13 Days Left
The healer visited again, clipboard in hand, his expression carved into something politely blank. Draco watched him scribble notes with irritating precision, as though his entire life could be reduced to neat lines of ink on a piece of parchment. After a long examination, the verdict came in a flat, professional tone.
"Anxiety disorder."
Lovely. Just what he needed. Another neat little box to shove him into, another reminder that something in him was broken beyond repair.
He blinked at the man, his mouth hanging open for a beat too long, then let out a laugh that sounded closer to a bark. "Brilliant. That's bloody brilliant. Maybe that's why I'm so anxious all the time, because now I have to sit here worrying about having anxiety."
The healer did not rise to the bait. He only gave Draco one of those looks, the kind that said, I'm being paid too much to argue with you, before jotting down another line in his notes. Draco wanted to snatch the clipboard out of his hands and snap it in half. Instead he sat there in stony silence until the man excused himself with a curt nod, leaving behind nothing but the faint smell of antiseptic and a suffocating quiet.
The slam of the door echoed through the flat. Draco pressed his palms to his eyes until he saw sparks, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. Anxiety disorder. What a pathetic, laughable little phrase. As though anyone could slap a label on him and call it solved. As though two words could sum up the endless clawing in his chest, the nights he woke drenched in sweat, the visions of loss that haunted him until dawn.
And underneath it all, always, there was her.
His hands fell into his lap, limp, and his head tipped back against the sofa as though his body had given up fighting. Her name moved through his thoughts like smoke, soft at first, then filling every corner until he could hardly breathe without tasting her there.
Hermione.
It was her fault. It had to be. Every ounce of madness that crawled under his skin these days seemed to trace back to her. She was everywhere. In his mind when he tried to sleep, in the ache of his chest when he woke, in the silence between his breaths. He could not move without tripping over some reminder of her.
Her fault. Definitely.
Not his mother and father, who had carefully broken him from the inside out before he even had a chance to grow into himself. Not the cold, brittle woman who had taught him that love was a performance, or the man who had drilled into him that approval was something earned through obedience and fear. Not the childhood spent desperate for a scrap of affection, starved for tenderness the way a man starves for bread.
Not the weight of his father's shadow, pressing down on him with every mistake, every failure, until he was left with a gnawing, relentless hunger to prove he was worthy of anything at all.
Not the tangled mess of diagnoses a healer could have written across his skin like labels on a specimen jar. Obsessive Love Disorder—what a clinical way to describe the fact that every waking moment was consumed by her. By the idea of her, the sound of her voice, the memory of her touch. By the thought of keeping her so close he might never have to breathe without her again.
Not the Borderline swings that sent him crashing from worship to fury in the space of a heartbeat. From thinking of her as his savior, his angel, the only thing keeping him alive, to cursing her name and hating her for having the power to ruin him so completely.
Not the dependency that rooted itself so deep inside him he sometimes thought he would stop existing if she walked away. She was air. She was blood in his veins. Without her, he was nothing but a husk.
Not the ghosts of the war, not the screams that still rattled around in his skull, his victims and hers alike. Not the way he woke in the night drenched in sweat, heart pounding, ears filled with echoes of things he would never be able to forget.
Not the compulsion that made him plan every step, polish every word, sharpen every detail as though perfection would be the thing to finally tip the scales in his favor. Not the restless, endless need to control the uncontrollable.
Not the hollow ache of trying to adjust to a life stripped bare. No manor, no power, no status. Only the gnawing truth that everything he had once been told mattered had rotted away, leaving him with nothing but the loop that played endlessly in his mind. What if. What if. What if. And always, inevitably, Hermione Granger.
No. None of that.
It was her fault. Her fault entirely.
She haunted his every thought, every movement. The way her hair slipped across her face when she pushed her glasses up her nose as she bent over a report. The soft hum she made when she thought no one was listening. The fire in her eyes when she argued with him, as if she were the only one allowed to be right, and she probably was.
He groaned and rubbed at his temples. The doctor had been wrong. It was not only anxiety disorder. He needed a new diagnosis. Granger Disorder.
His hands raked through his hair as he paced the small flat like a caged animal. He should hate her for this, for twisting his mind into an endless chant of Hermione, Hermione, Hermione. He should despise her for making him feel this way, for dismantling him until there was nothing left but need.
But he could not. He would not.
It was as if his mind itself had betrayed him, plotting against him in some great conspiracy with only one purpose: to worship her. Her laugh. Her wit. Her maddeningly brilliant mind.
And, Merlin save him, her body.
This was not love. Love was too simple. This was obsession. This was madness. It was her face in his dreams, her name on his lips when he prayed, her rejection in every nightmare.
If he thought the healer's words had been the worst thing he would hear that day, he had been wrong. The real diagnosis stood before him in cruel clarity. It was her.
And he no longer knew if he should resist it or let it consume him entirely.
•••
Hermione finally made it to her long-overdue therapy appointment. Years of pushing it aside, convincing herself she was fine, and pretending she didn't need help had finally collapsed under the weight of her reality.
The therapist had been calm, kind, and professional, guiding her gently through the tangle of her emotions. Yet hearing the diagnoses spoken aloud had left her shaken in a way she could not hide.
When she returned home, she barely made it through the door before the tears began. Heavy, ugly sobs broke from her chest, and she slid to the floor, her back pressed against the wall as though it were the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.
The words the therapist had used circled in her head, each one cutting deeper than the last.
Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder. The need for control, the perfectionism that had consumed her for as long as she could remember.
Complex PTSD. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the unshakable fear that lived in the corners of her mind.
Generalized Anxiety Disorder. The constant, suffocating worry that clung to her every waking moment.
Avoidant Personality Disorder. The instinct to push people away before they could hurt her.
Mild Depression. The quiet emptiness that came and went like a shadow she could never quite escape.
And worst of all, Survivor's Guilt. The crushing weight of being alive when so many others had not made it.
She hated her life. She hated the version of herself she had become. She hated that she had spent so many years holding everything together for everyone else, only to find herself unraveling now.
She pulled her knees to her chest, her tears soaking into the fabric of her jeans. The thought rose bitterly in her mind and refused to let go. Why couldn't I have just been ordinary? Why couldn't I have been born into a normal family, with a normal life? Why did I have to be a witch at all?
The questions twisted inside her until she felt hollow. She couldn't even imagine picking up the Floo to call Harry or Ron, or even Ginny. How could she? They had all carried their own scars, their own nightmares that still woke them at night. What right did she have to add her broken pieces to the pile they already carried? She had been the strong one, the one who always held them together when everything was falling apart. If she cracked now, who was she supposed to lean on?
Her parents.
The thought came like a knife. Her parents, who had always been the ones she ran to when the world pressed too heavily on her shoulders. Her parents, who had loved her fiercely, who would have gathered her up in their arms without asking questions. But they were gone. Gone to a grave she had not even been able to stand beside. The ache of missing them never dulled. It felt as raw now as the day she first heard the news, a wound that refused to close no matter how much time passed.
She needed someone. Anyone. Someone to tell her that she was not alone, that this storm inside her would quiet one day. Someone who could hold her, even for a moment, so that she might remember what it felt like to be safe. But there was no one.
Only Crookshanks.
The old, stubborn cat padded over on silent paws, his orange fur glowing faintly in the dim light of the flat. He circled once before settling himself against her side, warm and steady in the way only he could be. She pressed her face into his fur, her sobs muffled by the familiar scent of him. Her fingers clutched at his coat as though he were the only thing keeping her anchored to the earth.
"Looks like it's just you and me, Crooks," she whispered, her voice breaking with the weight of it. "Just you and me."
He purred, low and constant, the sound vibrating against her ribs, and for the first time all day, she did not feel completely untethered.
So she stayed there, holding onto the only creature in the world that still felt solid, while the hours slipped past her. The tears refused to stop, but at least she was not alone in the silence.
•••
She arrived at his flat in the evening, looking every bit as drained as he felt. The air between them carried a weight that clung like damp fog, thick with the kind of silence that begged to be broken but never was. Unspoken words lingered between them, pressing down until even the act of breathing seemed like an effort.
He turned toward her as she stepped through the fireplace, brushing soot from her sleeve with absent movements. Her shoulders sagged, her spine bowed beneath something invisible, and her eyes were rimmed with red. He had not seen her cry, but the evidence clung to her face like a shadow.
Despite the pit in his stomach, he forced a crooked, almost mocking smile. "Darling."
His gaze dragged over her in a slow, deliberate sweep. It was not affectionate, not admiring, but diagnostic, the way a man might assess the damage on a battlefield. The conclusion came swiftly, biting off the end of his tongue. "With the utmost respect, you look like absolute shit."
Her eyebrow arched, and though her lips barely moved, he caught the faint flicker of a smirk. "That makes us twins, doesn't it? You're hardly a picture of health yourself."
Draco let out a sigh that rattled through him, tugging his hand through his already unkempt hair. He looked frayed, every edge of him undone, his usually perfect composure stripped away. "Why do you do this, Hermione? One moment you are kind, almost gentle, and the next you turn colder than an Azkaban cell. Why are you doing this to me?"
She didn't answer. Not at once. Instead, she moved toward the sofa and collapsed onto it like her body had finally given in. Her head fell into her hands, her hair a curtain between them. For a long moment there was nothing, and then her voice slipped out, quiet and almost monotone, as though she had left her emotions at the door. "Must be my APD if you're asking my therapist."
He blinked. The words struck him like a slap. "And if I'm asking you?"
Her head snapped up, her eyes locking on his. They burned, sharp and unyielding, cutting into him with the kind of fury only she could conjure. "I'm not in the mood for your games tonight. I just want to see Crooks."
For a moment he stopped breathing. The name struck his ears wrong, foreign, unfamiliar. His mind twisted around it, searching for meaning until the only explanation that took root was poison.
His chest tightened, his blood rushing hot. "You have a fucking boyfriend?!" His voice cracked like glass under pressure, sharp and raw. "How could you break my heart like this?"
Her expression contorted into something caught between disbelief and irritation. She pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling sharply as though bracing herself against the tidal wave of his madness. "Could you shut up for one minute, Malfoy? That's probably why you have anxiety."
His head snapped back, his eyes wide. "Wait… you read my medical chart?"
She leveled him with a sharp look that carried every ounce of her exasperation. "Be thankful it wasn't about your STD or STI."
His mouth fell open, then closed again, then opened once more, but no words formed. He looked like a fish floundering out of water. "Hermione!"
She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back into the sofa with all the exaggerated calm of someone who had reached the very edge of her patience. "Crookshanks is my cat, you absolute idiot."
He froze. His face flushed crimson, humiliation painting itself across every line of his features. "Oh… Je m'excuse." The words slipped out in a mutter, a feeble attempt to save the scraps of his dignity.
Her eyes narrowed. The disdain in her gaze was palpable, almost alive. "Pourquoi es-tu si pathétiquement désespéré?" The French rolled off her tongue, elegant and venomous in equal measure.
He let out a groan that sounded torn from somewhere deep and buried his face in his hands as he sank into the armchair opposite her. The weight of it all pressed him low, stealing the strength from his shoulders. "I am not hopeless, Granger. I am just…" The sentence dangled, unfinished, suspended in the space between them.
"Oh, you're hopeless, all right. And somehow, I am even more pathetic because I am here."
The words lingered in the room like smoke, and for a long time neither of them dared to speak. The only sound was the low crackle of the fire, each pop and hiss pressing against the silence until it felt unbearable. When Draco finally lifted his gaze, his eyes met hers, and for once they were not shielded by sarcasm or scorn. There was no mask left to hide behind.
"You're not pathetic, Hermione. Not even close."
Her expression softened, just slightly, but it was enough to make his chest ache. The smallest shift in her face left him undone. She shook her head with a sharpness that betrayed how close she was to losing control, and she pushed herself to her feet quickly, almost too quickly. "I need to go."
"Please, don't," he whispered. His voice was rough, the sound of it barely more than breath, and the words carried the kind of desperation he usually buried deep.
She froze with her hand hovering near the fireplace, her body tense as if she were fighting herself. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, though no less steady. "Don't make me regret staying, Malfoy."
That was all it took. She turned back, sinking onto the sofa again as though her strength had run out, the weight of her weariness filling the space between them. The air grew thick with something unspoken, a tangled mix of longing and fury and an intimacy neither of them was ready to name.
Draco shifted forward until he was perched on the edge of the armchair opposite her. His elbows pressed against his knees, his hands clasped tightly together, holding himself as though the smallest movement might shatter him. He watched her without blinking, trying to decipher the thoughts behind her tired eyes.
"Did you read my entire evaluation?" His voice was quiet, almost hesitant, as though he was bracing for impact.
Her lips thinned as she folded her arms across her chest. "Of course I did. It is my job to do so."
He drew in a breath that scraped against his lungs. "And… what did you think of it?" His voice faltered on the last word, and for all his attempts at composure, the vulnerability bled through.
Her eyes narrowed, her tone sharp, the edges clean. "Why would I think anything of it? It is not my place to form opinions about your mental health. Besides," she tilted her head slightly, her voice hardening, "what difference would it make? We are not so different, you and I. We are the same person, only written in different fonts."
Her answer stunned him. "That's not true," he said softly, his head shaking slowly as if he could undo her words by sheer denial. "You're nothing like me."
A humorless smile curved across her mouth, though it failed to reach her eyes. "There is no doubt that I am better than you," she replied with the familiar sting of her sarcasm, "but that does not mean we are not cut from the same cloth."
He stared at her as if she had struck him, his heartbeat echoing in his ears. "What do you mean?"
She sighed, leaning back against the sofa, her eyes fixed on a distant place that was not him. "We are both products of our past. You were raised in wealth and prejudice, told lies about power and cruelty. I was raised in love and hope, given a chance to rise. But at the center of it, we are simply flawed people trying to survive the chaos we were born into. Nothing more than that. Nothing extraordinary."
Her words hollowed him out. "You think you're flawed?" he asked, the disbelief clear in his voice.
She let out a laugh that was bitter and sharp. "Do not act so surprised. You have seen it yourself. My temper, my obsession with control, my inability to release the past. I am no better than you, Draco. Only different."
His head shook violently, the refusal almost instinctive. "No. You are wrong. You are brilliant. You are compassionate. You are braver than anyone I have ever known. You fight for what is right, even when it costs you everything. That is not flaw, Hermione. That is extraordinary."
Her gaze shot back to his, something flickering in her eyes that she could not smother quickly enough. There was disbelief, but there was also fear, and beneath it something raw that made his stomach twist. "You don't know me as well as you think you do," she murmured, her voice so quiet it was almost lost to the fire.
He leaned forward, his hands gripping together, his eyes locked on hers. "I know enough. I know you believe you are broken, but you are not. You are strong in ways I cannot even understand. Yes, we have both made mistakes, but that does not make us the same. It makes us human."
For a moment she simply stared at him, her face unreadable, the silence pressing harder with every passing second. Then she rose, her movements quick and decisive. "I need to go," she said, her voice tight, and before he could stop her, she was already moving toward the fire.
"Please don't," he begged, rising to his feet so quickly it almost startled her.
She hesitated mid-step, her eyes flicking back to him. Something in his voice caught her—desperation, sincerity, a rawness she had not expected from him. For the briefest of moments, her resolve faltered. But then, just as swiftly, she pulled the mask of composure back over her face, the walls rising once more.
"Goodnight, Malfoy," she said, her tone clipped and final. She turned from him with a kind of determination that made her back seem impossibly straight, her steps steady even as her pulse hammered wildly in her chest. Each beat mocked her, reminding her of the truth she refused to admit, that he unsettled her more than anyone else alive.
Her hand hovered over the doorknob. She could have left then, could have stepped through and sealed the evening away like a wound, but her fingers lingered in the air, trembling with hesitation. Slowly, she turned back to face him. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes guarded, yet there was something restless in the tilt of her head, as though she were wrestling with herself.
"Hermione?" His voice cracked slightly, the syllables carrying both uncertainty and a fragile thread of hope.
She let out a soft exhale, her tone casual, almost careless, as if it meant nothing. "Oh. I forgot something. Come here."
The words tore through him. His chest tightened and his stomach flipped, anticipation thrumming through every nerve. He closed the distance in a few quick strides, barely aware of his own movement, only of the magnetic pull toward her. "What is it?" he asked, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, though his heart was thundering so fiercely he thought she must hear it.
And then she caught him off guard. Without warning, she reached for him, her arms slipping around his neck. She pulled him down into an embrace, rising on her toes so she could press fully against him. For a moment he stood frozen, breath caught, the shock of her closeness making his thoughts scatter.
Instinct won out over disbelief. His arms wrapped around her waist, tightening with a desperate urgency he could no longer contain. His hands trembled faintly as they settled against her back, and he pulled her closer still, as though afraid she might vanish if he left even the smallest gap.
"Thank you," he whispered, the words breaking from him before he could think. He was not sure what exactly he was thanking her for—perhaps for staying, perhaps for allowing him this moment, perhaps simply for existing as Hermione—but the words felt truer than anything else he could have said.
They stood together in silence, pressed into each other as if the world beyond that room had ceased to matter. Her head rested lightly against his shoulder, her hair brushing his jaw, and he breathed her in. The faint, familiar scent of her shampoo filled his lungs, grounding him. His cheek lingered against the crown of her head, and with each breath he felt himself sink further into the impossible comfort of her presence.
Time slipped away, the embrace stretching into something that felt like forever. Neither moved, neither spoke, neither dared to release the other, as though letting go would shatter the fragile spell that bound them together in that moment.
He tilted his head ever so slightly, his hand lifting as though he wasn't quite sure he had the right to touch her. His fingers grazed along her jaw, tracing the delicate line of her face until he gently tilted her chin upward. Her eyes met his, and for a single, suspended moment it felt as though the world stilled around them. She looked at him in a way no one else ever had, cutting through the walls he had built, peeling back every defense with a gaze that was unflinching and impossibly soft. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing against his ribs like it wanted to break free. His eyes flickered to her mouth and lingered there, betraying him with their hunger.
And she saw it. Of course she did. Hermione Granger noticed everything. The faintest quirk tugged at the corner of her lips, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk, but something in between. She made the choice before he could even breathe her name. She leaned in and kissed him.
It was not hurried, not clumsy, not born from recklessness. It was deliberate, inevitable, as though all the years of animosity and denial had been leading to this exact point. Her lips pressed against his with a tenderness that startled him, yet there was a current of passion that thrummed beneath it, electric and undeniable. The kiss was soft, reverent even, but charged with the weight of everything unspoken between them.
His mind emptied. Thought ceased to exist. There was only her. Only the warmth of her lips, the delicate press of her body against his, the faint tremor in her fingers as they curled into the fabric of his shirt, clutching him as if she feared he might vanish. He responded with an instinct that felt older than himself, his mouth moving against hers slowly, carefully, savoring every breath, every flicker of closeness. She melted into him, and it was like holding something both fragile and unbreakable all at once.
The kiss deepened, not with haste but with certainty. His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, anchoring her gently to him, while the other remained at her waist, steady and trembling at the same time. The world outside them dissolved. The crackle of the fire, the cold stone floor, the quiet hum of the night—all of it faded, leaving only the two of them locked in that fragile, breathtaking connection.
When at last they pulled apart, the separation felt reluctant, as though neither of them truly wanted to let go. Their foreheads rested together, their breaths mingling in the silence, their chests rising and falling in rhythm as if their bodies refused to remember how to function separately. Her hands lingered on his shoulders, her thumbs brushing against the rough fabric of his shirt as though memorizing the shape of him. His fingers remained lightly on her jaw, unwilling to lose the contact.
He smiled then, and it was not the sharp, calculated curve of his lips she was used to. It was something unguarded, genuine, and painfully human. His voice dropped to a whisper, warm and reverent. "Goodnight, Angel."
The words lodged in her chest. She felt the instinctive pull of a smile but fought it, her lips twitching in the effort to stay composed. She stepped back just enough to breathe, her fingers trailing against his before falling away. Her voice was gentler than it had been all evening, softened by something she could not name. "Goodnight, Malfoy."
She turned and walked toward the door, her footsteps measured, her back straight, but her chest felt inexplicably lighter, filled with a warmth she hadn't allowed herself to feel in years. He remained where she had left him, frozen in place, his fingers brushing absently against his own lips as though to prove the kiss had been real.
Neither of them could say what tomorrow would bring. Both knew the morning would come with its own walls, its own shields, its own battles. Yet for tonight, they clung quietly to the memory of what had just passed between them, the first and most tender kiss either of them had ever known, and the dangerous, undeniable truth that nothing would ever be the same again.
•••
The next evening, she swept into his flat as though she owned the place, her usual briskness in full force. But this time she wasn't alone. Behind her trotted the ugliest creature Draco had ever laid eyes on. Its squashed face seemed perpetually displeased, its mop of orange fur stuck out in every possible direction, and the sheer arrogance radiating from it was enough to make Draco wonder if she had finally decided to bring home a magical experiment gone wrong. He stared, dumbstruck, his jaw working soundlessly for a moment.
"Darling," he greeted stiffly, his eyes still locked on the creature, as though keeping watch might prevent it from lunging. "Good evening."
"Hello," she replied cheerfully, her tone much lighter than his. She set her bag on the counter and gestured toward the animal that had already begun prowling around the flat as though inspecting it for flaws. "I brought someone over for you to meet."
Draco took a careful step back, his expression hovering between disgust and alarm. "May I ask… what in Merlin's name is that?"
Her eyes sharpened instantly. She folded her arms, the picture of disapproval. "Don't be rude. He's a kneazle. And he understands every word you're saying, so I'd suggest you adjust your tone."
He tilted his head, unimpressed, and glanced down at the orange menace that had now turned its attention to his shoes. The beast sniffed at the polished leather before giving a dismissive flick of its tail. Draco grimaced. "A kneazle," he repeated flatly. "That is your explanation? Because from where I stand, it looks as though someone set a pumpkin on fire and then gave it legs."
Her mouth tightened into a thin line, but the twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed her amusement. "His name is Crookshanks. And he's my cat. He happens to be incredibly intelligent, far more so than some people I could mention."
Draco pressed his fingers to his temple, as though already suffering a migraine. "Naturally. Of course he belongs to you," he muttered. "I should have guessed you would keep a creature that looks like it lost a fight with a cauldron."
"Apologize," she ordered firmly, her eyes glinting.
He blinked at her in disbelief. "To him?"
"Yes, to him." She pointed toward Crookshanks, who had climbed onto one of Draco's expensive armchairs without hesitation. The animal kneaded at the cushions for a moment, then sprawled across them with the air of a monarch claiming a throne.
Draco's eye twitched. His lips curved into something that might have been a smile, though it was far too bitter to count. "This is ridiculous."
"Apologize," she repeated, her voice like steel.
With a long-suffering groan, Draco bent down until he was eye level with the cat. "Apologies, good sir," he said gravely, giving Crookshanks a slight nod. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You look… very unique."
Crookshanks stared back at him with the most unimpressed expression Draco had ever received in his life. Then, with deliberate insolence, the cat turned away and began licking his paw, every movement radiating disdain.
She stifled a laugh behind her hand, though her eyes gave her away. "He likes you," she said, her voice bubbling with amusement.
"Likes me?" Draco repeated sharply, straightening to his full height and glaring down at the beast as though sheer force of will could send it packing. "He has not clawed my face off yet, so I suppose that qualifies as affection in your world."
She smirked, sinking into the sofa cushions and watching with satisfaction as Crookshanks prowled across the flat, tail flicking with smug authority while he inspected every corner as if he were judging a kingdom. "He is just testing the waters. Kneazles are very discerning."
"Discerning," Draco muttered, folding his arms and leaning back against the counter with the posture of a man preparing for battle. His eyes never left Crookshanks. "Well, let us hope I pass whatever test this tyrant has devised, because I would hate to be found wanting."
"Do not call him that," she said gently, her earlier playfulness fading. Her gaze softened as she followed the ugly orange creature's movements with quiet affection. "He has been with me through everything. He is my family."
Draco's lips parted as though to argue, but nothing came out. Her words stole the sarcasm from his tongue. He looked at her, really looked, and saw the weight of memory in her eyes as she watched Crookshanks hop onto the armchair and curl into a ball like he owned it. Something tightened in Draco's chest.
"You care about him a lot," he said quietly, almost reverently.
"I do," she answered without hesitation, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve as if the confession cost her something. "He has been there when no one else could be."
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but it was heavy with something neither of them wished to name. Draco's gaze drifted back to the kneazle, who now cracked one yellow eye open and fixed him with a look that seemed to warn him against breaking her heart.
Draco cleared his throat, forcing a measure of composure. "Well," he said at last, pushing himself away from the counter, "if he matters to you, then I will tolerate him. But if he destroys my furniture, there will be words."
Her lips curved into a smile, not the small, guarded one she often wore, but a genuine, unguarded expression that caught him entirely off guard. "Deal," she said softly, the warmth in her tone sending a strange ache through him.
He lowered himself onto the sofa beside her, keeping a careful distance from the orange menace now circling the room like a seasoned general. Draco tried not to look nervous, though every hair on the back of his neck prickled as the kneazle sized him up with calculating eyes.
Just as he began to relax into the cushions, Crookshanks launched himself upward with startling agility and landed squarely on Draco's lap.
Draco went rigid, his arms stiff at his sides, his expression frozen in wide-eyed horror. He dared not move, breathing shallowly as though even the slightest twitch might trigger violence. His gaze shot to Hermione, wild and pleading. "Do something," he hissed through clenched teeth. "He is going to kill me."
Hermione, entirely unbothered, turned a page of her book without so much as a glance. "He is not going to kill you, Draco. He is just saying hello."
"This is not a hello," Draco whispered urgently, looking down at the creature now kneading his thighs with its claws. "This is a hostage situation."
Her composure broke, and she finally looked at him, her laughter spilling into the room like sunlight. Draco, pale and stiff with panic, sat frozen while Crookshanks sprawled across him in smug satisfaction. "You are being ridiculous. Crookshanks is adorable."
"Adorable to you," Draco shot back, his voice higher than usual as he winced at another sharp prick of claws. "This beast is attempting to claw its way to my femoral artery."
She rolled her eyes, setting her book aside and leaning closer, her expression one of exaggerated patience. "He is making biscuits. That is a sign he likes you."
"Biscuits?" Draco repeated, his voice incredulous as his eyes darted down to the orange menace pawing at his thighs. "Is that what you call this barbaric behavior? He is turning me into a pincushion."
She snorted, clearly savoring his discomfort. "It is called kneading. He is being affectionate. Relax. If he really did not like you, you would know it by now."
His brows shot upward as if to say he highly doubted that. Still, he glanced down again and watched with reluctant curiosity as Crookshanks finished his strange little ritual, tucking himself into a loaf position on Draco's lap before stretching luxuriously and beginning to purr. The deep rumble vibrated through Draco's legs, and though he tried very hard to scowl, he found the sound oddly soothing. He would rather die than admit that aloud.
"Affectionate, huh?" he muttered, as if the word tasted foreign on his tongue. He raised a hand with painful awkwardness, hovering above the creature's head like a man trying to defuse an explosive. "What exactly am I supposed to do now?"
"Pet him," Hermione instructed, her tone both amused and indulgent, as if teaching a child. "Scratch behind his ears. He likes that."
Draco's hand lingered uncertainly in the air before he finally gave in and lowered it. He delivered a stiff, tentative pat to the top of Crookshanks' head. To his surprise, the kneazle leaned into his palm immediately, pressing his head upward with enthusiasm. The purring grew louder, practically vibrating through the entire sofa. Draco blinked in disbelief.
"There you go," she said, a triumphant smile tugging at her mouth. "See? He likes you."
Draco scoffed, but his fingers, almost against his will, shifted into a gentle scratch behind the cat's ear. Crookshanks purred like a motor, closing his eyes in bliss. Draco sighed as though this was the worst indignity he had ever suffered. "I am still not convinced. This could all be an elaborate ploy to lull me into a false sense of security."
"Or," she countered, her smile widening, "maybe he can sense that deep down, you are not quite as much of a git as you pretend to be."
His eyes flicked to hers, narrowing slightly, though there was no real venom in it. "Or maybe he just has terrible taste."
She laughed, a warm, unguarded sound that wrapped itself around him before she leaned back into the cushions. Crookshanks had now fully sprawled out across Draco's lap, his paws stretching and flexing lazily as if he had every right to be there. Draco remained stiff for another moment before resigning himself to the situation.
Hermione's gaze lingered on them, something softer behind her amusement. "You know, I think Crookshanks is a better judge of character than most people. If he likes you, that is saying something."
"Fantastic," Draco deadpanned, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "The highlight of my life. I have secured the approval of a grumpy furball. At last, everything is complete."
Hermione shook her head, still smiling, and reached down to scratch Crookshanks under the chin. The cat purred louder, stretching one paw out until it rested on Draco's wrist, as though claiming him. Draco stared down at it with mounting horror.
"Brilliant," he muttered. "Now I am property."
She laughed softly, and he felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the cat on his lap. For the first time in what felt like forever, the flat felt less cold, less empty. As Crookshanks purred contentedly and Hermione's laughter filled the room, Draco allowed himself a small moment of peace.
"Fine," he said after a moment, his voice softer. "He's… tolerable."
Hermione's smile turned triumphant. "I knew you'd come around."
He smirked, leaning back into the sofa as he continued petting Crookshanks. "Don't push it, Granger. One step at a time."