips with her fingers. The second kiss was so hungry, desperate, full of pain and passion that Hermione still felt heat on her lips. Whatever the reason—alcohol, emotions, the curse—he'd kissed her as if she was the only thing that mattered to him. As if he was afraid of losing her.

Enough, Hermione sharply stopped herself, shaking her head so vigorously curls flew in all directions. You can't make decisions based on kisses. Especially from someone who kisses you only in a state of intoxication. It's just chemistry, hormones, and nothing more.

Her compass on the nightstand stubbornly pointed toward the bathroom where Draco was already getting ready. She heard the muted sound of water, quiet muttering. He had a habit of talking to himself in the mornings when he thought no one could hear. She angrily grabbed the compass, opened the first drawer of the nightstand and threw it in there, slamming the drawer deafeningly loud. The sound was so loud even Crookshanks opened one eye, displeased at the disruption of his sleep.

Hermione sighed deeply and closed her eyes, counting to ten. One... two... three... Air slowly filled her lungs. Four... five... six... She closed her eyes, trying to find inner balance.

She'd made a decision. She wouldn't ignore him—that would be childish. Wouldn't throw barbs—that would lower her to the level of those who solve problems with insults. She'd pretend nothing had happened and just observe. If his words were truth, actions would prove it. Actions always speak louder than words—her mother had taught her that.

Hermione replaced Draco in the bathroom, quickly tidying herself up. A cold shower helped her finally wake up. When she emerged, fully ready to meet the new day, Malfoy was already waiting for her at the door. He stood leaning against the jamb, hands shoved in pockets. He wasn't cold, like all the previous week, but didn't try to speak, didn't pepper her with jokes and barbs as he usually did. Just stood, his gaze sliding over her face, as if trying to read her thoughts, decipher her mood. In his gray eyes flickered something like hope mixed with apprehension.

"Shall we go?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, and they headed to the Great Hall in silence. Their steps echoed in the empty corridor, most students still slept on Saturday morning. Hermione stealthily watched him, pretending to examine portraits on the walls. Draco looked tired, shadows lay under his eyes, indicating he'd slept no better than her. His jaw was tense, he was thoughtful, absorbed in his own thoughts. Several times she noticed him open his mouth, as if about to say something, but never decided to. Words stuck in his throat, and he only sighed quietly, turning away. Morning light penetrating through tall windows made his hair almost silver. Hermione caught herself staring and hurried to look away.

In the Great Hall some students had already gathered despite the early hour. The aroma of fresh pastries, eggs with bacon and pumpkin juice filled the air. Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table in her usual place between Harry and Ron. Harry looked disheveled, his hair stuck out in all directions even more than usual, glasses slid down his nose, but he was in good spirits. A light smile played on his face and yesterday's anxiety was gone from his green eyes. Ron was already wolfing down breakfast, a mountain of eggs, sausages and toast piled on his plate. He ate with such enthusiasm as if he hadn't seen food in a week.

"Good morning," she said, sitting down and pouring herself pumpkin juice. The cool drink pleasantly refreshed her throat.

"Gfood mfornin'," Ron mumbled with his mouth full.

"Ron, how many times must I tell you—chew first, then speak," Hermione muttered, but there was no irritation in her voice. She smiled. Some things never change, and there was charm in that.

At that moment a flock of owls flew into the hall with morning mail. Owls circled over tables, examining addressees. One of them, a large brown owl, flew up to Hermione and dropped a fresh issue of the Daily Prophet. The newspaper plopped down next to her plate, nearly knocking over her glass of juice.

She placed a coin in the leather pouch tied to its leg. The bird hooted satisfiedly and soared into the air. Hermione unfolded the newspaper, still smelling of printer's ink, and froze. Blood drained from her face, fingers convulsively gripped the newspaper's edges so hard her knuckles whitened.

In large letters on the front page blazed the headline:

"MALFOY JUNIOR BETRAYS PURE-BLOOD TRADITIONS FOR GRYFFINDOR GIRL. LOVE OR CURSE?"

Under the headline was placed a magical photograph from yesterday's party—she and Draco dancing in flickering torchlight, his hand gently resting on her waist. In the picture they slowly spun, and it looked... sweet.

"Oh Merlin," she muttered, feeling blood rush to her cheeks. Heat spread across her face and she was sure she now resembled a ripe tomato in color.

"What's there?" Ron asked, looking over her shoulder. She felt him sharply inhale. His eyes widened. "Hermione!"

Harry also reached to look at the newspaper, nearly knocking over his cup, and his eyebrows shot up.

"Hermione, are you and Malfoy um..." he stammered, clearly choosing words. "Together? Or is this more of Skeeter's gossip? She's a known... fabricator."

Hermione raised her eyes from the newspaper and involuntarily met Draco's gaze across the hall. The distance between the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables had never seemed so small. He too held the Prophet in his hands, but his face was impenetrable. Their gazes met for a long second before he looked away, turning to Pansy who was excitedly saying something, waving her copy of the newspaper.

Throughout the hall students were unfolding newspapers, then raising their heads to look at her and Draco. Dozens, hundreds of eyes looked at them with curiosity, surprise, disbelief. A wave of whispers rolled through the hall.

"Is it true?"

"Malfoy and Granger? Can't be!"

"I always knew there was something between them..."

"This is disgusting!"

"What, it's so romantic!"

Voices merged into an indistinct hum that made Hermione's head begin to ache.

"We just danced," Hermione said quietly, lowering her eyes back to the newspaper. "One dance. Nothing more."

"But Hermione," Ron began, his ears rapidly reddening, "it says here about your curse too... How did she even find out?"

She quickly skimmed through the article. Rita Skeeter had somehow learned about their curse. The details were surprisingly accurate: the need to stay within certain proximity, symptoms of ailments, even that they'd been placed in one room. The journalist built speculations about how the curse led to "a romantic connection between the heir of a noble pure-blood house and a talented witch of Muggle origin." Phrases were full of hints, each word soaked with poison.

"Sources close to the couple report that the young people spend every night together..." Hermione snorted. Technically this was true, but presented so that readers' imaginations would paint something quite different.

Ginny, who had just approached their table, looked fresh and rested. Her fiery red hair was gathered in a high ponytail, freckles stood out on pale skin. She kissed Harry on the cheek and glanced at the newspaper over his shoulder.

"Oh, wow!" her brown eyes lit with a mischievous spark. "You two look very sweet. Just like from a romance novel. You know, enemies become lovers and all that..." she winked at Hermione.

"Ginny!" Hermione hissed back. "This isn't funny!"

"What? I'm just saying what I see," the girl shrugged with an innocent look, sitting next to Harry. She took his hand and intertwined their fingers. Harry blushed slightly but squeezed her palm in response.

Hermione noticed this gesture and felt relief. So they'd made up after yesterday's quarrel. Good that everything worked out.

"By the way," Ginny added, spreading butter on toast, "Malfoy is looking at you. Already the third time in the last two minutes."

Hermione instinctively turned and indeed caught Draco's gaze. He quickly looked away, pretending to be absorbed in conversation with Blaise.

"Let's hurry up," she muttered, trying to change the subject. "We need to get ready for Hogsmeade soon."

When they rose from the table, ready to go, Hermione again met Draco's gaze. This time he didn't look away first, and in his gray eyes she read a question. She barely noticeably nodded—a gesture that could mean anything, but he seemed to understand it in his own way and slightly smirked at her.

──⊱⁜⊰──

The road to Hogsmeade was awkward. The air was fresh and cold, smelling of snow and damp earth. Students walked in groups, and laughter echoed in the frosty air. Draco unexpectedly appeared next to Hermione, though she had assumed he would go with his company of Slytherins. She saw Parkinson purse her lips in displeasure, turning away toward Nott.

Harry and Ginny walked ahead, holding hands. From time to time, Harry would lean toward Ginny, whisper something in her ear, and she would laugh merrily. Ron was chatting enthusiastically with Seamus about the latest Quidditch match, waving his arms to demonstrate some spectacular maneuver.

Hermione was acutely aware of Draco's presence beside her — the warmth of his body, the way his hand occasionally brushed against hers as they walked. She didn't know whether she wanted to pull away or, on the contrary, move closer. Each accidental touch made her heart beat faster and her cheeks burn traitorously. Hermione was angry at herself for this confusion in her head — just yesterday she had been so angry with him, and today her fingers kept reaching to touch his hand. She was afraid to meet his gaze and at the same time desperately wanted him to look at her. Everything inside clenched with tension: part of her yearned to escape from this unbearable closeness, but another part — the one she preferred not to think about — wanted to stay near and not let go of this moment. Hermione was completely confused by her own desires, and it frightened her more than she was willing to admit to herself.

— Nice weather… for November, — Draco tried to start a conversation, shoving his hands in his coat pockets.

— Yes, Hermione answered shortly, watching as tiny snowflakes descended onto the village rooftops.

— After yesterday's rain, I didn't think the sun would come out and snow would fall, — he continued, clearly struggling with awkwardness. — Usually in November the weather is more… predictable.

— Mmm, — Hermione hummed noncommittally, watching as their breath turned into clouds of vapor.

Draco sighed heavily:

— Granger, — his voice sounded almost pleading, — can we at least pretend we're communicating normally? People are already staring at us after that article.

She followed his gaze and indeed saw several younger-year girls whispering, not taking their eyes off them.

— Fine, — she agreed after a pause. — What will we supposedly talk about?

— About how tired I am of these stares, — he answered honestly, and irritation slipped into his voice. — And about how Skeeter is a repulsive journalist.

— I'll agree with the latter, — Hermione said, and for the first time that morning her lips touched with a faint smile.

They entered Honeydukes, where warm air immediately enveloped them, smelling of chocolate, caramel, and vanilla. The shop was full of customers. The shelves were bursting with colorful sweets: Chocolate Frogs, Blood-Flavored Lollipops, Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, and much more. Friends immediately started buying everything. Ron filled an entire basket with Chocolate Frogs, hoping to find a particular card. Harry was choosing sweets for Ginny, carefully studying labels, and Ginny herself was examining the new line of Exploding Bonbons.

Hermione walked along the shelves. Usually she loved looking at new products, reading ingredients on labels (a habit left over from her dentist parents). But today, after the morning newspaper, her appetite for sweets had disappeared. Everything seemed cloyingly sweet and unappetizing.

— Hermione, aren't you getting anything? — Ginny asked in surprise, approaching her with her arms full of purchases. — You love Sugar Quills!

— I don't feel like it, — she shrugged, pretending to study the display.

After Honeydukes, they strolled through the snowy streets, stopping by various shops. In the bookstore, Hermione perked up a bit, leafing through a new edition of 'A History of Magic' with expanded chapters on the goblin wars. At some point, she noticed that Draco had been missing for a while. Probably went to his friends, — she thought, trying to ignore a slight disappointment. It made sense — why would he hang around with Gryffindors when his friends were probably waiting for him.

After a while, Hermione and her friends headed to the Three Broomsticks to warm up over a mug of butterbeer. The pub was packed — students, village residents, several wizards in strange outfits who appeared to be visitors. The air was warm and humid, smelling of butterbeer, roasted meat, and smoke from the fireplace.

They found a free table in the corner, away from the entrance and the draft. Hermione was about to sit down when someone pulled her by the elbow to the side. She turned sharply, ready to fight back, but it was Malfoy. In his hands was a small package wrapped in Honeydukes' signature green-and-pink paper with its logo.

— What is this? — she asked in surprise, examining the package.

— This is for you. Open it.

She carefully unwrapped the paper. Inside were her favorite sweets — Sugar Quills of different colors, Chocolate Frogs, and Cauldron Cakes with strawberry filling. Everything she usually bought, but hadn't today. She raised a stunned gaze to him. Uncertainty flickered in his gray eyes.

— How do you know I love all this? — she asked, feeling something warm spreading in her chest, melting the icy armor she had been so carefully building.

— Well… — he hesitated, running a hand through his hair. — Never mind. All right, I'll go to my friends, — he nodded toward the table where the Slytherins were sitting. — Meet in an hour to return to Hogwarts together?

— Yes, okay, — she breathed out, clutching the package.

Hermione sat down at the table with her friends, where Ginny immediately leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, tickling her skin:

— I saw everything! When we left Honeydukes, he literally ambushed me and started asking what sweets you liked. Malfoy is a specific type, of course, — she giggled, — but it's obvious that he really likes you.

Hermione looked at the package, carefully putting it away in her beaded bag. She hurriedly switched to conversation with her friends, hoping it would help calm her pounding heart.

At the table in the Three Broomsticks, the conversation inevitably returned to the morning article.

— I still don't understand, — Ron said, sipping his butterbeer and leaving foam mustaches above his upper lip, — how Skeeter found out about your curse? It's not public information. Only we knew, the teachers and… — he fell silent, frowning.

— Yes, the whole of Hogwarts knew, — Harry finished for him, handing his friend a napkin. — But the description of the curse is quite accurate, as if she had a reliable source. Someone who knows the details.

— Maybe one of the teachers let it slip? — Neville suggested.

— In any case, now the whole school thinks that you… — Seamus made a meaningful gesture, waggling his eyebrows up and down.

— Hey, stop it! — Ron said sharply, his ears instantly turning red. — I won't let you talk about her like that.

— We're not doing anything like that, — Hermione said firmly, trying to sound convincing, though memories of their kisses burned her cheeks. — We just live in the same room. We sleep in different beds.

— And how is he behaving? — Ginny asked curiously, propping her chin on her hand. — Not being rude anymore? Not picking fights?

Hermione thought about it. He hadn't been rude to her in conversations for a long time, hadn't made caustic comments about her origins, about her friends. But she wasn't going to tell the details of their currently complicated relationship.

— No, — she answered slowly, twisting her mug in her hands. The foam on the surface of the butterbeer formed whimsical patterns — He… has changed. Become different.

— Wow, — Ron drawled, his eyes widening. — Never thought I'd hear that about him. Some kind of incompatible concepts.

— People change, — Hermione shrugged, not understanding why she was suddenly defending Malfoy.

She stealthily glanced at his table. Draco was sitting with Blaise and Theo, but from time to time his gaze would drift toward her. When their eyes met, he didn't look away immediately, but looked for a second or two, as if trying to say something from a distance.

— All right, enough about Malfoy, — Harry said, clearly wanting to change the subject. — Let's talk about something pleasant. For example, plans after graduation.

— Oh yes! — Ginny livened up. — I want to play professional Quidditch. It would be so wonderful to get into the Holyhead Harpies! — her gaze became dreamy, and she began to count on her fingers. — Imagine: a stadium full of fans, speed, adrenaline… And they have cool uniforms.

— You have excellent chances, — Harry said sincerely, squeezing her hand. — You're the best Chaser I know.

— After Angelina, — Ginny teased him.

— Including Angelina, — Harry answered firmly. — I've definitely decided I'm going to be an Auror, — he added, and his face became serious.

— The main thing is that Snape doesn't completely fail us with grades, — Ron grimaced, rubbing his neck. — Otherwise I'm with you, mate, we'll be catching Dark wizards. Team Potter and Weasley — the scourge of the criminal world! — He put his hand on Harry's shoulder.

— More like team 'Potter and his eternally hungry partner,' — Seamus teased.

— Hey!

— What about you, Seamus? — Neville asked, trying to prevent the beginning squabble.

— I haven't decided yet, — Finnigan admitted, scratching the back of his head. — I'm thinking between working at the Ministry, the Experimental Charms department looks interesting. Or starting my own business. Maybe a workshop for repairing magical objects? I'm pretty good at fixing all sorts of things after... — he coughed, — minor incidents.

— After you blow them up, you mean? — Ron smirked.

— Hey, I haven't blown anything up in ages! — Seamus protested, but his lips twitched, holding back a smile. — Well, almost nothing. That cauldron last week doesn't count, it was Slughorn's fault, he didn't warn about the reaction with silver!

Everyone turned to Neville, who blushed slightly under their gazes.

— And you, Neville? — Hermione asked gently.

— I… I'd like to work with plants. — there was confidence in his voice, which always appeared when he talked about Herbology. — Maybe become Professor Sprout's assistant at Hogwarts. She said I have a talent, and promised to put in a good word…

— Assistant? — Ginny protested, hitting the table with her fist so that the mugs jumped. — Neville Longbottom, you know more about plants than all of us put together! You could be a full-fledged Herbology professor.

Neville blushed, but his eyes shone from the unexpected praise:

— Do you really think I could? Become a professor? That's such a responsibility.

— Of course you could, — Harry said warmly, smiling at him.

Everyone fell silent, sipping their drinks. The warm butterbeer pleasantly warmed them from within. Hermione's gaze slid over her friends:

— Hey! Why isn't anyone asking me? — she protested with feigned offense.

The group laughed.

— Why ask? — Ginny smiled slyly, her eyes sparkling with merriment. — Everyone already knows you'll be defending the rights of house-elves, werewolves, giants, basically everyone who's oppressed.

— Yeah, I remember your S.P.E.W., — Ron grimaced, snorting.

— It was an important organization! — Hermione protested, straightening in her chair. — House-elves deserve freedom and fair pay!

— Of course, — Harry agreed with a poorly concealed smirk. — The kitchen elves especially loved it. Remember how they hid from your hats?

— They just didn't understand it was for their own good! — Hermione insisted, but couldn't hold back a smile herself. — In time they would have appreciated freedom!

— Our Hermione will never change, — Harry said warmly, raising his mug in a playful toast. — And that's wonderful. The Ministry of Magic doesn't know what's coming. Prepare for reforms!

— Exactly, — Seamus nodded. — Poor officials. I can imagine their faces when Hermione Granger bursts in there with her ideas about equality and a list of three hundred necessary changes.

— Three hundred? — Hermione protested. — Why not four hundred and fifteen?

Everyone burst out laughing.

When it was time to return to the castle, the group headed for the exit. It had grown dark outside, and the lanterns of Hogsmeade cast warm light on the snowy road, creating long shadows. A thin layer of snow crunched underfoot, and the frosty air nipped at their cheeks.

— Ready to go? — Malfoy asked, seemingly addressing everyone, but looking at Hermione.

Draco appeared beside them right at the pub's exit. His cheeks were slightly flushed from the warmth of the pub and the beer he'd drunk, his hair slightly disheveled. They walked together — a strange procession of Gryffindors and one Slytherin. Gradually, unnoticed by the others, he and Hermione fell behind, walking at the rear. Perhaps she herself had unconsciously adjusted to his rhythm. Enough distance formed between them and their friends for a private conversation.

— Granger, — he called quietly, his voice barely audible. Their breath turned into white clouds, mingling in the space between them.

— Yes? — she didn't pretend she hadn't heard.

— What I told you yesterday in the room… — he paused, and she noticed how he was choosing his words, how he was struggling with his own pride. — I was sincere. Every word. I know you saw me with my friends, heard… But that was a mask. Protection. An old habit that's hard to break.

Hermione looked at him. In the light of the lanterns, his face seemed almost vulnerable. The shadows emphasized his sharp cheekbones, making him look like a marble statue about to come to life.

— Malfoy…

— Draco, — he corrected. — Please. At least while we're alone.

He stopped and took her hand. Even through her gloves, Hermione felt the warmth of his fingers. Instead of pulling her hand away, as reason suggested, she squeezed his palm tighter. This was wrong. This was dangerous. This was… right?

— I won't let you down again, I promise. — he said, looking into her eyes. — I know I've already given you many reasons to doubt me. But this time it's different.

Hermione decided not to answer — words now seemed unnecessary, incapable of expressing the entire whirlpool of feelings inside. Let everything take its course.

They walked along the snowy road, not letting go of each other's hands. Small snowflakes slowly swirled around them, settling on their hair. Somewhere in the distance came the laughter of friends. And for the first time in a long while, Hermione felt that in her soul there had come, however fragile, however temporary, but so necessary — peace.

──⊱⁜⊰──

When they returned to their room, the atmosphere between them was completely different from the morning. The tension remained, but now it was different — not cold and awkward, but exciting, filled with anticipation.

Hermione took off her cloak and hung it on a hook. Drops of melted snow glistened on the dark fabric. She pulled off her gloves, rubbing her frozen fingers. Draco had already changed and sat by the fireplace, watching her. There was something new in his gaze — tenderness mixed with uncertainty.

— I never said… — she began, turning to him. — Thank you for the sweets. It was… sweet.

— Don't mention it, — he replied, getting up and taking a step closer. Then another. And another.

Between them hung a silence — thick, almost tangible. You could hear only the crackling of logs in the fireplace and their breathing. Draco stopped a step away from her, raised his hand, and touched her cheek. His fingers were warm, and she involuntarily leaned into his palm.

— You're cold… — he whispered.

With his thumb, he traced her lower lip — slowly, almost weightlessly. She instinctively licked her lips, and his eyes darkened, following this movement. His pupils dilated, almost swallowing the gray iris. With his other hand, he embraced her waist, pulling her closer. She felt the firmness of his chest, the beating of his heart, fast, uneven, in sync with her own.

She didn't pull away. On the contrary, she leaned forward slightly, placing her hands on his chest. Under the thin fabric of his shirt, she felt the warmth of his skin.

Draco leaned in, and she felt his breath on her lips — warm, with a light scent of mint. Her eyes began to close, her eyelashes trembled…

A sharp knock on the window made them jump apart from each other. Hermione's heart was pounding wildly, and her cheeks were burning. Behind the glass sat an owl from the Malfoy family.

— This is… — Draco began, but fell silent when the owl ignored his outstretched hand and flew right to Hermione, landing on the armrest of her chair.

— But this is your family's owl, — she said in surprise, examining the bird. — Why isn't it going to you?

Draco frowned, and anxiety flickered in his eyes:

— Usually it does. But it seems the letter is addressed to you.

Hermione carefully took the letter. On expensive, thick parchment, elegant handwriting read: "Miss Hermione Granger."

— It really is addressed to me, — she said, carefully breaking the wax seal with the Malfoy crest.

She unfolded the message. The handwriting was impeccable, each letter drawn with calligraphic precision:

"Dear Miss Granger,

Allow me to express my sincere surprise at recent events linking you to my son. Newspapers, with all their tendency to exaggerate, sometimes convey grains of truth.

The circumstances that led to your… closeness, are certainly unusual. Ancient, elemental magic acts unpredictably, does it not? Especially when it comes to people as different as you two.

I confess, my curiosity gives me no peace. Draco has been telling so little about his life lately, and I, like any father, want to know who occupies such a significant place in my son's fate. You are, without a doubt, an extraordinary young lady — your academic achievements and reputation speak for themselves. It would be regrettable not to meet personally with the person whose name is now inextricably linked with the name of the Malfoys.

I assume you have heard of the library at Malfoy Manor — one of the oldest private collections of magical literature in Britain. It would be my genuine pleasure to provide you with the opportunity to acquaint yourself with its contents. I am confident that among the rare folios and manuscripts there will be much that might interest the inquiring mind of a researcher of your caliber.

I would be flattered if you and Draco would do me the honor of visiting the ancestral Malfoy Manor next weekend. I am sure we will find much to discuss.

Dinner will be served at nine in the evening.

With best wishes and in anticipation of your visit,
Lucius Malfoy"

— What does it say? — Draco asked tensely.

Hermione read through the lines again, and her face grew more and more puzzled. The tone of the letter was… strange. Polite, almost friendly, but still somehow with subtext.

— Your father… — she said slowly, raising her eyes. — He's inviting us both to dinner at Malfoy Manor next weekend.

— What? May I? — he practically tore the letter from her hands.

Hermione watched as he read, and with each line the horror on his face grew.

— Granger, — he said, raising his eyes to her. — We're not going there. No way.

— Why? — She tilted her head, studying his reaction. — He sounds quite… civilized. Polite even. Not that I expected an invitation from your father, but since it's come to this…

— That's exactly why! — Draco began pacing the room, running his hand through his hair. — When my father is polite, it means only one thing — he's planning something. He never does anything just because.

— But he mentioned the library. What if there's information about the curse there?

— Granger, — he stopped in front of her, placing his hands on her shoulders. — You will not appear there.

Hermione looked thoughtfully at the letter in his hands:

— But if we don't go, won't that seem strange? We are… bound by a curse. Isn't it natural that your parents would want to meet me? Especially after today's article. All of magical Britain now thinks we're a couple.

— It would be natural if these were normal parents, — Draco answered grimly, throwing the letter on the table. — My father never does anything without an ulterior motive. Especially when it concerns… — he hesitated.

— What? — she prompted.

— People I care about, — he finished quietly, not looking at her.

Hermione felt something warm flare in her chest at his words, but anxiety quickly drowned out that feeling.

— And what will happen if we refuse?

— Most likely he'll find another way to get what he wants, — Draco sighed, sinking into an armchair. He looked exhausted, as if he had aged several years in the last few minutes. — Father always gets what he wants. If not the easy way, then… He might come here himself. Or summon me through the Board of Governors — he sits on it, after all. Or think of something else.

The owl, still sitting on the armrest, gave a soft hoot, as if in agreement. The bird turned its head to Hermione, and it seemed to her that something like approval flickered in the amber eyes.

— Then maybe it's better to go? — Hermione suggested uncertainly, sitting in the chair opposite. — At least we'll know what he wants. And we'll be in control of the situation. Besides… — she paused, — what if he found a way to remove the curse?

Draco looked at her with an expression that mixed admiration for her courage and horror at the idea itself.

— Are you seriously ready to take the risk?

— I don't think he'll harm me somehow. That would be stupid, because it would immediately become obvious who's behind it, — Hermione answered calmly, putting aside the letter. — If something happens to me at Malfoy Manor, your father would be the first suspect. He won't act so straightforwardly.

Draco squinted, and a snide smile appeared on his lips:

— Or you're just willing to take any risk to get access to my library? Admit it, Granger, he caught you hook, line, and sinker with that offer.

Hermione blushed, but her chin lifted stubbornly. But then Draco immediately became serious. The mockery disappeared from his face, replaced by tense concern.

— All right, — he finally nodded. — We'll go there. But at the first sign of danger, we leave immediately. And you don't leave my side for a second. Agreed?

— Agreed, — she nodded.

Hermione took a quill and parchment, quickly wrote a reply, and tied it to the owl's leg. The bird hooted, spreading its huge wings, and flew out the window, dissolving into the darkness of the night.

— I hope we're not making a huge mistake, — Draco muttered, watching the owl.

— Don't worry, we'll handle this, — Granger said with confidence.

He looked at her, and something in his gaze softened:

— Yes. Together.

Chapter Text

The week after receiving Lucius Malfoy's letter flew by in a blur. Hermione noticed that something had changed between her and Draco — the invisible barriers they had so carefully built up at first began to crumble one after another. And this frightened her no less than the curse itself. The fewer barriers remained, the harder it was to deny the obvious: she was getting used to him. Too used to him.

It all started with little things. More and more often in the morning, Draco would calmly wait for her before breakfast, leaning against the wall near their room with the air of someone who had all eternity to spare. He didn't rush her, didn't fidget, just waited to go to the Great Hall together. Often he'd leaf through some textbook, but sometimes he even chatted with Madam Harmony. When she finally came out, adjusting her robes, he would simply look up, smirk at the corner of his lips, and say something like: 'Finally, Granger. I was beginning to think you'd decided to take a day off.'

On the way to the Great Hall, his hand would inadvertently touch her back when he let her go first through doors. Or his fingers would slide along her elbow, guiding her aside when they went around a group of younger students. At first, Hermione would flinch at each such touch, her heart would start beating faster, and her cheeks would blush treacherously. But over time, she began to get used to these 'accidental' touches — to the warmth of his palm on her shoulder, to the fleeting contact of fingers when he passed her a book or quill. These touches became something natural, almost necessary, and Hermione caught herself unconsciously moving closer, expecting this contact.

When she sat up late with books, immersing herself completely in homework, he would bring her tea. He would simply appear out of nowhere, place a steaming cup next to her elbow, and return to his own business. He wouldn't say a word, wouldn't wait for thanks. He would just... care. As if it were natural.

— You don't have to, — she said one evening, looking up from another tome on ancient curses. Her voice sounded quieter than she had planned, almost uncertain.

Draco sat down next to her by the fireplace, leaning back against the soft back of the sofa. The fire cast soft shadows on his face, emphasizing sharp cheekbones and the thoughtful expression in his gray eyes.

— I know, — he answered calmly. — I just want to.

The simplicity of these words touched her more than any vows or loud confessions.

Their visit to Dumbledore three days ago turned out to be both encouraging and disappointing. The Headmaster listened attentively to their story about the curse's behavior, about how the pain now occurred less frequently, how they had learned to sense the boundaries — when they could step a little farther away, and when it was better to stay close. During this visit, Madam Pomfrey performed several diagnostic spells, watching the shimmers of magic around them.

— The curse is no longer as intense as it was in the first days.

Dumbledore looked at them over his glasses, which had slid to the tip of his nose:

— The magical connection between you has strengthened. Most likely, this is because you are constantly near each other and 'feed' each other. I'm afraid that at the moment, there is no quick solution to lifting the curse. But we continue our search.

Hermione felt her heart squeeze with disappointment. She had so hoped that Dumbledore would say something new, suggest at least some path to freedom. But instead, uncertainty again.

— And how long might this take? — Draco asked, and Granger caught the tension in his voice that he was trying to hide.

— Here, unfortunately, I do not undertake to voice exact figures, — Dumbledore steepled his fingers. — The magic of curses is an unpredictable art. But judging by how you both look, this no longer seems like such a catastrophe to you.

He smiled, and in that smile was something knowing.

And he was right. When they left the Headmaster's office, passing by the dozing portraits of former headmasters and descending the moving staircase, Hermione realized that the news that the curse might last much longer did not upset her as much as it should have. Somewhere deep inside, something else stirred. Relief? She wasn't ready to admit this to herself out loud, but the thought that the curse might persist for some more time did not cause the horror that should have been expected. Hermione couldn't deny that she liked what was happening between her and Draco — these furtive glances, accidental touches, moments of closeness, and even the rare kisses they would never have shared under other circumstances. The curse gave her an excuse for feelings she was afraid to admit to herself. And now, hearing that liberation was being postponed, she felt a strange mixture of annoyance and secret, almost shameful relief, which made it even heavier on her soul.

Now they were sitting on the soft carpet in front of the fireplace in their room, leaning against each other's shoulders and sipping hot chocolate. Outside the window a November blizzard raged, but it was cozy here. The fire crackled in the fireplace, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and Draco smelled of warmth and home.

— What are you thinking about? — he asked quietly.

Hermione wondered if she should tell the truth. In ordinary times, she would have lied, joked it off, or changed the subject. But now she wanted to tell the truth.

— About how strangely everything turned out, — she admitted, looking at the dancing tongues of flame. — A few months ago, I thought the curse was the worst thing that could happen to me. That being forced to spend every minute next to you was a punishment worse than Azkaban.

Draco turned his head to look at her, and she saw in his eyes a mixture of curiosity and something else:

— And now? — he asked, and caution sounded in his voice, as if he was afraid to hear the answer.

She met his gaze and felt her heart quicken its rhythm. Merlin, when did his eyes become so serious? So... deep?

— And now I can't even imagine you not hanging around me constantly, — she laughed, but the laugh came out nervous. — Who would have thought I'd ever say such a thing about Draco Malfoy? Harry would faint. Ron would decide I was under the Imperius Curse. And I... just got used to it. To you. To... us.

The last word hung in the air between them.

Instead of answering, he carefully took her chin, making her turn to him completely. His fingers were so warm, the touch tender, almost reverent. This time there was no alcohol between them, no quarrels, no despair. Only the silence of the room, the crackling of logs in the fireplace, and that warmth that spread through her chest every time he looked at her like that.

"May I?" he whispered, looking at her lips with such open desire that it took her breath away.

Words stuck in her throat, so she simply nodded. He leaned toward her. The kiss was slow, tender—the complete opposite of the previous one, which had been born of panic and fear of loss. This kiss spoke of something else. Of choice. Of desire. Of the fact that they had both finally stopped pretending there was nothing between them.

Hermione closed her eyes, dissolving in the sensation of his lips on hers. They were soft, and he kissed as if they had an entire eternity ahead—without haste, pressure, just... exploring, memorizing. His hand buried itself in her hair, fingers gently massaging the back of her head, and goosebumps ran across her skin from that touch.

This is the first time, she thought through the fog of sensations. The first time when everything between us is so... right.

He ran his tongue along her lower lip, and she invitingly parted her mouth. Gradually the kiss became bolder, more demanding. Their tongues intertwined in passion, and Draco carefully lowered her onto the soft carpet, supporting her by the waist.

Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, unable to get enough of the closeness. Her fingers slid over his shoulders, his back. She wanted to touch him endlessly, to drown in his scent, breathing him in.

No one had ever kissed her like this. Draco kissed as if she were the only thing that mattered in this world. She didn't understand how one kiss could mix trembling tenderness, reverence, and stunning passion. Her head spun from the storm of emotions.

Malfoy, meanwhile, slid his hands over her body, and each touch was simultaneously a promise and a question. He squeezed her hips, ran his hands over her collarbones, touched her stomach—all of it was so close, so intimate. His breathing became heavier, more ragged, and she felt how his body responded to her closeness.

A wave of fear and uncertainty washed over her, and she involuntarily tensed. This was too fast. Too much.

He noticed immediately. He froze, his hands stopped, and he raised himself slightly, looking into her eyes. In his gaze there was neither irritation nor disappointment, only something like an apology.

"Sorry... I didn't mean to embarrass you," his voice was hoarse from restrained desire. "I've wanted to kiss you like this for so long, to touch you, to be close. I just... got carried away."

"Me too," she whispered in response. Hermione felt her cheeks flush with heat, but didn't look away. "I want to as well. It's just... I need time. I'm not ready for more. Yet."

Draco smiled gently, kissed her forehead and stood up, offering her his hand.

"Perhaps it's time to sleep," he said, helping her up. "Tomorrow will be a long day."

Granger felt a pang of disappointment that the moment had ended, but at the same time felt grateful. He didn't pressure. Didn't insist. Accepted her boundaries.

"Yes, exactly," Hermione answered, fixing her disheveled hair.

Rising, they froze for a moment, looking at each other in the flickering light of the fireplace. A special silence hung between them.

"Good night, Granger," he finally said, and a smile could be heard in his voice.

"Good night, Malfoy."

She headed to her bed, feeling his gaze on her. And when she finally lay down, covering herself with the blanket and closing her eyes, a silly, happy smile played on her lips.

──⊱⁜⊰──

On Saturday morning, Ginny burst into their room like a hurricane, carrying an armful of dresses and looking as if she was preparing for the most important mission of her life.

"So!" she announced triumphantly, dumping the clothes onto Granger's bed. "The time has come to prepare you for meeting your future relatives!"

"Ginny!" Hermione protested, immediately blushing. She was incredibly happy that Draco wasn't in the room at that moment. "We're not... this isn't..."

"Of course, of course," the redhead waved her hand. "And the way you look at each other, and how you secretly hold hands, of course we don't see that, and it doesn't mean anything. The curse. Right. Only the curse."

Her tone was so mocking that Hermione didn't immediately find what to say.

"Actually," she began with feigned dignity, crossing her arms over her chest, "I was going to go in my school uniform."

Ginny looked at her as if Hermione had just suggested showing up to meet the Malfoys in unicorn pajamas.

"What? Pfft, maybe you'll go in jeans too?" she shook her head with the air of someone who had been assigned an impossible mission.

Ginny began sorting through the dresses, examining them critically and muttering comments under her breath.

"This is too formal... looks like it's for a funeral... This is too bright, what if they think you're trying to attract attention... But this—perfect!" She held up a dark green dress with long sleeves and a V-neck, and triumph lit up in her eyes. "This is perfect! Elegant, but not provocative. It will show that you respect their home, but you're not trying to please them or change yourself. Plus, green is Slytherin's color, which will be a subtle compliment, but at the same time a neutral enough shade that you won't look like you're trying to buy their approval."

"Are you seriously analyzing wardrobe from a psychological perspective?" Hermione was surprised, but there was a barely noticeable note of admiration in her voice.

"Of course!" Ginny began styling Hermione's hair with a professional air. "You know what Mum says: 'You can only make a first impression once.' And you'll definitely want to make a good impression on Narcissa Malfoy. She's said to be quite something—elegant, smart, observant. She'll assess you from head to toe."

"Very reassuring, thanks," Hermione muttered, feeling nervousness begin to gnaw at her from within. But then she raised her chin and asked challengingly. "What if I don't want to? Make a good impression on her, I mean. I'm not going to pretend to be someone I'm not just to get the Malfoy family's approval."

Ginny stopped for a moment, and the expression on her face became more serious.

"Then you'll be very sad to live," she said quietly, but without judgment. "Listen, I understand that you're proud. It's one of the things I love about you. But think about this: Draco is their only son. The heir to an ancient house. They're not just his parents—they're part of the world he grew up in, the traditions that formed him. And if you really..." she paused, choosing her words, "if there's something serious between you, you'll have to find a way to coexist with them. You don't have to love them. But respect—yes."

She returned to styling the hair, braiding several thin braids and arranging them in an elegant bun, leaving a few strands to freely frame the face.

"Can you imagine family dinners?" Ginny giggled, clearly trying to ease the tension. "'Dear Hermione, please pass the salt. And, by the way, do you still consider house-elves equal to wizards?'"

Hermione laughed, and the tension eased a bit. But then she remembered Lucius's letter, the formal tone of his invitation, and her face immediately became serious.

"Ginny, what if Mr. Malfoy is planning something? What if this isn't just a family dinner? What if he... I don't know... wants to test me? Or intimidate me? Or..."

Her friend's expression also changed. She sat down next to Hermione on the bed and placed her hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look into her eyes.

"Listen," she said seriously. "Lucius Malfoy is no fool. He's cunning, calculating, and dangerous, yes. But he also knows that the entire magical world is now watching your situation, thanks to that stupid Skeeter article. If he harms you, it will look too suspicious. Too obvious."

She paused, then added:

"But keep your eyes open anyway, okay? Don't eat or drink anything that seems suspicious. Don't stay alone with him. Stay close to Draco. And if anything, anything at all, seems suspicious—leave immediately. Use the fireplace, Apparition, damn it, break a window and fly on a broom if necessary."

At that moment the door opened, and Draco entered the room. He was dressed in an impeccable black suit—white shirt, vest, trousers with creases. He looked... stunning. Hermione's breath caught. Their eyes met: and Hermione felt something skip in her chest.

"Oh, I think that's my cue to retreat," Ginny winked, getting up from the bed. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Although, come to think of it, that's quite a wide range of possibilities..."

She slipped out of the room, leaving them alone, and Hermione heard her giggling fading in the corridor.

Draco gave Hermione an attentive look and slowly approached. Something warm, almost tender appeared in his eyes.

"You look wonderful. Green suits you very well," he smiled slyly. "Finally you're dressed in Slytherin colors. Maybe the Sorting Hat was wrong after all, should have put you with us from the start?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy," Hermione smirked. "One careless word from your parents, and I'll charm this dress into burgundy with gold right under their noses. Let's see how you explain to your mother that you brought home a Gryffindor in full battle regalia."

Draco laughed:

"I think that would be the last straw for her nervous system," he agreed, moving closer. "Although, I admit, it would be amusing to see Father's face."

His smile disappeared, replaced by a more serious expression.

"Malfoy, I..."

"Wrong," he interrupted her, staring intently into her eyes. "Try again."

Hermione was confused for a moment, then realized.

"Draco," she corrected, rolling her eyes slightly.

"That's better."

Hermione fell silent, choosing her words.

"I'm somehow nervous. Even more than before exams. More than before... anything, honestly."

Malfoy moved closer and carefully placed his hands on her shoulders, making her look at him.

"I know," he whispered, leaning toward her ear. "But everything will be fine. I'll be there. I promise. Whatever happens, I'll be on your side."

His warm breath on her neck made her heart beat faster. Hermione closed her eyes, absorbing his closeness, his support. She wanted to stay here, in the safety of their room, and not go into that frightening world of Malfoy Manor's cold magnificence.

She didn't understand what was happening between them. Yesterday's kiss seemed to have changed everything, shifted something fundamental in their relationship. But they hadn't yet talked about what it meant for both of them. What was between them—just mutual attraction caused by constant proximity? Or something more, something deeper? And the most frightening question, which she was afraid to ask even herself: if the curse disappeared tomorrow, would Malfoy cool toward her? Would he return to that version of himself that despised Muggle-borns and considered her unworthy even of conversation?

But now it didn't matter. What mattered was that he was near. He mattered. Every touch, every glance mattered.

"Ready?" he asked, pulling back and extending his hand to her.

Hermione took a deep breath, gathering all her Gryffindor courage, and nodded:

"Ready."

She took his hand, and his fingers squeezed her palm tightly.

──⊱⁜⊰──

As soon as Draco and Hermione stepped out of the fireplace at Malfoy Manor, Hermione felt she had entered another world. The hall was enormous, the ceilings lost somewhere in the heights, everything breathed luxury: heavy curtains of dark green velvet, antique furniture that probably cost more than her parents' house.

A house-elf approached them, dressed in a pillowcase.

"Welcome to the Manor, young Master Draco," squeaked Hoggy, bowing so low that his nose nearly touched the floor. "And you, miss."

Hermione clenched her teeth, seeing the shabby pillowcase the elf was dressed in. Rage familiarly flared in her chest. She barely restrained herself from saying something sharp.

"Hello, Hoggy," Draco answered calmly. "How are you?"

"Hoggy is excellent, young master is very kind! Parents are waiting in the small drawing room."

They passed through several corridors, and Hermione tried not to stare at the surrounding luxury, though it was difficult. Every detail here screamed of wealth and power: vases that were clearly antiques, mirrors in carved frames, ancient tapestries and carpets walked upon by generations of Malfoys and which, apparently, were older than Hogwarts itself.

Behind them, portraits of ancestors watched constantly—men and women with cold, haughty faces. Granger felt their disapproving gazes on her, saw how they whispered between frames, pursed their lips and frowned. Their displeasure at the presence of a Muggle-born within the sacred walls of the Manor was more than obvious, but no one dared to speak a word aloud.

Finally Hoggy opened the door, and they entered the drawing room.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy sat by the fireplace. Lucius—straight and cold as ice, with white hair slicked back and a cane casually resting against his chair. Narcissa—elegant as a porcelain doll, with perfect hair and in a dress of dark blue velvet with silver threads that shimmered in the firelight. A sapphire necklace sparkled at her neck, and her platinum hair was styled in an impeccable coiffure. Next to her, Hermione felt like a country girl, despite all of Ginny's efforts.

"Draco," Narcissa said, rising and extending her hands to her son. Her voice was warm, almost tender, but Hermione noticed how her gaze slid over her, quickly and assessingly. "How glad I am to see you, dear."

Malfoy hugged his mother, and Granger noticed how his shoulders relaxed. Whatever was between him and his father, with his mother he clearly had a much warmer bond.

"Mother," he nodded, then turned to Hermione. "Allow me to introduce..."

"Miss Granger," Lucius interrupted, rising from his chair. He didn't extend his hand, didn't step forward, simply stood, studying her with the air of a man appraising an antique item at auction. "At last we meet in person. Welcome to our home."

His tone was impeccably polite, but cold.

"Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione straightened, forcing herself to keep her back straight and not look away. "Thank you for the invitation."

"Dinner will be ready in an hour," Lucius continued. "Perhaps I could show you the house? I'm sure our library will interest you."

Hermione's eyes lit up, despite the tense atmosphere. Library. She had heard legends about the Malfoy library—one of the most extensive private collections in Britain.

"With pleasure," she answered, trying not to show her excitement too openly.

Draco smiled almost imperceptibly, seeing her reaction.

The Malfoy library exceeded all of Hermione's expectations. Tall shelves reaching to the ceiling, lined with volumes in leather bindings. The air was saturated with the smell of old parchment, and something else, something almost tangible. It was so quiet here that every breath, every rustle of fabric could be heard.

"Impressive, isn't it?" said Lucius, watching her admiring expression. "Some books here are more than a thousand years old. The collection has been gathered by generations of Malfoys. Knowledge is power, Miss Granger. This has always been understood in our family."

Hermione reverently walked along the shelves, reading the titles. "Lost Spells of the 15th Century," "Theory of Magical Blood," "Family Magic: Strengthening, Decline, Disappearance," "Irreversible Spells: Theory and Practice." She felt that many of these books would be banned at Hogwarts.

Draco meanwhile stopped by the far wall, studying some book, clearly absorbed in his thoughts.

"Miss Granger," Lucius casually pointed to one of the volumes, "if you're interested in truly rare knowledge, pay attention to this. A study of forgotten forms of magic. Many consider it outdated, but I've always believed that more truth is hidden in old knowledge than in modern theories."

Hermione followed his gesture, and her gaze stopped on one volume. The binding was dark blue with gold embossing. Her eyes lit up with curiosity and desire.

"Could I...?"

"Of course. Hoggy will transfer it to the guest bedroom for you now," Lucius interrupted her. "You can even take it to read at Hogwarts. I would be glad if this book finds a worthy reader. It has stood on the shelf too long, bringing no benefit."

He paused, his gaze sliding over the shelves with a thoughtful expression.

"I suppose you might also be interested in our collection on ancient, natural curses," he added, and Hermione immediately straightened, her attention sharpening. "Unfortunately, I must disappoint you. All relevant volumes are currently with Ministry specialists and several private researchers. I considered it my duty to provide them access to our resources, given... your situation with Draco. Any information capable of helping to lift the curse should be thoroughly studied."

Hermione drooped, unable to hide her disappointment. She had so hoped to find something useful here, some lead.

"However," Lucius continued, noticing her reaction, "as soon as the books return, you will, of course, be a welcome guest in our library. You may study them as long as necessary. The doors of Malfoy Manor will be open to you. After all, this concerns my son's well-being."

Draco, noticing that his father was conversing about something with Hermione, put down the book he was studying and immediately approached them, frowning.

"What's happening here?" he asked, looking assessingly from his father to Hermione.

"Nothing special, Draco," Lucius turned to his son with an impassive look. "I simply offered Miss Granger one of the books from our library."

Draco still looked wary, but said nothing.

"Well," Lucius glanced at his watch, "I suppose you should look around. Dinner will be served in half an hour. If you need anything else, Hoggy is at your service."

With these words he headed toward the library exit, leaving them alone.

"Thank you, this is very generous," Granger managed to say after him.

"Don't mention it," Lucius tossed over his shoulder. "Knowledge should be accessible to those who value it."

Hermione wandered around the library for some more time, admiringly observing the rarest book specimens. She would have gladly borrowed at least a dozen for reading, but decided not to tempt fate and limit herself to one book.

Behind one of the shelves, Draco intercepted Hermione's hand, intertwining their fingers. He moved closer to her and whispered in her ear:

"Time for dinner, my little know-it-all."

Hermione felt heat on her cheeks from this affectionate nickname.

"Five more minutes?" she asked, turning to him. "I just wanted to look at that volume about runes..."

He shook his head, though tenderness was readable in his eyes.

"My parents don't like lateness. Especially Father. Punctuality is one of those things they're obsessed with."

Hermione nodded, standing on tiptoe, and quickly kissed his cheek. Draco held her for a moment, pressing her to himself a little tighter before letting go.

The dining room was just as luxurious as the rest of the house. A long table of dark polished wood, heavy silver candlesticks, crystal glasses. Everything here breathed old money and tradition.

Dinner passed in tense silence. Lucius and Narcissa asked polite questions about Hogwarts, about the curriculum, about professors. Hermione answered briefly, trying not to give reasons for criticism. Draco sat next to her, tense as a string, ready to intervene at any moment if the conversation turned in an unpleasant direction.

"I understand that you both continue to search for a way to break the curse," Narcissa finally said when dessert was served. Her voice was soft, but in it Hermione heard genuine concern. "Has there been any progress?"

"We're working on it," Hermione answered cautiously. "Professor Snape is helping us. But so far... it's difficult. The curse is very old and complex."

"Yes, I've also studied this question," said Lucius, and steel notes appeared in his voice. "I turned to the best researchers of magic. Unfortunately, there's no quick solution. Which brings us to a more delicate question..."

He paused, staring intently at both of them, and Hermione felt her heart begin to beat faster.

"What have you become to each other over these months? Simple roommates? Or has something... more developed between you?"

Draco straightened, and his voice sounded clear and firm:

"Hermione is my girlfriend."

Girlfriend. The word echoed in Hermione's head, displacing all other thoughts, even the fact that he had called her by her first name for the first time. Here was the answer to all her doubts and questions, to all the anxious thoughts that kept her awake at night. Warmth spread through her chest, despite the cold atmosphere at the table, despite the icy gazes of Lucius and Narcissa.

Lucius slowly set down his fork and knife, and this gesture was full of controlled fury.

"I see. How... predictable. And unwise."

"Draco, dear," Narcissa gently intervened, "you're both still very young. You're seventeen. This curse forces you to constantly be near each other, which naturally can create... attachment. A false sense of closeness. But this doesn't mean you must necessarily be a couple. You can simply be friends, support each other while the curse is active. And when it lifts..."

"I'm not going to be friends with her, I need more. And it's not because of the curse," Draco firmly interrupted her, and Hermione heard absolute certainty in his voice. "I know what I feel."

Lucius's expression became even more icy, if that was even possible.

"Miss Granger is undoubtedly intelligent and talented," he began, and each word was saturated with venom. "Her academic achievements are impressive, this cannot be denied. But you must understand—our family has maintained blood purity for centuries. Traditions that have preserved our world. This isn't simply prejudice, as some... as a certain circle of people love to claim. This is a question of preserving magic in its purest form. And a Malfoy cannot..."

"With respect to your house, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione straightened in her chair, and her voice, despite the trembling in her hands, sounded firm, "but I'm not going to apologize for my origins. Not now, not ever. I earned my place in the magical world with my knowledge and hard work, not by the accident of birth. And if this makes me unworthy in your eyes, then, I'm sorry, that's your problem, not mine."

"A place in the magical world—undoubtedly," Lucius answered coldly. "But not with my son. Not in our family."

"Enough," Draco sharply interrupted him, standing from the table with a crash. His chair fell, but he didn't even turn around. "Thank you for dinner, but I think that's enough for today."

He offered his hand to Hermione, and there was so much determination in his gesture that she felt filled with pride.

"We're leaving," he said firmly. "We're returning to Hogwarts."

"Draco, be reasonable," Lucius glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "It's already late, curfew for students has passed."

"Let's not be hasty," Narcissa intervened. "The guest room for Miss Granger has long been prepared. In the morning you can calmly return to school."

Draco clenched his jaw, clearly struggling with the desire to immediately leave the estate and the understanding that his mother was right.

"I'll walk you to the guest room," he finally said to Hermione.

"Draco," Narcissa said warningly. "Please don't leave like this. We need to discuss this calmly..."

"There's nothing to discuss, Mother." He turned to his parents. "Good night."

Malfoy led Hermione down the corridor to the guest bedroom, and they walked in tense silence. The room was elegant, though austere—dark tones, expensive furniture, tall windows with heavy velvet curtains. But despite the luxury, there was something cold, impersonal about it.

"My bedroom is right behind this wall," he said, pointing to the eastern wall of the room. He paused, then added with a bitter smirk: "At Hogwarts we live in one room, but here... I think if I suggested you stay with me, Mother would have a stroke. So we'll have to make do with neighboring rooms." His gaze softened. "If anything's wrong—just call. I'll hear you."

Hermione nodded, trying to hide her upset from the dinner conversation. She forced herself to smile, though the smile came out strained:

"Won't you even show me your room?" she tried to joke. "After all these months of living together, I still won't see how heirs of ancient houses live?"

"I'll show you tomorrow," Draco promised. "But now, I think I still need to talk to Father."

Steel sounded in his voice, and Hermione understood the conversation would be difficult. Draco stepped toward her and tenderly kissed her lips. It was a short kiss, but there was so much tenderness in it that Hermione's breath caught.

"Don't think seriously about what they said today," he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. "I don't care what they think. Perhaps we shouldn't have come, but..." he paused for a moment, "it's better this way than if they had descended on Hogwarts. There they would have had far more opportunities to interfere."

"Malfoy..."

"Good night, Hermione."

He left, leaving Granger alone with gloomy thoughts. She sat on the massive canopy bed and noticed the book from the library neatly placed on the bedside table. She burned the book with her gaze, replaying Lucius Malfoy's behavior in the library in her head, and then waved her wand:

"Specialis Revelio!"

The air around the book trembled slightly, the surface of the cover was covered with a pale shimmer—and immediately went out. Nothing. No signs, no whisper of charms, no spark of dark magic. Nothing suspicious.

Hermione frowned. Was she developing paranoia? Maybe Lucius was really just trying to be polite?

But fatigue was taking its toll. At least she had found something to distract herself from today's nightmare. Without removing her dress, she lay on the bed and opened the volume. The pages were filled with elegant handwriting, the material was presented fascinatingly and convincingly. Hermione immersed herself in reading, at times forgetting about the unpleasant dinner.

After an hour she began to feel drowsy. The text blurred before her eyes, and she yawned. With the book in her hands, she fell into a restless slumber. How much time had passed, Hermione didn't know, but when she woke from burning pain in her hands, it was very dark—deep night, even the moon had hidden behind clouds. She tried to sit up and groaned. What was happening?

The skin on her palms and fingers was covered with dark spots, as if ink was being absorbed directly into the flesh, spreading right through the veins. Pain pulsed in time with her heartbeat, rising up her arms to her shoulders, and with each heartbeat it became stronger, more unbearable.

"What... what's wrong with me?" she whispered, her voice trembling with fear and pain.

She tried to stand, but dizziness washed over her in a wave. A metallic taste appeared in her throat, and breathing became difficult, as if someone was pressing on her chest. With enormous effort she rose from the bed, holding onto the canopy so as not to fall. Each step was given with difficulty, her legs wouldn't obey, pain spread throughout her body. She staggered, barely seeing in front of her, and headed toward the door.

Could the curse have worked with such force? But they're nearby, just through the wall. This shouldn't have happened. I need to check how Draco is...

She leaned against the doorframe of Malfoy's bedroom, weakly knocking and barely keeping herself conscious.

"Malfoy..." she called in a barely audible voice. "Draco..."

A moment later the door flew open. Draco stood on the threshold in pajama pants, barefoot, with disheveled hair and sleepy eyes. But when he saw her condition, sleep instantly retreated. He paled, his eyes widened with horror.

"Granger! What's wrong with you?!"

She swayed and felt her strength finally leave her. The last thing she remembered was strong arms catching her before she fell.

And then—only darkness.