Draco Malfoy had a wonderful dream.
No bottomless black lake. No suffocating water tank. No scarlet eyes, no twisted face of the Dark Lord.
He dreamed of Hermione Granger.
A completely wonderful Hermione Granger. No Bellatrix, no slurs carved into her arm, no screaming. From beginning to end, she didn't make a single terrifying sound.
She was calm and trusting and smiling, and she opened her arms to embrace him, and then she smeared ink all over him for reasons that were entirely inexplicable.
He woke from this strange dream smiling, and found himself lying on the warm wool carpet of the Room of Requirement.
The fireplace crackled softly. The Marauder's Map was spread between them on the carpet, slightly crumpled from the weight of their interlaced hands.
They lay on their sides, facing each other across it.
Last night they had collapsed here, exhausted, puzzling over why Barty Crouch had been sneaking around Professor Snape's office — and then, somehow, the conversation had turned to whether ferrets were cute.
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"Weasels are adorable, obviously," Hermione had said, with total conviction. "Did you know weasels and otters are related? They're both mustelids — same family, similar habits."
"What does that have to do with whether something is cute?" Draco asked.
"Well, otters are cute. So by extension—"
"By extension." He looked at her. "That's your argument."
"It's a reasonable argument." She was completely serious. "Stoats are the same. People underestimate them because they're small, but they're extraordinarily capable. Excellent eyesight, excellent hearing, remarkable agility. In winter, their fur turns completely white to blend into snow. In summer, it goes brownish-red."
"Like wood," he said, after a moment. "Or earth."
Brown. The colour of her eyes and her hair. The colour of her wand. Parts of his own. Oak and soil and autumn.
It was, he thought, a colour that could be called beautiful.
"Exactly," she said, satisfied. "And they're brilliant hunters. Stoats will actually perform for their prey before attacking — somersaults, rolling around, playing dead — all to get close enough. Once the prey is completely off guard, they strike."
"That does sound rather Slytherin," he said quietly.
"I thought you'd appreciate it." Her eyes were bright. "An adult stoat can take over two thousand mice a year. In short — I think they're remarkable animals."
"I'm glad to know that," he said, his face a little warm.
He hadn't imagined she thought about ferrets this way.
The accumulated grudges of past and present lives — the memories of being transfigured in that corridor, of her laughter, of the name she'd called him — seemed to lose their weight in the light of her encouraging smile.
Perhaps Hermione Granger had never truly hated the ferret. He glanced at her nervously. She was smiling at him with genuine warmth.
He let the corners of his mouth curve upward. "Thank you, Hermione. That was a very meaningful piece of information."
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Later, they lay on their backs looking up at the false stars the Room had conjured on the ceiling — bright and steady, a whole quiet sky.
"Why are you out tonight anyway?" he asked. "You of all people."
"I don't know," she murmured. "I felt uneasy before bed. I couldn't settle."
"Hermione Granger's special sixth sense," he said. "Professor Trelawney would give you top marks."
"Don't." She gave him a look. "I'm serious."
He pressed his lips together against the laugh.
"I was going to check on the kitchens," she said, with dignity.
"The kitchens."
"I felt restless. I thought perhaps— yes. The kitchens."
"The kitchens are that way." He gestured. "Professor Snape's office is this way. You ended up in the Room of Requirement, which is a third direction entirely."
"I got a little turned around."
He couldn't stop himself that time.
"Don't laugh at me," she said, staring at the ceiling.
"I'm not. I'm just going to have to keep a closer eye on you, so you don't get lost."
She didn't seem to know what to do with that. She was quiet for a moment.
"Draco," she said softly.
"What?"
"Were you frightened? When he turned you into a ferret?"
He was quiet. "A little."
"You were trembling the entire time you were transformed. I could feel it." Her voice was careful. "You were still trembling when you changed back."
"Was I?" He'd been shaking for more than one reason, but he wasn't going to explain that.
"You don't have to be brave about it," she said. "I was so worried. I felt completely useless."
"You weren't." He turned his head to look at her. "You came when I thought no one would. That mattered."
"I also attacked a Hogwarts professor."
"Very bravely." His mouth curved. "You pulled me straight out of that tank without hesitating. I genuinely don't know where you find the nerve."
"I just—" Her voice softened. "I can't bear to see you hurt. It hurts me."
He looked at her.
Her brown eyes were very bright, and the brightness was slightly damp.
"Could I hold your hand?" she asked quietly. "I'm feeling sad. I'd like to hold your hand."
"Of course," he said, and reached out.
Her hand was slightly cold. He covered it with his own, and she let out a small breath.
"Better?" he asked.
"Much better," she said. "It's warm."
As they talked, the Room dimmed its candles around them, leaving only the stars overhead.
"Draco—" She was staring upward.
"Mm?"
"There." She raised her arm and pointed at a constellation curving across the ceiling. "That's Draco. And there — that bright one beside it is Vega, in Lyra."
"I see Vega," he said. He was looking at her.
"Draco's not as immediately obvious," she said, her voice taking on the particular tone she used when she was working something out. "It hides itself. You have to look carefully, trace the shape of it. But once you find it—" She smiled faintly. "A cunning, bright star. It's one of my favourites, actually. Every time I stargaze I look for it first."
She turned her head to tell him this, and found him already looking at her. Not at the ceiling at all.
The room was very quiet.
She'd meant the constellation. Of course she'd meant the constellation. She became very aware of the warmth of his hand and the fact that at some point their fingers had shifted from a light clasp into something considerably more intertwined.
Her heart was doing something inconvenient.
She thought about pulling her hand back, and found she couldn't quite move.
Above them, the illusory stars shimmered. Between them, two heartbeats.
Neither moved first. Neither spoke.
When the distant clock struck midnight, it broke the spell. Hermione felt the wave of feeling at once — sharp and bittersweet, pricking at her eyes.
Friends. They were friends. That was what they were.
"I think we should go back," she said, her voice coming out smaller than she intended.
"Yes," Draco said. His hand still held hers. His eyes were still on hers. "Or — could we wait a little longer?"
She looked at him for a long moment.
"Five more minutes," she said.
"Five minutes," he agreed.
They stayed considerably longer than five minutes, neither of them looking at the clock. Gradually the Room grew warmer, or perhaps it was only the drowsiness settling in. Her thoughts softened and slowed. The effort of keeping her eyes open became too much.
She didn't know her hand was still being held when she fell asleep.
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It was the crackle of the fire that woke him.
Draco opened his eyes to grey early light and the sound of the wood settling in the grate. He lay still for a moment, watching her sleep.
The first thing he tried to do was free his hand. She made a small, displeased sound and her grip tightened without her waking.
He stayed where he was.
There was a warmth to the morning that he tried, unsuccessfully, to be sensible about. The map lay crumpled between them. Her thumb moved along the edge of his hand in slow, unconscious strokes.
He looked at her face — entirely unguarded in sleep, completely unlike her waking self — and felt something he had learned, over the past year, to recognise as the particular chaos she created in him.
He was aware, with considerable discomfort, that the thought of kissing her had become very persistent.
He was also aware that he was sixteen years old, and she was fifteen, and that she had been nothing but honest with him — often calling them friends, clearly, in front of others — and that he had no right to take advantage of a moment of trust.
He studied the map, very carefully, for some time.
Then, with deliberate patience, he gently uncurled her fingers one by one, extracted his hand, and left the Room of Requirement before his better judgement could change its mind.
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He could not account for most of the following day.
He had apparently left the Marauder's Map behind — he couldn't find it anywhere. He also couldn't find his research notes on the dragonpox formula. He went through an entire Potions lesson searching for them without locating them.
Scattered impressions:
Her lips very close to his ear, telling him that Harry had informed Cedric about the dragon because he'd spotted Madame Maxim and Karkaroff near it on the night of the Hogsmeade trip. He thought it would be fairer if everyone knew.
"Very selfless," he said, trimming a winged shrub, or possibly just standing near one. His concentration was not at its best.
Her voice again: "Professor Snape has accused Harry of stealing Boomslang skin and Bicorn horn from his stores. Harry was furious — he actually questioned Snape about whether he knew his own mother. Snape turned grey and gave him three days' detention."
"That's excessive," Draco said, searching through his Potions bag for the third time.
Then, quite suddenly, her arms around him.
"Draco! Harry got the golden egg!"
He jolted back to himself. The stands. The arena. Around him, a wave of sound — the crowd on its feet, cheering.
In the centre of the arena, Harry stood atop a rock, charred and windswept, Firebolt smoking in one hand and a golden egg clutched in the other. He was grinning.
He'd faced the Hungarian Horntail. He'd come out the other side.
"He's done it," Hermione said, and the relief in her voice was complete. She had let go of him but her eyes were shining. "He'll have earned their respect now, won't he? Nobody will be wearing those badges tomorrow."
"No," Draco agreed. His head was still catching up to the present moment. "I think you're right."
The stands emptied around them in a gradual tide of noise and movement. He stood and let it flow past him.
"Draco." Hermione's voice, sharp with urgency. "Look at this."
She was holding the Marauder's Map. She must have found it in his bag, or perhaps he'd left it in the Room — he couldn't quite remember. She held it out to him.
On the parchment, two names sat side by side: Barty Crouch. Barty Crouch.
As if one had been duplicated.
The last time the Map had surprised him this badly was when Peter Pettigrew's name had appeared beneath the Whomping Willow.
"That's impossible," he said.
"I noticed something else." She was already moving, folding the map quickly, tucking it into his pocket. "The real Professor Moody — the one this map shows — has barely moved from his office all year. The one who's been teaching us isn't there." She glanced toward the stands where the judges and professors were still gathered, exchanging congratulations. "The person in the stands right now is Barty Crouch Junior. He's been impersonating Moody."
"Barty Crouch Junior is dead. He died in Azkaban."
"Or he didn't." Her voice was very steady. "Winky was hiding something — about her young master surviving. I smelled something on him at the Three Broomsticks and I couldn't place it. I've placed it now." She looked at him directly. "Polyjuice Potion. He stole the Boomslang skin and the Bicorn horn himself."
She was already heading toward the stairs.
"Hermione," he said, following her. "Shouldn't we—"
She was faster than him. By the time he reached the top of the stairs she had already cast a Full Body-Bind on the fake Professor Moody in front of the assembled judges, and was pulling the curved hip flask from his robes.
What was done was done.
Draco slowed his pace and walked the rest of the stairs at a reasonable speed.
"Miss Granger!" Professor McGonagall stared. "What in the name of—"
"Please don't break the spell, Professor McGonagall." Hermione's voice was entirely calm. She uncapped the flask and held it under Professor Snape's nose. "Polyjuice Potion, isn't it, Professor Snape? I believe that also explains what happened to your Boomslang skin and Bicorn horn."
Snape's expression went through several changes in rapid succession. His face had gone the colour of old parchment.
He couldn't argue with what he was smelling.
"Severus?" Dumbledore asked, one mild word.
"Polyjuice Potion," Snape said. He raised his wand and bound the petrified imposter with precise, economical movements.
Draco had never seen Dumbledore angry — not visibly. But the expression that crossed the Headmaster's face in that moment was something different from his usual pleasant composure. Something cold and real.
It lasted only a moment.
"Severus. Minerva. Please take him to my office." He turned to Hermione and Draco, his expression softened back to its usual gentleness. "Miss Granger. Mr Malfoy. I have some questions for you. Will you come?"
The other judges and visiting headteachers looked on with curiosity. Karkaroff and Madame Maxim both appeared to be calculating what they were and weren't permitted to know. Dumbledore politely declined their company. This, he indicated, was a Hogwarts matter.
Barty Crouch Sr., oblivious to the fact that it was his son who had just been petrified, left the arena in the company of a baffled Ludo Bagman and headed back to the Ministry.
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Walking down behind the others, Draco said quietly to Hermione, "That wasn't impulsive, was it. You'd already worked it out."
She glanced at him and smiled — not her usual bright one, but a quieter, private sort. Pleased with herself, and rightly so.
He thought about what he'd watched her do.
She had chosen her approach in the time it took to climb a flight of stairs. She'd acted in full view of the international judges, which meant the imposter couldn't disappear quietly — there were too many witnesses. She'd petrified him before his magical eye could track her movement. She'd held the evidence directly under Snape's nose, which served the dual purpose of confirming the Polyjuice Potion and removing any basis for Snape to dismiss her findings. She had not revealed the imposter's real identity, which meant she could watch Barty Crouch Sr. and Karkaroff for any sign of prior knowledge.
She had done all of this while appearing to act on instinct.
"You're frightening," he said, with considerable admiration.
She wrinkled her nose at him, which he took as a thank you.
She had the sharpest mind at Hogwarts. He'd known that for years, but she still found ways to surprise him with it. She filled in the gaps in his thinking. She found the piece he'd missed.
Not a delicate flower. A rose with thorns, and a mind that could outwit a Death Eater in borrowed skin.
Everything about her, Draco thought, was exactly to his liking.