She left him alone for three days. She told herself it was for his sake, convincing herself that anyone would need time to recover after being dragged through a Pensieve and forced to bare their deepest secrets, their most shameful and intimate moments, not only to a panel of investigators but also to her. It was the kind of humiliation that would leave anyone raw. Giving him space was the decent thing to do. At least, that was the excuse she repeated in her mind whenever she felt the urge to check in.
The truth was more complicated. The truth was that she needed the time as well. What she had seen in his memories unsettled her in ways she had not been prepared for. She had gone into the examination expecting to see him twist and spin his past, to find evasions tucked between lies, and perhaps, if she was lucky, a flicker of guilt buried beneath that razor-edged tongue of his. What she had not expected was the vulnerability. She had not expected the weary, fractured edges of a man who carried far more regret than he would ever admit aloud.
It was not just the regret that stayed with her, either. What caught her most off guard was the revelation that he had been watching her, reading about her, collecting the scattered pieces of her life as though they were fragments of a puzzle only he could solve.
Malfoy had been researching her. That was the word she wanted to use, the one that sounded neat and academic, but it was far too careful. Research implied distance. Research implied reason. What she had seen was neither. He had not simply read an article here and there. He had followed her every movement in the public sphere, clipping articles, saving photographs, lingering on each mention of her name as if the world itself revolved around the words that described her. He had tracked her speeches, her campaigns, her successes. He had known far more about her life than she had ever thought possible, and she had seen the proof of it tucked away in drawers and pressed between pages.
It would have been easier to call it admiration and leave it at that, because there had been moments in his expression that carried a kind of reluctant awe. But that was only part of it, and she could not dismiss the rest. It went beyond admiration. It carried weight, an intensity that felt less like curiosity and more like hunger.
Stalking. That was the word her logical mind supplied, sharp and damning. The word made sense, fit neatly into the space where her unease lived. But when she turned the memory over in her thoughts, watching him run a finger along the edge of her photograph, seeing the way his lips pressed together as though the sight of her unsettled him as much as it fascinated him, something inside her hesitated.
It had not felt like the kind of obsessive malice she had read about in case files. It had felt different, messier, more human. It had felt like someone caught between envy and longing, someone staring at a life that seemed impossibly distant and holding onto it in the only way he knew how.
And that was the part she could not reconcile.
For three days she tried to bury it beneath work, beneath long hours and endless notes, but no matter what task she set herself to, the memory crept back. It waited at the edges of her thoughts, patient and persistent, until she found herself lying awake at night replaying the way his eyes had lingered on her image. She told herself it was wrong, told herself it was unsettling, but she could not quite smother the other truth, the one she did not want to name. It had not been simple fascination. It had been need.
She paced her flat, arms folded tightly across her chest, each step a restless circle that only seemed to stir her thoughts rather than quiet them. The memories she had witnessed refused to leave her alone. They hovered just beneath the surface, rising up unbidden like a haunting refrain. She saw him again and again, sitting by the fire with the Prophet spread across his lap, his eyes fixed on her photograph with that strange expression she could not name. Resentment, yes, but threaded with something softer, sharper, more difficult to dismiss.
"Bloody ridiculous," she muttered, her voice echoing faintly off the walls as she finally let herself collapse into the cushions of her worn couch. She pressed her palms against her eyes, as though she might blot the memory away if she just applied enough pressure. "He's a self-absorbed prat who probably couldn't stand the idea of me doing better than him."
But the words tasted hollow even as they left her mouth. She knew they were not the truth. If anything, they were a flimsy shield, a defense against the discomfort curling through her chest. Because she had seen it clearly in his eyes. It was not hatred, nor was it the kind of bitter jealousy she might have expected from him. It was complicated, painfully so, and it left her feeling more exposed than she had in years.
She reached for the stack of files on the coffee table, forcing herself to flip them open with a little more force than necessary. The neat rows of parchment, the ordered words, the cases waiting for her judgment—all of it should have steadied her. She tried to bury herself in the work, to drown out the echo of his gaze with something familiar, something safe. But her mind was treacherous, wandering back to him no matter how hard she fought to drag it elsewhere.
Her tea cooled untouched at her elbow while she thought of the firelight flickering across his face at Malfoy Manor, his movements steady and purposeful as he fed cursed artifacts into the flames. She could still picture the set of his jaw, the grim determination that looked almost like penance. She had tried to dismiss it then, to remind herself that no amount of burning relics could erase the harm done, but the memory lingered all the same.
Her quill hovered uselessly over parchment as another memory intruded—the stiff line of his shoulders in that Muggle anger management class, the way his scowl had betrayed both resentment and the desperate urge to flee. She had smirked when she saw it, yes, but beneath her amusement had been something else, something almost like recognition. He had been trying, in his own stumbling way, to exist in a world that did not want him. It was almost humanizing, though she hated to admit it.
And then, as though her mind wanted to torment her, she found herself circling back to the present, to the nights when she had seen him in the flesh rather than through the lens of memory. The way he poured wine with that irritatingly practiced ease, the curve of his smirk when he teased her, the moments when charm slipped through his arrogance and left her unbalanced. She could almost hear his voice, low and smooth, pricking at her temper and something else entirely.
She shifted restlessly on the couch, pulling a cushion against her chest and hugging it tightly. No matter how many times she told herself to forget it, to put him back into the neat box where she had always kept him, the box marked insufferable and irredeemable, the lid would not stay shut. Every memory she had seen blurred together, forming a picture that was messier, more complicated, and far more human than she wanted it to be.
Why did it bother her so much?
The question looped in her head until she almost laughed at herself for how absurd it was. People admired her all the time. She had grown accustomed to the attention, the constant recognition for her work, the grateful smiles from those who benefitted from her efforts. That kind of admiration was predictable, almost mundane now, and she accepted it as part of the life she had chosen. But this was different. This was not simple praise or polite acknowledgment. This was Malfoy. Malfoy, of all people, her old school rival who had once delighted in making her life miserable, quietly gathering pieces of her existence as though she were something worth collecting.
The idea gnawed at her, and she could not quite decide which feeling unsettled her more. Infuriation came easily, and she clung to it like armor. It was easier to be angry at him for his audacity, for daring to watch her when he had no right. But threaded through her anger was a sliver of something she refused to name. Flattery? The thought made her scoff, but it lingered stubbornly. There was something about the way his eyes lingered on her photo in that memory that did not feel like hatred, did not feel like disdain. It was complicated, confusing, and impossible to dismiss.
By the second day, her unease had curdled into frustration. She snapped at her colleagues in meetings, her responses sharp and uncharacteristically curt. When someone asked if she was unwell, she brushed it off with a clipped, "Just tired." She blamed her short temper on everything except the truth. The weather had been dreary, the paperwork piling up at her desk seemed endless, and the new coffee blend in the office kitchen was, in her opinion, a crime against humanity. Those were the excuses she offered herself, the tidy reasons she clung to. But none of them explained the restless energy that refused to let her sleep at night, or the way her thoughts circled back to him no matter how far she tried to push them. Deep down, she knew exactly what was eating at her, though she refused to say it out loud.
By the third day, all pretenses had worn thin. She gave up on her work earlier than usual, retreating to the comfort of her flat. The rain tapped steadily against the glass as she curled into her favorite armchair, a glass of wine cradled in her hands. The quiet should have soothed her, but it did not. Her mind spun relentlessly, pulling apart every memory she had witnessed of him over the past weeks.
She thought of him standing in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, sleeves rolled up, his face grim as he fed cursed artifacts into the fire, each relic consumed by flame as though he could burn away the weight of his past. She remembered the sight of him sitting stiffly in a circle of strangers at an anger management class, his scowl betraying his desire to bolt, yet he stayed. She recalled him hunched over his desk in that cramped room, books and parchment scattered around him, the ink stains on his fingers, the restless scribbles of someone desperate to make sense of himself. And she thought, too, of the wine night, the way his smirk had lingered just long enough to unsettle her, the ease with which he slipped under her skin.
But beneath all of those memories was the one that refused to release her. The one that had lodged itself into her chest like a thorn. He had followed her. He had tracked her through the newspapers, saved her photos, memorized her speeches. He had carried her name in his thoughts long after their school years had ended, long after they should have gone their separate ways. And no matter how she tried to rationalize it, no matter how she turned it over in her mind, she could not answer the question that lingered at the heart of it.
Why her?
She told herself it was unhealthy. That no one had any business cataloguing another person's life with that kind of persistence. That it wasn't romantic, or endearing, or anything that could be brushed aside with a shrug. It was crossing a line. It was obsessive. She repeated those words in her head as though they were a spell, as though naming the problem would somehow strip it of its hold on her. Yet the conviction never lasted. The moment she closed her eyes, the memories returned with startling clarity. His expression softening when he thought no one was watching. The way his hand lingered on her photograph, not possessive, but tentative, almost reverent. The ridiculous flourish with which he had uncorked the wine that night, as if trying to coax laughter out of her despite himself.
Each recollection undermined her arguments until they collapsed like fragile scaffolding. She would sigh, shake her head, call herself a fool, and yet the thought of him refused to leave.
"Why do you even care?" she whispered, the words slipping out into the dim light of her sitting room, almost swallowed by the steady drumming of the rain against the glass. She sat motionless for a moment, listening to the silence that followed, waiting as though the room itself might provide an answer. Of course, it did not. All she had was the sound of her own breathing and the hollow thud of her pulse in her ears.
The truth was she didn't know why it mattered. She didn't know why it was his gaze, his voice, his maddening contradictions that filled her thoughts instead of the dozens of things she should have been focusing on. She could list every reason to dismiss him and still, somehow, none of them felt strong enough to outweigh the memory of that strange warmth in his eyes.
By the time the clock struck midnight, her restlessness had reached a peak. She had long since abandoned the work spread across her desk, the reports and notes lying forgotten in neat stacks. The wine in her hand had grown lukewarm, the glass slick with condensation. She drained it anyway, ignoring the sour taste, and set it down with a quiet but decisive clink.
Three days, she thought. That was long enough. Long enough to let him breathe after what he had been forced to relive. Long enough to convince herself she had been merciful in leaving him alone. But also long enough for her patience to snap.
She rose from her chair, crossing to the window, pressing her palm against the cool glass as the city lights blurred in the rain. Tomorrow she would go back. Tomorrow she would stand in that flat again, face him, and demand answers. She would force him to explain why he had filled drawer after drawer with her name and why he looked at her as though she were something both unreachable and necessary. She would not let this unsettled feeling fester unspoken, because it had already grown roots too deep to ignore.
Her chest tightened as she admitted the part she had been skirting around for days. It wasn't only dread that awaited her in the morning. There was anticipation too, sharp and undeniable, curling in her stomach every time she imagined the moment their eyes would meet again.
And beneath it all, quieter but far more dangerous, there was something else. She wasn't sure she wanted the feeling to disappear.
•••
Granger was nothing if not relentless. When she stepped into his flat, it was with the force of a gale, her presence sweeping through the space before he even had the chance to lift his head. She didn't knock, didn't pause, didn't hesitate. The door slammed shut behind her with a sharp crack that rattled the frame, and she stood in the entryway like some terrible herald of judgment.
"Malfoy!"
Her voice rang out with all the authority of someone who had made a career out of lecturing entire rooms into silence.
He groaned, long and theatrical, from the couch where he lay in a sprawl that suggested not only exhaustion but a calculated attempt to look unbothered. His arm draped dramatically over his face until he peeked out from beneath it, his grey eyes narrowing in irritation. "What do you want now? For Merlin's sake, Granger, can I not wallow in humiliation in peace? Just one single day without your righteous crusading stomping through my flat?"
"No," she said crisply, dropping her bag onto the nearest chair with a thud. She crossed her arms, tilting her chin in that infuriating way that told him she had already made up her mind. "Absolutely not. What you need is company."
He turned his head just enough to look at her fully, and the smirk that slid across his face was both tired and sharp. "Not yours, obviously."
Her brows rose, unimpressed, as though she had been waiting for him to hand her such an easy opening. "Shall I call one of your whores, then? I imagine they're not quite as judgmental."
His lips curved into a grin that was far too self-satisfied for someone who had spent three days sulking. "She's already here."
Hermione tilted her head, feigning a moment of serious thought before her eyes glittered with something closer to mischief than fury. "Your favorite one, then? The one you've been stalking for ages?"
That knocked the smirk clean off his face. He sat up too quickly, the cushions giving way beneath him, his posture snapping from indolent to alert in seconds. His sharp grey eyes narrowed, searching her face with suspicion. "What the hell are you on about?"
"Don't play dumb," she snapped, stepping further into the room until the space between them felt charged. "You know perfectly well. Why are you clipping my photographs from the Prophet? Why do you have an entire archive of articles about me hidden away like some sort of deranged collector?"
His eyes widened before narrowing again, and a faint flush crept up his throat, betraying him more than he would ever admit aloud. He fought for composure and found it the only way he knew how—through sarcasm. "To wank, obviously," he said flatly, his voice dry as sand.
She stared at him, incredulous. "To my face, you'll say that?"
He leaned back again, settling into the cushions with exaggerated ease, though his shoulders were a touch too stiff to be convincing. His smirk returned, crooked and maddening. "I am really more aroused by Century Gothic Bold, font size twelve. The way the letters curve, the elegance of the serifs… it does things to me you could not possibly imagine."
"Do you have any idea what that felt like?" His voice sharpened, though not at her, more at the memory of it. "To sit in a house that used to command fear, that used to mean something, and feel it rot around me while the world outside rebuilt without me? Every headline about you was a reminder that you hadn't just survived, you had risen. You had carved out a place in this shiny new order, and I could not even figure out who I was without the war. Do you understand that?"
His hands were moving now, restless, tugging at his sleeve and then raking back through his hair as if he couldn't bear to sit still while the words spilled out. "I watched you make speeches, lead campaigns, stand in front of rooms full of people who respected you. And all I could think was that I would never get there. Not even close. My family's name was filth. My so-called friends had scattered or rotted away in prison. I could not even walk down Diagon Alley without hearing whispers about what a coward I was. And you—" His jaw tightened, his voice breaking as he forced himself on. "You were proof that it was possible to be more. Proof that not everyone who was broken had to stay broken."
Hermione's lips parted, but he did not give her a chance to interrupt. His voice cracked under the weight of words he had never spoken aloud. "I hated you for it. Do you hear me? I hated you. Because every article about you felt like a mirror shoved in my face, reminding me of everything I wasn't. And then—Merlin help me—I started to look for them. Like I could not stop myself. Like punishing myself with your perfection was the only way I could feel alive at all."
He stopped abruptly, as though the force of his own admission had stolen the breath from him. His chest rose and fell in uneven pulls, and for once, the ever-present smirk was gone. There was no mask, no sneer, no carefully sharpened wit. Just a man sitting in the wreckage of his own confession, looking more undone than she had ever seen him.
Hermione stood frozen, her arms slack at her sides, her expression caught somewhere between outrage and something softer she could not yet name. The silence stretched until it felt unbearable, until he scoffed bitterly and turned his face away. "So there you have it. The great secret you've been sniffing after. Satisfied, Granger? You win again."
He only tilted his head, utterly unbothered by the threat. "Go ahead, Granger. Seems to be your new favorite pastime."
Her nostrils flared, but before she could fire back, he leaned forward on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees. His smirk lingered, but his eyes betrayed him. They were too steady, too focused, as if he was daring her to notice the sincerity hiding beneath the provocation.
"You think I am joking," he said, his voice lower now. "But I do write about you. Not in the pathetic way you are imagining, with hearts doodled in the margins or some girlish fantasy. I write because otherwise I would lose my mind. Because you are the measure I put myself against. If I can see your name in ink, if I can remember the way you looked when you stood up in court or when you tore some poor sod apart with nothing but your words, then maybe I can remind myself that there is still something worth trying for. And if you think that is weakness, then fine. Laugh. But it is the truth."
Hermione froze where she stood, her hand still gripping the doorframe. The flippant remark she had been ready to hurl back at him caught in her throat and dissolved. She had wanted to tease, to sting him into silence, but the weight of his words pressed down on her chest.
Her eyes softened, though her voice stayed sharp, if only because she needed the shield. "Merlin, Malfoy. You have the most infuriating way of turning insults into confessions."
He gave a faint shrug, his lips twitching into something that was almost self-mocking. "What can I say? I am a man of many talents."
She let out a huff, not quite a laugh, and tightened her grip on her bag. "One of these days, your mouth is going to get you hexed into next week."
"One of these days, Granger," he replied smoothly, "your curiosity is going to get you killed."
For a moment, their eyes locked, the air between them charged with something neither of them wanted to name. Then she turned away first, stepping into the corridor.
Her last words floated back to him, half a threat and half something else. "Try not to write anything too flattering tonight. I'd hate for your diary to develop a crush."
He grinned, leaning back against the wall with the air of someone inviting danger. "Do it. It is your favorite pastime, isn't it? How many times have you slapped me so far?"
"Not nearly enough," she shot back. Her arms folded across her chest as she stepped closer, her eyes fixed on his with unwavering defiance.
He tilted his head slightly, the smirk glued to his face as if it were part of him. "And I just stand there and take it. I let you have at me, and I do nothing but endure your abuse."
Hermione let out a short, sharp laugh. "Why? What exactly are you planning to do, Malfoy? Slap me back? Please, you wouldn't dare."
His expression shifted as he leaned forward, the gray of his eyes deepening with a darker hue, something sharp and dangerous flashing there like the spark before fire. "I do not know your kinks yet, Granger," he said in a low voice that seemed to curl around her, "but I would be more than happy to find out."
Her mouth curved into a wry, challenging smile. "Come closer, then. Let me slap you, and we will see if you can manage a clever retort for once in your life."
His grin spread wider, no longer playful but edged with something feral. Each step he took toward her was slow and deliberate, like a predator closing the distance with its prey. There was a glint in his eye that made her pulse jump, not from fear but from the defiant energy thrumming inside her. She raised her chin, daring him to keep coming, meeting his intensity with her own.
"Come on," she said steadily, even though her chest fluttered with the charge of the moment. "Humor me."
He was so close now that she could feel the heat radiating from him, only a breath of space left between them. With a sudden motion, she swung her hand across his face. The crack of her palm striking his cheek rang through the room, sharp and decisive. But before she could snatch her hand away, his fingers closed around her wrist like iron.
"Granger," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that carried both warning and promise, "you really should have thought that through."
Before she could fire back, he twisted her arm behind her with just enough force to control her without causing pain. His body edged closer, pressing her into the moment until the line between challenge and something far more dangerous blurred. She pushed against him with her free hand in a quick attempt to shove him away, but he was faster, capturing that wrist too and pinning it behind her back with the first.
"Now, now, kitten," he whispered, his tone smooth and steady, his breath skimming the sensitive curve of her ear. Every muscle in her body tightened, nerves sparking like lightning, but she held her ground. She refused to look away, even as his eyes locked on hers with glinting amusement. Hers burned with fury, his danced with dark playfulness. It was a duel without spells, a battle of wills fought at the smallest distance possible, and she had no intention of surrendering.
He leaned even closer, until the weight of his presence seemed to fill the space between them. The air itself felt heavy, charged with something too intimate and dangerous to name. His voice dropped to a husky murmur, each word brushing against her skin and leaving it prickling. "I have been dreaming about the smell of your hair, you know. Ever since we were teenagers."
Her breath caught before she could stop it, just a small hitch that betrayed the storm inside her chest. She schooled her face into stillness, forcing her expression into cool neutrality even as her pulse betrayed her. She would not give him the reaction he wanted, not now, not ever.
He continued, his voice a deliberate drawl as he tilted his head, breathing her in as though testing the truth of his own words. "I always wanted to touch it," he said softly, the tease sharpened by the raw honesty beneath it. "To twist it between my fingers, to feel how soft it really is. Merlin, Granger, you have no idea how many nights I imagined wrapping your hair around my hand."
She parted her lips, ready to cut him down with something sharp, but he was not done with her yet. His mouth lingered near her ear, the warmth of his breath brushing against her skin, making her spine stiffen with unwilling awareness. "And now," he went on, his tone dipping into a huskier register that curled through the air like smoke, "now I imagine holding it back. Keeping it from falling into your face while I fuck your mouth. Finally, something that shuts you up."
The words struck her like a slap, brazen and vile, so shamelessly spoken that the air itself seemed to crackle around them. Her jaw tightened as though she were clamping down on fire. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, nails pressing crescents into her palms, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. Instead she lifted her chin, her glare steady, unyielding, and laced with steel.
"Is that what you fantasize about, Malfoy?" she asked, her voice colder than ice, every syllable precise and merciless. "Degrading yourself with thoughts of me? That is what you cling to when the Manor walls keep you awake? How pathetic."
For a heartbeat something flickered in his face, the smirk slipping before he caught it, before he let the mask slide back into place. When it returned, it was sharper, the smile of someone leaning into their own destruction because it thrilled them. "Oh, Granger," he purred, each word wrapped in silk that threatened to strangle, "if pathetic means dreaming of you, then I will own it. Guilty as charged." He leaned in closer, so near she could count the lashes around his storm-colored eyes. "But do not fool yourself. You have thought about it too. Haven't you?"
Her eyes narrowed into slits, the faintest shadow of a smile curling at the edge of her mouth. It was not warm, not kind, but cruel in its certainty. "The only thing I have thought about," she said, her voice cutting straight through him, "is how much I enjoy slapping that smug look off your face."
The words sliced between them, but she did not back away. The room was thick with something volatile, charged and dangerous, as though even the walls leaned in to witness what would come next.
His hand shot out, fast enough to make her breath catch, and his fingers wrapped around her wrist before she could carry out her threat. He yanked her closer in one smooth motion, their bodies so near she could feel the heat radiating off him. His grip was firm, steady, but not cruel, and his other hand hovered just above her waist, the ghost of a touch that never quite landed. She drew in a sharp breath, her heart thundering against her ribs, but her face remained perfectly composed. He would not see how much his nearness unsettled her.
"Careful, kitten," he murmured, his voice velvet and warning all at once. "You might enjoy it too much this time."
Her glare burned hotter as she twisted her wrist sharply and pulled free, stepping back until there was a sliver of air between them again. She squared her shoulders, chin lifting like a blade poised at his throat. "You're insufferable, Malfoy."
He smirked, unfazed. "And you're irresistible, Granger." He leaned against the wall as if this were nothing more than another game, his arms folding loosely across his chest, the picture of casual arrogance. "Why fight it?"
"Fight what?" she snapped, her voice sharp as flint. She grabbed her bag from the chair and slung it over her shoulder with a sharp flick of her wrist. "The overwhelming urge to hex you into next week? I'm not fighting anything. In fact, I'm leaving."
She strode toward the door, but before turning the handle, she cast him one last cutting glare over her shoulder. "You can fantasize until you're blue in the face, Malfoy. Just don't mistake your delusions for reality."
Her words sliced through the room, leaving him silent for a moment too long. For once, she thought she had caught him off guard.
Her breath hitched, betraying the thrum of adrenaline running through her, but her face never wavered, cold and unflinching. "Are you finished?" she asked, each syllable measured and precise.
His smirk returned, though his eyes flickered with something he could not quite hide, a shadow of uncertainty buried beneath the bravado. He let her go, his fingers falling back to his side as she tugged her sleeves straight with calm precision, like she had just put him back into his proper place.
"Tomorrow," she said briskly, adjusting the strap of her bag as if she were already halfway out the door, "I'll send over Mindy. And a priest."
His brow furrowed, confusion breaking through his mask. "A priest?"
Her gaze was pointed, merciless. "Clearly you need an exorcism. There's something very wrong with you."
She turned and walked out without another word, the door shutting with finality behind her. For a long moment, Draco stood frozen, his smirk tugging unevenly at his lips as silence reclaimed the room. Then, slowly, an amused chuckle escaped him, low and unguarded.
"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair as he sank back against the wall. "She'll be the death of me."
•••
He woke to the crackle of fire sparking to life, the sudden glow throwing restless shadows across the sitting room. Disoriented, he rubbed his eyes and sat up, only to freeze when he noticed the stranger standing in the middle of his flat.
A blonde woman—though "woman" felt generous—stood in towering platform heels, a mini-dress that was more suggestion than garment, and a spray tan so thick it seemed to radiate against the wallpaper. Her lips were lacquered to a mirror shine, her lashes heavy enough to cause wind if she blinked too hard. Her curves looked bought in installments. Everything about her screamed cheap theatrics and professional company, and Draco felt his stomach twist.
She tilted her head slowly, eyes dragging over him with a brazen appraisal that made his skin crawl.
"Oh, young Malfoy," she purred, her accent thick, theatrical, and oddly familiar from the kind of late-night soap operas he had accidentally stumbled across in Muggle London. "So much better in person than in them pictures."
His brow furrowed, dread prickling at the back of his neck. "Who the fuck are you?"
She let out a giggle that sounded like glass breaking, high and shrill. "I'm Mindy, babes. Your company for today."
For a moment, his brain simply refused to process the words. He stared at her, utterly dumbstruck. "My what?" His voice was sharp enough to cut stone.
She clearly took his confusion as encouragement. Her painted smile widened as she tugged at the straps of her dress, sliding the flimsy fabric down her body until it pooled on the floor. He actually staggered back a step, horrified. Her tan was streaked in patches, her skin gleaming unnaturally under the firelight.
"What in Merlin's bloody name—" he spluttered, whipping his head away as quickly as he could. "Put your clothes back on this instant!"
She didn't even blink. "Oh, don't be shy, love," she cooed, strutting toward him with exaggerated sways of her hips. "It's been ages for you, hasn't it? Must be desperate by now."
"No. Absolutely not," he snapped, his voice sharp with revulsion. He held up a hand as though sheer willpower could keep her at a distance. "Who sent you? Tell me right now before I curse you out of my flat."
She batted her lashes, her lower lip jutting in a pout. "Don't be like that. I'm here to give you everything you need, darling. Hermione said you were lonely, and I thought, well, why not cheer you up? Ain't I a sight?"
At her words, his blood froze. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as fury boiled up inside him. Of course. Of course she was behind this.
"Granger sent you," he said, the words squeezed out through clenched teeth. His entire face burned with humiliation and disbelief. "That insufferable witch. No. No, this isn't happening. Not in my house."
"Aw, come on," Mindy crooned, now sauntering dangerously close to him. She reached out with a slow, deliberate motion, her fingernail tracing the length of his forearm as though she were carving her claim into his skin. Draco recoiled instantly, jerking back like her touch had scalded him. His stomach twisted at the syrupy tone of her voice. "Don't fight it, sweet'eart. Let's 'ave some fun, yeah?"
"No!" he barked, louder than he intended, the word ripping from his throat like it had been waiting there all along. He stumbled back a few paces until his spine nearly hit the wall, trying to put as much distance between them as the room would allow. His pulse thudded against his ribs, and his hands curled into fists at his sides. "Get dressed. Now. And get out of my flat before I—"
"Before you what?" she cut in smoothly, her voice dripping with mockery. She tilted her head, one brow arching high as she planted a manicured hand on her hip. The move was so practiced it made his skin crawl. "Yer clearly uptight, Malfoy. I've been sent to help you relax, innit?"
He stared at her, aghast, the sheer absurdity of her words almost knocking him speechless. Before he could find the right curse to fling at her, she pressed both hands boldly against his chest, her glossy lips parting in a sultry smile. That was the final straw. His patience, already frayed to a thin thread, snapped.
"Relax?!" he hissed, shoving her hands away with more force than he meant to. He felt contaminated by the brief contact, as though her fingerprints had burned into his skin. His expression twisted with disgust as he snarled, "I'll relax the moment you're gone. So why don't you do us both a favor and leave? Now!"
Mindy's mouth dropped into a dramatic pout, the kind of expression that probably worked on half the drunks she entertained, but it only made Draco want to hex her into oblivion. She blinked at him with exaggerated lashes, then cooed in a singsong tone, "Oh, don't be like that, love. Yer just shy, that's all. Let's loosen you up, yeah? You'll thank me later."
Draco's nostrils flared. A hot pulse of fury surged through him as he took another step back, his eyes narrowing like sharpened blades. Enough was enough. He tipped his head back and bellowed through the flat, his voice echoing off the polished walls, "GRANGER! GET IN HERE! RIGHT NOW!"
It took only a few seconds, but they stretched unbearably long before he heard the rapid click of heels striking the floor. Hermione stormed into the room, her presence filling the space with swift authority. She wore a pale yellow sundress that clung to her figure and swayed lightly as she moved, the contrast between her elegance and the grotesque chaos in the room nearly knocking the breath out of him. For one fleeting, unguarded instant, she looked as though she had stepped straight out of a Renaissance painting, her skin radiant in the light, her hair catching like spun gold.
She stopped sharply in the doorway, her brows knitting together with a fury that promised bloodshed. Her voice sliced through the tension, sharp and impatient. "What in Merlin's name is wrong with you now?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing at his obvious panic.
Draco spun toward her, his arm jerking out in a dramatic point toward the bedroom. His face was flushed crimson, his voice cracking as outrage and disbelief tangled together. "What the fuck is this?" he shouted, his words nearly breaking. He gestured wildly at the sight behind him where Mindy had once again discarded her pathetic excuse for a dress and was parading around like she owned the place. "What in all the seven hells is she doing here?"
She followed his outstretched finger, her gaze landing on the naked blonde sprawled lazily against his bedframe as though she belonged there. One brow arched, her lips curving into a smirk she barely bothered to hide.
"Looks to me," Hermione said, her tone light, mocking, and far too casual for Draco's fraying sanity, "like you're having a very good time. I mean, you were yelling for me. What's the matter, Malfoy? Need some tips to improve your stamina? Two minutes is already such a generous improvement for you."
His face turned the exact shade of a ripe tomato. "YOU HIRED A WHORE?" he bellowed, so loudly that even Mindy flinched against the bedframe.
Hermione rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. "First of all, she's an escort. Watch your mouth, Malfoy. Respect the profession." With an almost cheerful wave, she added, "Hello, Mindy, love."
Unbothered, Mindy flashed a wide grin, entirely at ease with her lack of clothing. "Oh, hello babes! You look proper fit, don't ya? Look at you, all posh and polished, like some fancy little doll."
Hermione beamed, the compliment sliding into her like honey. "Thank you, darling. That was exactly the vibe I was going for today." Her smirk sharpened as she gestured toward Draco. "Did the walking catastrophe over there hurt you? I wouldn't put it past him."
Mindy winked conspiratorially. "Nah. He's just playing hard to get. Blokes like him, you gotta work for it, ya know?"
Hermione let out a laugh that was bright, loud, and utterly cruel. Draco's stomach sank as he looked between them, his horror mounting by the second. "Oh no, darling," Hermione said, her voice dripping with condescension, "Malfoy is the furthest thing from hard to get. He's practically a community broom. You'll manage just fine."
"I AM RIGHT HERE!" Draco roared, throwing his arms wide in a gesture of absolute despair. His hair fell in his face, his chest heaved, and he looked every inch a man seconds away from combusting. "Do not talk about me like I am some… some object!" He jabbed his finger at Hermione with an accusing glare. "And do not act like you did not set this up! You did this! You sent her here!"
She shrugged with infuriating innocence, the picture of composure. "I was trying to help. I thought maybe some professional company would do you some good." She leaned in, her eyes sparkling with malicious amusement. "Clearly, I overestimated you. Do you even want an orgasm, Malfoy? Or do you just enjoy wallowing in your misery?"
His jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Of course I do," he snarled. "But not from her."
That was apparently enough for Mindy. She lifted her hands in surrender, entirely unfazed. "Got it, love. Message received. No need to shout, yeah?" She stooped to retrieve her discarded dress and wriggled back into it with quick, practiced movements. "Anyway, I'll leave you two to… whatever this circus is." Tossing Hermione a playful wink, she added warmly, "Bye, babes. You're a stunner, by the way. If I was him, I wouldn't look anywhere else."
Hermione's answering smile was sweet enough to curdle blood. "Aw, thank you, Mindy. I'll make sure to call you if he ever changes his mind."
Mindy shot Draco one last teasing grin and blew him a kiss. "Cheer up, Malfoy. You're cute when you're angry."
And with that, she disappeared into the fireplace in a whirl of green flames, leaving behind silence, a lingering cloud of cheap perfume, and Draco Malfoy's complete and utter mortification.
The crackling hearth seemed louder than it had any right to be, each snap and hiss filling the silence like a cruel reminder that the room itself was mocking him. He turned toward Hermione, only to find her calmly inspecting her nails as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, as if this entire humiliating disaster was no more than a mild inconvenience in the middle of her day.
"Are you mental, Granger?" he snapped, his voice brimming with exasperation that threatened to spill over into something far less controlled.
"Occasionally, yes." She still didn't bother to look up, her tone maddeningly casual, sharp in its indifference. "But after your little performance yesterday, it's clear enough you're in desperate need of a shag."
His jaw dropped, outrage flooding his chest like fire. "I do not need a shag," he shot back, his voice climbing in pitch as the heat rose in his cheeks. "And I certainly don't need one from her."
At that, she shrugged, finally lifting her gaze to meet his with calm precision that only made him burn hotter. "Fine," she said coolly, "then we'll find you a pureblood whore, if that's still what you prefer."
His entire body went rigid, his spine locking as though she had struck him. His face flushed scarlet, his nostrils flaring as he wrestled with words that refused to come fast enough. Finally, they ripped out of him in a roar, raw and unfiltered. "I DO NOT PREFER ANYTHING THAT IS NOT YOU!"
The room fell silent so quickly it felt like the world had stopped breathing. The words lingered in the charged air between them, heavy with truth he hadn't meant to speak aloud. Regret stabbed through him the moment the echo faded. His cheeks burned hotter as the weight of what he had admitted sank in. Hermione, for her part, only arched a brow, her lips quirking into the faintest, most infuriating smirk.
"I see," she said after a beat, her voice maddeningly composed, every syllable carefully measured. "Well, it seems you're fine, so I'll just go about my day."
He stared at her, his thoughts short-circuiting into chaos. "Where are you going?" he demanded, the question bursting from him sharper than he had intended. His eyes swept over the sundress she wore, every curve it revealed stoking his irritation to a dangerous pitch. "And what are you doing in a dress like that?"
She turned to him then, a mocking smile curving across her lips, her expression designed to cut. "That, Malfoy, is none of your business."
"Oh, isn't it?" His words snapped like a whip, his temper unraveling. "Whose son are you dressed up for, then? Were you planning to get your tight little hole fucked tonight?" The venom in his voice was undeniable, but the heat beneath it betrayed something far more desperate than insult.
She didn't falter, didn't miss a beat. "Actually, yes." She tilted her head just so, her tone sweet and unbearably smug, a deliberate provocation. "Not that it's any of your concern. But at least you finally got something right about me, Malfoy. Congratulations."
She turned on her heel with calm finality, prepared to walk out and leave him standing in the wreckage of his own admission. But Draco Malfoy wasn't finished with her, not when she had flung her words like knives and walked away as though he didn't bleed. He wasn't done. Not by a long shot.
He surged forward before his mind could stop him, his hand latching around her forearm with a grip that was desperate rather than cruel. He yanked her back toward him, his body acting on a hunger he could no longer disguise. With a swift movement he spun her around and pressed her firmly against the wall, his arms braced on either side of her so she had no escape. His breathing came harsh and uneven, his chest rising and falling as though the air itself had become too thick to swallow. His eyes, storm-grey and burning with something he couldn't name, locked on hers with raw frustration and something darker simmering beneath the surface.
"You hired a whore for me?" His voice was rough, almost hoarse, the question scraping out of him like gravel. His face hovered only inches from hers, close enough for him to feel the warmth of her skin and catch the faint scent of her perfume. His hand slid upward, finding her throat, his fingers grazing lightly across the column of her neck. It wasn't a threat, not yet. It was something else entirely, a claiming gesture, a reminder that even when she infuriated him beyond reason, he wanted her close.
Hermione didn't so much as flinch. Her eyes met his fiery gaze with cool defiance, and a dangerous smile curved across her lips. She looked at him like he was the one trapped, not her. Before he could tighten his hold, before he could drive his point home, she moved with a speed that caught him completely off guard.
In one swift motion she broke his grip, spun them both, and slammed him back against the wall instead. The thud of his shoulders against plaster stole his breath, and his eyes widened as the realization hit him. She had overpowered him, left him the one pinned, the one caged. Her hand found his throat, her fingers pressing with surprising strength, just enough to make his pulse stutter.
Her face came close, so close that her nose brushed his, her lips hovering against his ear, her breath hot against his skin. When she spoke, her voice was a blade, low and lethal, every word slicing into him.
"After your little performance last night," she whispered, her tone dripping with venomous amusement, "and after watching you act like a desperate, horny little boy, I did you a favor. I gave you an outlet."
Her grip on his throat tightened, not enough to harm him but enough to make his body betray him with the rush of adrenaline. His heart hammered, his pulse racing under her palm.
"But from now on," she continued, her tone chilling, "it will be you and your hand, Malfoy. You do not get the privilege of ruining my off days. And if you try again, if you so much as push me one step further, I will kill you."
She released him so suddenly that he stumbled, dragging in air like he had been drowning. His hand immediately flew to his throat, his fingers brushing the tender skin where her grip had been, feeling the phantom pressure that lingered even after she had let go.
Before he could form a retort, before he could demand an explanation or throw his fury back in her face, she had already pulled her wand into her hand with practiced ease. A sharp crack split the air, and she was gone, leaving him alone in the silent room with only the smell of smoke and the faint echo of her words.
Draco stood there, his chest heaving as he tried to process what had just happened. He closed his eyes for a moment, but that only made the memory sharper, the image of her eyes burning into him searing itself into his mind. His palm pressed harder against his throat, as though he could still feel her touch, as though she had branded him with it.
When he finally looked down, his stomach sank, and a curse slipped from his lips. His body had responded in a way he didn't want to acknowledge, his arousal standing as an undeniable, humiliating truth.
"That woman," he muttered through clenched teeth, dragging a shaky hand through his already disheveled hair. "That bloody woman."
She was toying with him, pulling at the edges of his control like it was nothing, as if she could unravel him at will. She wasn't just playing with his body, she was reaching for his soul, twisting it in her clever hands until he hardly recognized himself. And the most infuriating, terrifying part of all was the truth he couldn't ignore. He didn't hate it. Not even close.