Author's Notes :

* I do not own these characters or the rights to Harry Potter

- Follow me on Instagram: LenaCatalina. Writes

A huge thank you to my Beta, muse, and Midas - HelixSpencer, who has done so much work on this story she should genuinely be considered a co-author. I am so lucky to have you!

15 October 1999

"I'll catch up with you all later. I need to do some research—"

"—at the library," mocked Ron and Harry synchronously, cutting Hermione off mid-sentence.

"Mind yourself, 'Mione. We can't afford to lose any more points because you wound up stuck in a book past curfew on nights when that nitwit's doing rounds." Ron's face squinched up, cringing at the thought he'd conjured himself. "Stupid git. He really does let that ridiculous badge get to his head."

Hermione nodded appeasingly but secretly was a little annoyed. She liked her ridiculous badge.

The boys said their goodbyes and made their exit down the corridor back to the Gryffindor common room for the night. As they left, Ron continued to complain about how absurd it was that eighth years had to answer to a Head Boy.

Hermione never said it out loud, but she felt Ron's resentment stemmed from jealousy that he wasn't Head Boy, yet a Slytherin with pearl hair was.

It didn't help that since they were eighth years, McGonagall assigned both the Head Boy and Head Girl to live in the third-floor corridors near the astronomy tower, locked away from the rest of their class. She claimed it had something to do with inter-house unity, but Hermione had a suspicion that it was to protect the boy on probation from prejudice, and from the potential revenge of students who felt his sentence wasn't harsh enough.

When McGonagall first called Hermione into her office, she had instantly thought it would be a bad idea to spend the nights one room away from Malfoy, mere months after the war had ended. Now, after spending six weeks doing just that, she could adamantly confirm that it was much worse than anything she had ever expected.

1 September 1999

On their first day back, he timidly knocked on her door.

She hadn't seen him on the train, not that she was paying all that much attention to his presence, or lack thereof. Even though his Hogwarts education was now reduced to a mandatory condition of his parole, she was still surprised he ended up returning. He had already evaded Azkaban; she was pretty sure the Malfoy fortune could have made his schooling contingency evaporate as well if he had really wanted to.

She had been expecting Harry, who had said he would be visiting once she got settled in, so before she opened it she jokingly called out, "Password?" hoping Harry would play along with her bit; she would refuse him entry until he declared her the most intelligent witch to ever exist.

A muttered, "Uh…Peaches?" and she tensed, realizing that wasn't, in fact, Harry's voice at all.

A pause followed her realization as she struggled with what to do. He hadn't been on the train; she hadn't thought he would actually return. After a ridiculously long delay, she finally registered that she still needed to open the door. Snapping out of her haze, she reached for the brass knob and pulled it back.

Hermione stayed partially behind the door—using it as a shield between her and the one she was about to encounter. "Sorry Malfoy, I didn't realize you had arrived. I thought you were Harry."

She spoke to the black snakeskin of his shoes rather than him, embarrassed he had caught her being immature.

But he took it in a surprisingly gracious stride. "Sheesh—you throw one wand and suddenly you're accused of being an airhead with a hero complex." His voice was deep and lilting with sarcasm but in an almost playful way.

At his words she released a small smile and braved a glance at him, shocking herself when she couldn't stop her eyes from traveling his body. Long gone was the gangly, haunted boy from the war. In front of her stood a muscular specimen with white sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tousled hair, and sterling eyes. It took her a moment to calibrate the change.

A warm blush crept up her neck as she caught herself gawking. Luckily though, he hadn't seemed to; he was still avidly avoiding eye contact. Instead, he was fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt and pinching the fabric between his fingers. It was…well, it was quite endearing, really.

"May I come in for a minute? Or do you perhaps happen to have a moment to chat in our common room?" he'd asked her quietly, still avoiding her stare. Which was really for the best, because she'd been struggling to focus her attention on just his face. She couldn't get past how massive he was, in comparison to her. A growth spurt, elf-made meals, and locked-up parents clearly did wonders for the physique.

She shook her head, attempting to clear away the jumble inside of it that was preventing her from responding to him. "Yes, of course. I am not quite unpacked yet, so the common room would be best," she responded in a hushed tone that resulted from the unexpectedness of this interaction and his proximity.

He stepped back and allowed her to move past him before following her to the common room. Hermione found it difficult to take normal breaths and walk at the same time; he had always had that effect on her, even when they were younger, but now she was hyper-aware of his presence behind her, looming and unsettling.

She picked the couch nearest to the fire, expecting him to sit on the chair opposite of her. But to her continuous surprise, he simply moved past her and sat down on the same couch, just two cushions to the left. As he passed, she'd pulled her legs in to make room, but the fabric of his robes had brushed her bare calves, and she felt tingles all the way up her legs from the slight contact. It was the first time he had looked directly at Hermione as opposed to the cuff of his sleeve or the floor. She suppressed a shiver.

Get it together, Hermione! she ordered herself sternly, forcing her gaze to remain neutrally encouraging while he appeared almost uncertain.

When it seemed as though he was finally going to allow himself to address her, his eyebrows pulled in and his face hardened again.

After they both sat in silence for several moments, Malfoy softly began to repeat what Hermione could only assume was a rehearsed speech. "Granger, I just wanted to start the school year off right and apologize for all the hurt I've caused you in the past. I was young and arrogant and influenced by prejudices I didn't even realize were wrong until I was standing amongst their consequences. When I—when I saw you there on the floor at the Manor, I—"

His voice suddenly caught in his throat, and Hermione could tell that he was struggling to continue. As someone who also hadn't wanted to think about that day at Malfoy Manor, she felt for him. After all, she spent most of her own time attempting to repress the atrocious memory of it.

Still, she had no control at night when it seemed to haunt her dreams, waking her in a pool of sweat and screaming for help that would never come. Those nightmares were the main reason she didn't push back too hard when McGonagall had sentenced her to this twisted exile with him. Sleeping in a private room really was for the best; at least this way she wouldn't wake an entire dorm full of classmates when her monsters got the best of her.

Unconsciously, she put her hand on top of his to stop him from continuing. She shook her head to clear out the memory and concentrate on the conversation but was so focused on properly wording her thoughts that she missed when his fingers tensed under hers.

"Draco, truly—it's okay. You don't have to do this. Like I said at your trial, you were protecting your family, just as you protected us at the Manor when you refused to identify us after the Snatchers brought us in. I mean, for Godric's sake, you were the one who threw Harry the Elder Wand at the battle. Your poor actions were not rooted in evil, but rather, misguided intentions. It's unnecessary to defend yourself to me. Or anyone else, for that matter!" She had begun to ramble, picking right back up and defending him just as she always had for years.

Finished, she finally looked up, chest heaving, and was instantly stunned at the intense, unreadable look on his face and the guarded steel of his eyes.

He knows Occlumency.

When he didn't say anything, she shakily gathered herself and refocused on the purpose of the conversation. "Let's just start fresh this year, okay? Forgive, forget the past, and move on. We do have to live together, and we need to set a positive example for the First Years and all the other students still recovering from the war—"

Her jaw suddenly clicked shut when he jerked his hand away and leveled an iron-gray look at her.

"Granger, let me make something very clear for you: I am not interested in forgiveness, pity, or an advocate to fight for me the way you fought for the house elves. While I still want to express my remorse for those you lost, for the times when I should have done more or possibly done less, and most of all, my appreciation for your willingness to keep the past in the past, I think to ignore it would be a grave mistake. Some things never change, and I am not someone you should be around."

Eyes flashing at her one last time, he promptly stood and stalked away. A moment later, his door slammed violently shut behind him.

So much for starting fresh.

15 October 1999

It had been six weeks since that talk, and Hermione still hadn't had a single conversation with him beyond pleasantries exchanged in passing when one encountered the other in a common space. Draco had taken all their watch shifts with other prefects, or simply alone most of the time. On nights when they were scheduled together, he'd tell her he could handle it and leave before she could offer any input.

Hermione was constantly on edge. She didn't realize how difficult it would be to exist in his vicinity, always wondering if he was going to enter the room she was currently occupying or if she was going to walk in on him doing some mundane task that made her stutter and fumble.

She'd gone to the library to get ahead on her studies, but she couldn't stop replaying that interaction, trying to understand what he had meant. So much about their conversation bothered her and there wasn't a day that passed where she wasn't consumed by the allusiveness of it all. He claimed that some things never changed but there was so much about him that had. Perhaps he was referring to his feelings toward her. Maybe he could sense her emotions, possibly always had.

He probably wanted to clarify that just because they were in the same space, and the war was over, didn't mean he was interested in pursuing anything with her, not even friendship apparently.

Studying quickly became a pointless pursuit, so she gave up and began the long journey back to their dorm. Mechanically following the familiar route, she finally allowed her mind to wander to the different features of their short conversation. The stars of her mental encore were the flash of Draco's eyes, the brush of his pants leg, and the warmth of his hand under hers while she rambled idiotically.

Hermione had tried not to linger, she really had, but he had already occupied so much of her attention for so long. It didn't help that recently he had taken to walking through the common room shirtless each night before bed. He'd caught her peeking on more than one occasion and she was confronted with his signature smirk each time.

Hermione was starting to think he was doing it on purpose just to get a rise out of her. Not that antagonizing her would exactly be out of character for him, but it would be especially cruel if he were, in fact, aware of her stubborn, unexplainable infatuation.

Tired, Hermione arrived back to their common room and muttered the password, "Vivir," to the Degas. The portrait hole opened, and she stepped inside with caution, checking to make sure Draco wasn't already occupying the common room—he wasn't.

Deciding to try studying one final time before bed, she put down her books on the kitchen table and fumbled around the bottom of her bag until she found what she was looking for; a cream quill speckled with brown dots.

Harry had gotten it for her at the start of term for no particular reason other than he knew she'd enjoy it. She was aware it had to be much more expensive than her normal quills due to the charms placed on it; her favorite being that it was self-inking, so she didn't have to keep dipping it in the pot. Merely keeping the jar in close proximity to the quill allowed the ink to transfer as needed. It also retained a cushioning charm that allowed her to write for long periods without her hand cramping.

Once her belongings were laid out and organized, she began her research, cross-referencing the migration patterns of Wood Winxes with the Elvish wars of the early 1300s. And this time, she would focus.

She had written all of two sentences on the topic when Draco emerged from his dorm, shirtless once again, and sauntered across the common room. He was heading for the loo, toothbrush in hand, shoulders back, and his patrician nose in the air.

Hermione glanced up from the parchment she was working on and followed his form across the room with narrowed eyes. It had been nearly three weeks of this gross negligence toward dorm etiquette; he was doing it on purpose, she just knew it. And this was her breaking point.

Hermione slammed her quill into its pot and stormed to the bathroom that he was currently occupying. Whipping open the door to a surprised Malfoy, she grabbed his toothbrush out of his hand and hurled it into the sink.

"Granger, what the hell are you playing at?" he asked, eyebrows creasing. His voice was still calm, but his jaw was set, and his timbre was somewhere between confused and annoyed.

"Have you ever heard of a nightshirt, Malfoy?" she demanded. "One would think, with such vast fortunes at your disposal, that you'd be able to acquire proper nightwear."

The muscles in his face relaxed and his lips pursed in amusement, suddenly much less guarded than when she had first barged in on him. Draco surveyed her as if she were a child throwing an unwarranted tantrum over something entirely mundane.

Touching her arm with the outside of his hand and he shifted her gently to stand by the wall and allowed him access to the sink once more. He picked up his toothbrush out of the sink basin and began applying a white paste on the bristles, seemingly unbothered by her presence or her outburst.

She was distracted as the gleam of his sectumsempra cuts shone across his chest in the lighting, contrasting with his pallor beautifully. "What's wrong, Granger? Don't care for the artistic stylings of your precious Potter?"

Hermione flinched at his words, unconsciously touching her own arm and the scars that were currently covered by her jumper. He locked onto the motion and abruptly returned to the mirror; eyebrows knitted tightly together.

Unsure of how this conversation had taken such a turn, she decided to push past both of those horrific memories and return to her original reasoning for interfering with his trip to the loo.

Her voice was lower and more reserved now. "Of course not, Malfoy. I merely mean that this isn't a strip club or your own private quarters." But as she spoke her volume began to quickly increase again, still indignant at his flippant disregard for the rules and the utter disinterest he was portraying. "You can't just traipse through the halls half-naked! How would you feel if I did that every night?"

She regretted it instantly. If he hadn't had her trapped between the sink and the wall, she would have bolted out the door and straight off the Astronomy Tower.

Where's the bloody Time Turner when you need it?

The toothbrush stopped halfway to his mouth, and he looked at her as if she'd gone mental. To be fair, she probably had. How else could she explain willingly enclosing herself in such a small space with a man who despised her, openly discussing nudity?

Hermione pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and began calculating an escape route that wouldn't cause a collision with his towering form.

His gaze transformed from shocked to enthralled as his smirk settled comfortably back into place. Abandoning his toothbrush on the counter's ledge, he turned his body toward her, stepping past the sink and firmly into her space—he was suddenly very attentive to this discussion.

She attempted to retreat backward, to create more distance between her nose and his aroma, but all she felt was the wall behind her. Draco moved his hand to the wall, his arm trapping her there as he repositioned himself in her space.

The area between the sink and wall was so compact that his knee now rested in the gap between her thighs, just shy of making contact.

He was closer than he had been before. Hermione didn't know if she'd ever be able to breathe properly again, at least not in this century. It was as if someone placed a Bubblehead charm around them but forgot to add the element of oxygen.

The crisp osculation of the stone wall at her back viciously contradicted his warmth all around her and Hermione could hear her heartbeat pulsing, the sound reverberating through her entire body. She felt her blood pounding in her veins, in her head, and in her toes simultaneously.

He leaned in, causing her chin to rise, and dipped his head into the space between her collarbone and neck. His breath flitted through her hair, and he growled in her ear, "I don't think you'd like to hear my answer to that, Granger."

Picking up his toothbrush for the final time, he swiftly backed out of her personal space, turned, and exited the room.

Leaving Hermione stuck to the wall, feeling dizzy and breathless as she stared after his retreating figure.

Later that night, as she lay in bed playing the scene over in her head, she came to a jarring realization.

Wizards don't use toothbrushes.