When Draco arrived at his flat, flanked by two Aurors whose expressions suggested they would rather be on any other assignment, he felt an uneasy cocktail of relief and dread knot itself in his chest. Freedom was supposed to feel lighter, but this was not freedom. Not yet.
The flat looked familiar at first glance, but there was something unsettling in its precision. The hardwood floors gleamed too brightly, polished to a sheen that reflected his every step. The air smelled faintly of lavender oil and beeswax, the cloying fragrance of scrubbing charms and obsessive care. Surfaces gleamed without a speck of dust, cushions were perfectly plumped, books stacked neatly in rows as though they had never been touched. It was his home, yet it felt more like a stage set, stripped of the lived-in chaos he remembered.
He stepped across the threshold cautiously, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The Aurors remained in the doorway, wands angled at their sides, their eyes scanning the corners of the flat with professional detachment. They did not need to speak; their presence alone made it clear he would not be left unwatched until they were satisfied.
Draco ignored them. His gaze moved across the room until it landed on the dining table. A large crystal vase, overflowing with lilies and white roses, stood in the center, the blooms arranged with exacting elegance. Beside it sat a basket wrapped in silk ribbon, brimming with tins of tea, jars of imported preserves, and carefully packaged biscuits. A folded card lay propped against the basket.
He froze when he saw the handwriting.
Welcome home, darling. Be good. Love, Mother.
The neat, sloping script made his throat tighten. For a long moment he simply stared at the note, the words burning against his vision. He could picture her arranging the display herself, instructing the elves on every detail, ensuring that each apple shone like glass, that every bow was tied at the proper angle. He could almost hear her voice, calm and imperious, reminding them that perfection was the only acceptable standard.
But beneath the polish and precision, he recognized what she was really saying. This was not simply a welcome gift. It was her way of shielding him still, her way of reminding him that he had not been abandoned entirely. The flowers and basket were tokens, yes, but they carried the weight of her worry, the quiet insistence that he still belonged to someone, that she had not let go of him. It was her love, disguised in ribbon and porcelain petals.
"Everything in order?" one of the Aurors asked, his voice gruff and unbothered, snapping Draco out of his reverie.
He turned, slipping his mask of indifference back into place. "It appears so."
The two men exchanged a brief look before one nodded. "We'll be back tomorrow for a welfare check. Don't leave the premises without authorization."
Draco's lips curved into a drawl, the sharp edge of sarcasm almost instinctive. "Of course not. Where else would I possibly go?"
Neither Auror responded. They simply stepped back into the corridor, their boots heavy against the floor, and then the door clicked shut behind them.
The silence that followed was vast.
For the first time in months, he was alone. Truly alone. He exhaled slowly, the sound shaky in the stillness, and his shoulders sagged as the oppressive weight of their scrutiny finally lifted. The quiet of the flat pressed around him, heavy yet strangely liberating, a reminder that solitude could feel both like relief and punishment.
He remained where he was, standing in the doorway, taking it in. The flowers, the polished surfaces, the faint scent of lavender polish clinging to the air. This was his home, and yet it felt like a stranger's. The life he remembered here had been scrubbed away, replaced with something brittle and spotless.
He wandered aimlessly through the flat, his fingertips grazing every surface as though he needed to reassure himself it was real. The smooth back of the sofa, the polished edge of the kitchen counter, the spines of the books lined neatly in the sitting room—each touch carried a strange duality, both grounding and alienating. This was his space, his life, and yet it felt foreign, like stepping into a memory that no longer belonged to him. Everything had been scrubbed to perfection, and the emptiness of it pressed down on him harder than the Aurors' eyes had.
Eventually, his restless steps carried him into the bedroom. The sight of it made his breath catch. The bed was exactly as he had left it, large and indulgent, piled with pillows and draped in sheets of soft silk. It was a relic of another life, a life where he had not been confined to stone walls and stripped of his dignity. For a moment he simply stood there, staring at it as if it might reject him.
At last he kicked off his shoes and sat heavily on the edge of the mattress. The softness was almost unbearable. Weeks of sleeping on a cot had trained his body for discomfort, and the plush give of the mattress disoriented him. Slowly, cautiously, he let himself sink down, stretching out across the expanse of sheets that smelled faintly of home.
The linens carried the familiar scent of the detergent he had always used, crisp and faintly herbal. The smell hit him with unexpected force, stirring a wave of emotion he hadn't been prepared for. He pressed his face into the pillow, breathing in deeply, as though the scent alone might anchor him against the storm still thrumming in his chest. Exhaustion seeped through him, bone-deep and relentless, the kind that came not only from physical deprivation but from weeks of tension, fear, and isolation.
His mind refused to quiet, even as his body sagged into the mattress. Thoughts churned in fragments, circling around the conditions that had been laid out for him. Six months of house arrest. Daily visits from her. The invasive intrusion of a Legilimens into the parts of his mind he had fought hardest to bury. Each reminder brought with it a jolt of unease, but above it all loomed the memory of her. Granger's voice, sharp and cold. Her gaze, unyielding and merciless.
Tomorrow she would be here. Tomorrow her presence would once again fill the silence. He could not decide if the thought made him sick or steady. There was dread in it, yes, dread of whatever new humiliations she would design for him. But there was something else too, something he could not name, a strange sense of grounding. In her absence, the silence had devoured him. With her near, even when she cut him to ribbons, at least there was something to fight against.
Sleep dragged at him, heavy and irresistible. He fought it briefly, unwilling to give himself over so easily, but his body betrayed him. His last coherent thought was a fragile hope—that tonight, at least, his dreams might be merciful, that for a few hours he might escape the shadow of the mess his life had become.
He slept deeply, enveloped by the rare comfort of his own bed. Yet even in rest, the weight of his past and the uncertainty of his future lingered. They hovered at the edges of his dreams, waiting, like shadows crouched and ready to pounce the moment his eyes opened again.
••••
Without the conveniences of magic or even the simplest Muggle devices, Malfoy's daily life collapsed into chaos almost immediately. The Ministry's decree had been uncompromising: no wand, no charms, no enchanted items of any kind. They had stripped the flat bare of anything that might make his existence easier, leaving him in what felt like a primitive age.
It did not take long for him to realize just how dependent he had been on magic for every facet of his life. What had once been effortless—cooking, cleaning, even the smallest comforts—now loomed before him as impossible tasks.
The first disaster struck the very next morning, when he attempted to cook himself breakfast. The kitchen, though well stocked, had been reduced to the barest essentials: a knife, some pans, a handful of ingredients, and a rudimentary gas stove. No enchanted utensils, no self-stirring spoons, no charmed kettles humming softly on the counter.
He stood in front of the stove for a long time, staring at it as though it were a puzzle meant to test his patience. The burners glared up at him blankly.
"Do I summon the fire manually?" he muttered, half to himself, glancing around for anything that might resemble a wand substitute. After rifling through drawers, he found a battered box of matches.
It took him nearly ten attempts to strike one properly. The first few snapped between his fingers. The fourth flared to life and promptly sputtered out before he could bring it close to the stove. By the time he finally managed to coax a steady flame, he leaned in too close. The fire caught the edge of a strand of his platinum hair, singeing it with a sharp hiss.
"Bloody hell!" he yelped, jerking back and swatting at his head with both hands. The faint smell of burnt hair lingered accusingly in the air.
Once the burner grudgingly flickered to life, he turned his attention to the eggs. Cracking one proved more difficult than he expected. The first slipped in his grip and landed on the floor with a wet splat. The second followed soon after, sliding off the edge of the counter before he could catch it. He let out a groan of pure frustration, grabbing a towel and crouching to scoop up the slimy mess.
The kitchen floor looked like a battlefield, and he hadn't managed to cook a single thing.
He straightened slowly, the ruined towel dripping egg across his already pristine floor, and muttered darkly under his breath. "House arrest, and they couldn't even leave me a blasted elf."
Cleaning proved to be just as catastrophic as cooking. Without a wand, he could not vanish dust with a flick of his wrist or summon a broom that obediently swept the floors for him. Instead, the Ministry had left him with what appeared to be an ancient wooden broom and a rag that looked like it belonged in a museum.
He eyed the broom suspiciously, as though it might come to life if he stared long enough. When it didn't, he sighed and set to work. Within ten minutes, sweat was beading at his temples. He pushed the broom haphazardly across the floor, muttering curses under his breath.
"Why does this take so bloody long?" he snapped at the broom, as if it were personally responsible for his suffering. By the time he had swept every corner of the flat, his arms ached and his patience had worn dangerously thin.
The ordeal only grew worse when he attempted to mop. He had never in his life held a mop, let alone prepared one. After rummaging through the cupboards, he unearthed a battered bucket and filled it with water. Then, with no concept of proportion, he dumped half the bottle of soap into it. The mixture frothed immediately, spilling bubbles over the rim like a cauldron gone wrong.
Still, he plunged the mop into the bucket and dragged it across the floor. Within seconds, the flat was covered in a slick, soapy film that gleamed under the light. He barely had time to admire his handiwork before his foot slid out from under him. With a startled cry, he landed flat on his back, foam and water splashing in every direction.
He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, his hair plastered to his forehead, bubbles clinging stubbornly to his shirt.
"Merlin, just kill me now," he muttered, utterly defeated. He made no move to rise, instead allowing the suds to soak into his clothes while he contemplated whether prison had been less humiliating than this supposed freedom.
Even the simplest task—laundry—turned into a trial worthy of a Greek tragedy. Hidden in one of the kitchen cupboards, he discovered a battered wooden washboard and a basin. He picked it up between two fingers as though it might bite him.
"You're telling me people actually used this… by hand?" he said aloud, his voice thick with disbelief. The silence of the flat did not argue back, which only deepened his sense of insult.
With all the grace of a man facing execution, he filled the basin with water, poured in far too much soap, and dumped in a week's worth of dirty clothes. They floated there like pale, bloated corpses, taunting him.
He rolled up his sleeves and dragged out one of his shirts. Within thirty seconds of scrubbing it against the rough board, his arms began to throb. His shoulders ached, his wrists protested, and suds clung to his trousers in mocking little bubbles.
"This is barbaric," he hissed, glaring at the innocent shirt. "Absolutely barbaric." He gave it another half-hearted scrub, then tossed it back into the basin with enough force to splash soapy water across the floor.
By the end of the ordeal, his knuckles were raw, his back ached in places he didn't know existed, and his fingers were shriveled from the water. Worse still, the clothes were limp, dripping wet, and nowhere near dry. He attempted to wring them out, but the effort only left him wetter and angrier than before.
When at last he slung the clothes across a wooden rack by the window, they sagged pitifully, water pooling beneath them like the final insult. He stood there, arms crossed, scowling at the line of damp garments.
If this was redemption, he thought bitterly, it was a cruel joke.
By the fifth evening, the flat no longer looked like the sterile, polished space he had first walked into. Crumpled shirts were draped across every available surface, puddles from his failed laundry attempts still lingered in the corners, and the faint smell of smoke clung to the curtains thanks to his latest attempt at cooking. The "welcome basket" of teas and jams his mother had sent now sat in shambles on the counter, half-empty jars cluttered together as though they, too, had given up.
He sat slumped at the kitchen table, surrounded by the chaos of his own making, staring into the bottom of a chipped teacup like it might offer answers. His hair, usually immaculate, hung limp around his face, and his sleeves were damp from the water he had splashed everywhere earlier that day while trying—and failing—to wash another set of dishes.
"This is hell," he muttered again, dragging his hands down his face. "Literal hell. And the Ministry thinks this is rehabilitation?" His laugh was sharp, humorless, the sound of a man unraveling.
His gaze flicked to the sink, piled high with plates and cutlery still crusted with eggs from a breakfast he'd managed to half-incinerate. He groaned loudly, leaning back in his chair like a man awaiting execution. "No magic, no enchanted objects, and no bloody electronics. How do Muggles even live like this? They must be masochists."
The silence pressed against him from all sides, thick and unrelenting. He had never noticed before how empty his flat sounded when it was stripped of the little comforts of magic. No kettle whistling on its own, no enchanted radio humming in the background, no soft swish of house-elves tending to the fire. Only the hollow creak of the floorboards when he shifted his weight and the sound of his own defeated sighs.
For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy felt completely and utterly conquered—not by his enemies, not by the Ministry, not even by Granger, but by the mundane absurdity of survival without the crutch of magic.
•••
In his fractured world, Granger was an enigma, a paradox that refused to be contained by reason or understanding. She was salvation draped in judgment, a merciless arbiter disguised in the guise of mercy. Her presence was not one of comfort, not really, but of an unrelenting reckoning. Her hands seemed to shift between balm and blade, steady enough to mend the cracks that threatened to break him apart entirely, yet just as quick to carve away the remnants of the boy he used to be. She was his angel, but not the gentle kind sung about in hymns or whispered about in bedtime stories. She was the angel who arrived with fire and steel, fierce and unyielding, stepping across the ruins of what he had been. Each time she entered the room, it felt as though she carried a scythe rather than wings, slicing clean through him until he wondered what fragments of himself could possibly remain when she was finished.
To him, Granger was not the kind of angel who offered deliverance freely. She never gave without exacting a price. Her presence weighed upon him with a paradox he could not resolve, leaving him suspended in a state where he dreaded her visits as much as he craved them. It was that contradiction which unsettled him most, the way she was both judge and redeemer, both tormentor and savior. He could not tell where the cruelty ended and the mercy began, nor did he truly want to admit that he had come to need both.
She stood before him now, arms folded, eyes as cold and unyielding as shards of glass. Every ounce of her posture spoke of command, of certainty, of a woman who would never bend for him, not in this lifetime.
"You are not helpless, Malfoy," she said, her voice slicing through the space between them with cruel precision. The tone was not gentle, though there was a glimmer of something softer buried beneath the frost, some fleeting note of pity she likely wished she could tear from her throat. "Stop acting as though you are. You are capable of far more than this pitiful wreck you have become."
The sound that escaped him then was a laugh, though it bore none of the lightness laughter should carry. It was brittle and sharp, hollow enough to echo in the narrow confines of the room. "You say that as if it were simple. As if you have not already stripped me down to bone, taken everything I was, and set fire to it as if none of it mattered."
Her expression did not waver. If anything, her eyes grew colder, flint sparking against steel. "Good," she said, the word delivered with all the finality of a sentence passed. "That boy, that version of you, deserved to die."
The words struck with the force of a spell cast at close range. His breath caught, his chest constricting as if the air had turned to stone inside his lungs. And yet he could not argue with her. As much as he wanted to rage against her judgment, as much as pride begged him to spit her words back in her face, he could not deny the truth they carried. The arrogant heir who had once sneered from the shadows of privilege had no place in the fractured world left behind. That version of himself had been destined for ruin long before she had stepped into the cell and reminded him of it.
Still, the truth carried a sting that he could not swallow. She was right to cut him down, to carve away piece by piece everything that clung to his past. But she was doing it with such ruthless precision that he was left wondering what would be left once she was finished with him. If she burned him down to ash, would there be anything left to rise from it, or would he simply scatter in the wind, unmade and forgotten?
And yet, for all the fire and sharpness of her words, he found that he could not hate her. The venom that would have once leapt to his tongue remained still, the old reflex of anger hollowed out by exhaustion and something more unsettling. He had spent years sharpening his pride into a weapon, but now it lay blunted in her presence, stripped of its edge. What filled the void was not anger but something that burned more uncomfortably, a gratitude so raw it made his skin crawl.
Yes, she was destroying him. She was burning away the scaffolding of arrogance and cruelty that had once defined him. She was dismantling everything he thought untouchable. But in the same breath, she was forcing him to stand in the rubble and discover what remained. The deaths she dealt him were small and merciless, yet each one cut away what was hollow, leaving only what could survive.
"You've made me into a ghost," he whispered, the words trembling on his lips, so quiet he half-wished she wouldn't hear them. The truth of it pressed heavy against his chest, a confession of what he feared he had become.
Her gaze did not falter. Her voice, when it came, carried the weight of certainty. "No. I've made you human."
The answer carved through him more cleanly than any blade, not because it was cruel but because it was undeniable. Every demand she made, every syllable that left her mouth sharp enough to wound, was another turn in the crucible. She wasn't content to leave him broken. She forced him into fire so he might be tempered into something new. If she was an angel, then she was not one who came bearing soft light. She was the kind that arrived cloaked in ash, wings soaked in blood and soot, unrelenting until the penance was paid in full.
She was the angel of small deaths. Each time she looked at him with judgment in her eyes, each time her voice lashed through the quiet and left him trembling, another version of him fell away. What frightened him most was not the deaths themselves, but the possibility that there might be no end to them. That she would keep cutting until there was nothing left but dust.
And yet, beneath her sharpness, there was something he could not ignore. It was rare, almost imperceptible, but it lingered like a ghost of warmth in the cold. The fleeting softness of her gaze when she thought he wasn't watching. The way her voice sometimes shifted, almost unwillingly, into something gentler. He clung to those rare moments as though they were his only medicine, the codeine that dulled the raw ache she left behind. They were small mercies, temporary reprieves, but he craved them with a hunger that unsettled him. He never knew when they would come, but when they did, they left him aching for more.
He did not know which unsettled him more: the precision of the deaths she delivered, or the sweetness of the salvation she granted afterward. One stripped him bare, the other rebuilt him just enough to endure the next blow. Together, they became a rhythm he could not break free from. He was bound to her gravity, as though his ruin and his survival were both tied to the same hand.
And so he let her do it. He let her cut him down, let her mold him, let her reduce and rebuild him because somewhere in the marrow of his bones he knew the truth he could never admit aloud. She was not only his angel of death. She was the only chance he had left to live.
•••
By the second week, he had fully surrendered to the chaos. His sleek, immaculate image had crumbled into something almost unrecognizable. His hair hung in limp, greasy strands, his clothes looked as though they had been pulled from the bottom of a trunk, and the permanent scowl etched across his face spoke of someone who had been utterly defeated by life. The flat itself mirrored him, every corner cluttered with dishes, laundry, and the wreckage of his failed attempts at existing without magic.
When Granger barged in, it was as though a storm had ripped through the doorframe. Her gaze swept across the disaster, sharp and merciless, and landed on him with the kind of disdain that could cut through steel.
"What in Merlin's name is this mess?" she demanded, her nose wrinkling as though she had walked into a crime scene. "You look like absolute shit. Go take a shower. And shave. Right now."
Draco barely lifted his head from the couch, where he sat slouched like a sulking child in sweatpants that looked older than some of her textbooks. His glare was weak but stubborn. "You go and shave. Leave me alone, Granger."
Her brow arched in cool defiance. "I waxed my cunt just for you. You stink. You look like you've been dragged through the Forbidden Forest backward. Twice."
Color flooded his cheeks, and his glare hardened, though it did nothing to hide the flush creeping up his neck. "Why are you always criticizing me? Do you get some sort of thrill out of it?"
A sharp laugh left her, humorless and biting, as she crossed her arms. "Criticizing you is the only form of entertainment I have in this dreary arrangement. What else am I supposed to do here? Bake you biscuits and sing you lullabies until you finally manage to pick yourself off the floor?"
"I don't know, maybe leave me alone for once?" His voice rose, strained and raw, the edge of desperation bleeding through.
"Leave you alone so you can wallow in filth until you rot in your own self-pity? Not a chance. You are twenty-five years old, Malfoy. How in the name of Merlin have you managed to survive this long without learning the most basic life skills? This," she said, sweeping her arm toward the overturned laundry pile and the mountain of dirty plates, "is weaponized incompetence. And newsflash, it is not my kink."
He shot up from the couch, face blazing red, hair falling in his eyes as though even it had given up trying to hold dignity. "I'm not weaponizing anything, Granger! I am incompetent. I don't know how to do this—this Muggle nonsense. I grew up in a bloody manor with house-elves at my beck and call. I never had to clean or cook or—Merlin forbid—shave on someone else's bloody command!"
She didn't even blink. Her arms remained crossed, her chin tilted in quiet superiority, her eyes sparking with both irritation and something that looked dangerously close to amusement. "Oh, boo-hoo, poor little pureblood who's never had to lift a finger in his life. Your sob story is breaking my heart. Should I get out my violin and play you a mournful tune while you stand there whining?"
Her words landed with merciless precision, each one daring him to collapse or rise to the challenge. And for a fleeting moment, he hated how much he wanted to prove her wrong.
He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles ached, his jaw working furiously as he ground his teeth together. "I didn't ask for this, you know! I didn't ask for you to barge in here every day and run my life like you're my bloody parole officer."
"Oh, please," she shot back instantly, her tone sharp enough to slice through the room. "You didn't ask? Shall I remind you who begged me—on your knees, in fact—to get you out of that cell? Do you remember that? Because I do. You're not exactly in a position to claim you didn't want me involved. And unless you've suddenly developed a desire to return to Azkaban, I'd suggest showing a little gratitude."
His pride bristled at the reminder. Heat surged up his neck, flooding his pale cheeks with color. "Gratitude? For what exactly? For your constant nagging? For your holier-than-thou attitude that you wear like a badge of honor?"
Her smirk widened, infuriatingly smug as she leaned against the counter, her arms folding across her chest in that maddeningly superior way. "Yes, actually. Because without my constant nagging you would have starved or set yourself on fire within the first week. Face it, Malfoy, you wouldn't last two days without me."
He opened his mouth, ready to launch into another tirade, but the words caught in his throat. Silence stretched uncomfortably as he realized he had nothing to refute her with. He hated that she was right. He hated even more how easily she could reduce him to silence with a single barb.
"And another thing," she continued mercilessly, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve as though scolding him were just part of her daily schedule, "this whole 'woe-is-me' routine is tiresome. You are not the first person to hit rock bottom. The difference is that most people claw their way back up. You, however, seem content to sit on this sofa waiting for someone else to do the work for you."
Her words landed like blows, each one knocking at the fragile scaffolding of pride he had been trying to rebuild. He sank back onto the couch, his posture collapsing, his voice stripped of the venom he had tried so hard to maintain. "Fine," he muttered, almost sulky. "I'll shower. Happy now?"
"I'll be happy," she said crisply, "when you stop smelling like a troll's armpit and looking like some knock-off version of a hobo. And while you're at it, do something about this pigsty. Your mother didn't send that welcome basket for it to sit there collecting dust and rotting in the corner."
Draco shot her a glare, one last spark of defiance before he dragged himself toward the bathroom. Each step was heavy with resentment, his muttering curses trailing behind him like smoke. He slammed the door just hard enough to make a point, though not hard enough to risk the Ministry thinking he was damaging property.
Hermione remained in the kitchen, perfectly calm, perfectly unbothered, as though his tantrum hadn't even registered. She glanced at the overflowing sink, at the half-empty tea tin Narcissa had sent, and shook her head. Then she leaned against the counter, checking the time on her watch with deliberate patience. She had every intention of tracking exactly how long he sulked in there.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. At twenty, her patience wore thin, and she raised her voice with casual mockery. "Planning to drown yourself in there, Malfoy? Because if that's the plan, I'll need to file a report, and I'd really rather not deal with the paperwork."
No reply. Only the steady sound of water running behind the closed door. She smiled to herself, a sly curve of satisfaction tugging at her lips. He might slam doors, he might curse her name, but he would do what she told him to.
And that, she thought, was a victory.
By the time the bathroom door creaked open, it had been exactly forty-four minutes. She had checked her watch at least five times, keeping a meticulous tally, because if Malfoy thought she was going to let him sulk in there all afternoon, he was sorely mistaken.
He emerged at last, steam curling around him like some ridiculous stage entrance, his wet hair tousled and dripping. His pale skin gleamed, flushed faintly pink from the hot water, and he walked out stark naked without so much as a towel.
Hermione's eyebrows shot up. He froze mid-stride when he saw her still planted firmly in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and unimpressed. For a split second, there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, followed by the practiced arrogance she knew so well. He straightened his shoulders, smirk tugging at his mouth, and deliberately made no attempt to cover himself.
"Enjoying the view, Granger?" he asked, voice slow, dripping with false confidence.
Hermione blinked once, twice, and then rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they did not get stuck. Her lips twitched, betraying a spark of amusement she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing. "Oh, God. Ew." She waved a hand in his direction like she was shooing away an annoying insect. "I see that you're a 'shower.' At least tell me you're a 'grower,' otherwise that's just tragic."
His smirk widened as though her jab had missed entirely, though the faint tightening of his jaw suggested otherwise. "Don't worry, darling," he drawled, stepping forward with infuriating ease. "This cock will shut your mouth for a while. Trust me, you'd be singing a different tune."
She stared him down, expression flat, then snorted, a sharp, unimpressed sound that punctured his swagger. "As I was saying," she replied smoothly, "I'd rather fuck your father. Too bad he's locked up for eternity." Her gaze flicked downward, then back up with deliberate dismissal. "Now, for the love of all that's holy, put on some clothes before I vomit."
His smug mask cracked, the smallest flicker of annoyance betraying him. He bristled, trying to cling to his composure, but the edge of her words hit him harder than he would ever admit. "You're not my mother, you know. You can't just order me around."
Hermione tilted her head, eyes narrowing with pointed calm. "No, I'm not your mother," she said, each word deliberate. "Because unlike her, I've already beaten some sense into you. Now, for the last time, get dressed. Unless, of course, you plan on spending your six months of house arrest as a streaker. In which case, I'll be forced to warn the neighbors."
He glared, his jaw tight enough that the muscle jumped beneath his skin. "I fucking hate you, Granger."
Her smile turned syrup-sweet, her voice dripping with mock affection. "Oh, wasn't I the love of your miserable life just two weeks ago? What happened to all that 'my angel, my savior' nonsense? Funny how fast your declarations expire."
"That was then," he snapped, cheeks flushed hot, stomping off toward his bedroom. "This is now."
"Wonderful," she called after him, her tone breezy. "I am thrilled to see you're capable of learning, even if it's through humiliation."
The bedroom door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame, a childish punctuation mark to his retreat. Hermione smirked, shaking her head, then glanced at the clock. She pictured him sulking in front of his wardrobe, muttering under his breath, and she knew with absolute certainty that he would emerge in exactly five minutes, dressed but still bristling, like a cat forced into a bath.
Settling back at the table with her papers, she murmured to herself, "Brat." She picked up her quill, already amused at the prospect of the next visit. "This is going to be the longest six months of my life."
•••
The tension between them remained unchanged, simmering beneath every word and look. They had developed a routine of insults and deflections, a twisted game neither of them seemed willing to break, as if keeping the venom alive was safer than acknowledging what else might exist beneath it.
That night, she arrived later than she ever had before. The clock had nearly struck midnight by the time she pushed the door open. The flat was dim, shadows stretching long across the floor, and she was prepared to be met with his usual scowl and some caustic remark about her timing. Instead, she stopped short.
He was stretched out on the couch, wearing gray sweatpants she had certainly never seen him in. His hair was mussed, his posture lazy in a way that looked uncalculated, and for once, there was no polished arrogance in sight. It startled her, the sight of him like this—unguarded, almost painfully human.
He turned his head when he heard her steps, eyes catching the faint light. His voice was casual, but the undercurrent of something softer threaded through. "I thought you weren't coming."
"Unfortunately, I have to come every day. Ministry orders," she replied, tossing her coat over a chair with a sharp flick.
He smirked faintly, leaning back like a cat too comfortable in its corner. "It's almost tomorrow. Cutting it close, aren't you? Busy schedule? Or did you just forget about me?"
She shot him a look as she dropped her bag onto the table. "Didn't you have your goodnight wank already?"
He arched a brow, his smirk tugging wider, sharper. "In fact, I did. Thinking about you, as always."
"Good." Her lips curved into a sly smile as she met his gaze. "As you should."
The silence that followed was heavier than usual, but not unpleasant. And then, to her surprise, he laughed. It wasn't the hollow, sarcastic chuckle she'd grown used to hearing. This laugh was genuine, rich, and warm, reshaping his entire face in a way that startled her even more than the sweatpants had.
She blinked at him, momentarily thrown off balance. "Merlin's beard, you're capable of laughter. Alert the press."
He rolled his eyes, though he didn't bother to hide the smile lingering on his mouth. "Don't make it weird, Granger."
She shook her head slightly, as if she needed to shake loose the image of him softened like that, then reached into her bag. "I brought you something," she said, producing a bottle and setting it down between them.
He eyed it warily, his posture stiffening, though his gaze betrayed a quick flicker of interest. "I don't need it," he said, voice clipped, but his eyes remained on the label.
"Oh, stop being dramatic," she shot back, nudging it toward him. "It's wine. And it's decent, which is more than you deserve, so don't waste it."
His fingers hovered before he finally picked it up, turning the bottle over with something almost reverent. The faint glimmer of delight in his eyes gave him away before his voice did. "Ah, thank Merlin. You are my angel, Granger."
She snorted, folding her arms across her chest as though warding off his theatrics. "You live in some serious dissonance, Malfoy. Yesterday I was the bane of your existence, and today I'm your savior."
He shrugged as though it were the simplest truth in the world, already pouring himself a generous glass. "It's called nuance. You should try it sometime."
Hermione rolled her eyes and dropped into the chair across from him, her bag sliding onto the floor with a soft thud. She watched as he raised the glass to his lips, his eyes closing briefly while he savored the taste. For a moment she saw someone entirely different, someone who wasn't haunted by the war or his own mistakes, but simply a man enjoying wine at the end of a long day. That small flicker of life startled her more than she cared to admit.
"Don't get used to this," she said, shattering the quiet. "I'm not your personal sommelier. This was a one-time thing."
He opened one eye, smirking at her over the rim of his glass. "I knew it. You do like me."
"Don't push it," she warned, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the faintest twitch.
The air between them had always carried sparks, but tonight there was something different humming in it. Their usual exchange of jabs and scowls had softened into something almost playful, an ease neither of them seemed prepared for. He leaned back against the couch, glass balanced carelessly between his fingers, his gaze fixed on her with a sharpness that made her shift in her seat.
She tried to look unaffected, though her chest tightened under the weight of his stare. It wasn't the smug glint or the familiar sneer she expected. It was something softer, less guarded, a shadow of longing he quickly tried to hide behind his arrogance.
"Would you like to have a glass of wine with me?" he asked, his tone deceptively calm, though the curl of his lips suggested mischief.
She arched a brow, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her surprise. "Your whores not available tonight?"
He smirked wider, leaning forward slightly as if confiding in her. "You're my favorite of them all."
Before he could even finish the sentence, her hand shot out on instinct. The slap rang through the small flat, sharp and unyielding. He staggered back a step, eyes wide as though he hadn't truly believed she would follow through.
"I apologize!" he blurted, hand pressed to his cheek. "That was… that was out of line."
Hermione's glare was enough to strip the smirk from his face. "Trust me, you deserved it. But we both know I would be your favorite."
He tilted his head slowly, the beginnings of another grin tugging at his mouth. "Obviously."
She exhaled sharply through her nose and shook her head, though the corners of her lips threatened to betray her again. He vanished into the kitchen, the sound of cupboards opening and glass clinking filling the silence. When he returned, he carried two clean glasses, holding them as though performing some great ceremony.
With a theatrical flourish he presented them, then worked the cork free in one swift, practiced motion. The bottle let out a crisp pop, and he looked pleased with himself, as though opening wine were the height of sophistication.
"Cheers, darling," he said with mock elegance, raising his glass like a seasoned aristocrat before promptly downing the entire contents in one go.
Hermione rolled her eyes but clinked her glass against the empty air between them. "Cheers." She sipped hers slowly, savoring the rich taste, and set it back on the table with deliberate control. He, of course, had no such restraint. Within minutes he had poured himself another glass, then another, until his cheeks were tinged pink and his posture had gone from stiff arrogance to something looser, almost comfortable.
He leaned back on the couch, holding his glass with lazy fingers as he swirled the wine in slow, careless circles. "So, tell me…"
She groaned, already anticipating trouble. "Here we go."
Ignoring her warning, his grin spread with the satisfaction of someone who knew he was about to make her life difficult. "Do tell me, Granger. Are you and the Weasel only shagging in missionary?"
Hermione nearly choked on her wine, coughing as she set the glass down with a sharp clink. "What the fuck? For the record, no. Not that it's any of your business. And also, we haven't been together for years."
His eyebrows lifted in mock innocence, though his eyes glittered with mischief. "Oh? So he's got a small cock then. That makes sense. Tell me, am I bigger than him?"
"Excuse me?!" she sputtered, gaping at him in outrage.
He shrugged, the smug tilt of his mouth making her want to throw the glass at his head. "It's a valid question."
Hermione groaned, rubbing her forehead like the conversation itself was a migraine. "For Merlin's sake, yes, obviously. But that's irrelevant. We broke up after the war. He's… well, he's sweet, but a little dumb."
Draco leaned forward now, setting his glass on the table with more care than expected. His expression shifted, suddenly serious in a way that startled her. "Why did you even get together with him? You've always been better than him in every way. You should've been with someone who could actually challenge you, someone with your mind, your academic abilities, your drive."
She gave a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. "Puppy love, I suppose. It felt simple. It felt safe. And who, pray tell, should I have been with?"
He straightened in his seat, puffing out his chest like he had been waiting for this opening all night. "The second-best in the class, of course. Someone who actually deserves you."
Her brow arched slowly, unimpressed. "You've never been in love, have you?"
For once, the smirk faltered. His voice was lower, stripped of its usual swagger. "I don't think so. No."
Hermione studied him for a moment, something unspoken flickering between them before she broke it with a sigh. She stood, brushing invisible dust from her clothes, as though the movement might shake away the weight of his honesty. "Enough about my personal life and your… measurements. I'm leaving. Go to bed."
His grin snapped back into place, eager and mocking again. "You're not my mother."
She smirked over her shoulder, her voice wickedly sweet. "I could've been if I'd fucked your father."
"Granger!" His voice cracked into something that was part outrage, part genuine horror. His face reddened as he spluttered. "Stop saying shit like that! It's not funny. Even my mother didn't want to shag him."
Her laughter rang out, sharp and triumphant, as she snatched up her bag. With an exaggerated wave she called out, in perfect French, "Ugh, dégoûtant. Bonne nuit. Je te verrai demain."
To her surprise, he replied in fluent, polished French, his voice smooth as silk. "Bonne nuit, mon amour."
She froze mid-step, her hand tightening on the strap of her bag. Spinning back toward him, she fixed him with a glare that could have scorched paint off the walls. "Shut up," she snapped in English, and before he could so much as smirk again, she slammed the door behind her.
And yet, as she walked down the hallway, the echo of his voice still clinging to her ears, she couldn't quite stop the small, traitorous smile that tugged at the corner of her lips.