My Amortentia

by feistyferret

Summary: 7 years Post-War - Draco is an outcast in the Wizarding Society and finds himself at a loss, when an old schoolmate shows up. Only days up to Valentine's Day he realises he wants her, and is determined to make her his.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights of any of the characters who all belong to J. K. Rowling, and I am not profiting from this whatsoever.

This story is cross-posted on AO3 and Wattpad.

Chapter One

Draco never imagined this dingy bar would become his second home. The stale air clung to the walls, mingling with the scent of old wood, spilled ale, and hopelessness. It wasn't the place he had envisioned himself wasting away, yet here he was. Afternoon, evening, night—each bled into the next in a monotonous blur. It was always dim, always grey, just like his life. He stared at the peeling wallpaper behind the bar, tracing the cracks as if searching for something—anything—that wasn't falling apart.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the firewhiskey reflecting the flickering candlelight. How did I get here? The question echoed in his head, but he knew the answer. His life had once held promise, meaning. A future he had been too foolish to see slipping away. He had believed—naïvely, perhaps—that after the war, he could start over, wipe the slate clean, and leave the past where it belonged. But the world didn't forget, and it certainly didn't forgive. No one wanted him. No one believed him. The sins of his family followed him, an unshakable shadow that haunted him everywhere. His name wasn't just a name—it was a curse, a disgrace. To them, he was still a Malfoy, and that was all he would ever be.

He tightened his grip on the glass, feeling the cold bite of the firewhiskey on his skin. Once, he had been proud of his name, proud of the legacy that came with it. But now, at 25, he saw the truth. The pedestal he had placed his family on had been built on lies—deception, power, manipulation. His father's "glory" had been nothing more than a gilded prison. He had been a pawn, too blind to see how deep the darkness ran. Now, it was too late. He was stuck here, drowning in a sea of regret, watching the world pass him by.

He downed the rest of his drink, the burn of the alcohol doing little to dull the sharp edges of his thoughts. Memories clawed at the edges of his mind, each more painful than the last. He'd been such a fool, such a blind, arrogant fool. How could he have been so proud of a name that was built on the suffering of others? So much had changed, yet nothing had really changed at all. He ordered another glass, knowing full well that it wouldn't help. Better not to dwell on memories. They led nowhere good, only to darker places he wasn't ready to face.

Then, amidst the clatter of glass and murmured conversations, a voice cut through the noise.

"Malfoy?"

It was calm yet laced with surprise, warm yet measured. It wasn't just any voice. It was her voice.

Draco's body tensed immediately. He didn't even need to look up to know who it was. His hand froze mid-motion, glass hovering just inches from his lips. Granger . Her name echoed in his head like a ghost from the past. His stomach twisted, but not in the way he expected.

He set his glass down carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile moment. He hadn't seen her in years. Seven years, to be exact. Seven years since the war. Seven years since he last laid eyes on Hermione Granger. He wasn't sure what surprised him more—the fact that she was standing beside him now, or the fact that part of him was relieved to hear her voice.

He finally spoke, his voice low, almost wary. "Granger." It felt foreign on his tongue, as though her name had no place in his world anymore.

"I can't believe my eyes," she said, her tone a mixture of disbelief and something softer—maybe concern? He couldn't tell.

He snorted, staring down at his firewhiskey. What had she expected? Some kind of redemption story? Him, clean-shaven, bright-eyed, with a new lease on life? No, this was all that was left of Draco Malfoy. He didn't bother looking up when he heard the barstool beside him scrape against the floor. Of course she wouldn't leave. Granger wasn't one to walk away from anything, let alone someone broken.

He heard her settle in beside him, the faint rustle of her clothing brushing against the bar. The silence between them was heavy, but not uncomfortable. For a moment, he let it sit there, thick and unspoken. Finally, curiosity got the better of him, and he turned his head just slightly, enough to see her out of the corner of his eye.

And that's when his breath caught.

Hermione Granger was nothing like the girl he remembered from Hogwarts. Gone were the frizzy curls and oversized robes that had marked her youth. In their place stood a woman who exuded confidence, her brown eyes sharp and focused, her posture relaxed but commanding. She wore a sleek, black dress shirt that clung to her frame, ending high on her thighs, revealing long, tan legs that were complemented by the sharp cut of her stilettos. Her eyes—those warm, wise eyes—hadn't changed. But her hair…

Her hair had changed. Dramatically.

It was short, cropped close to her head, sleek and stylish. The wild curls that once framed her face were gone, replaced by something bolder, something sharper. And Merlin help him, but it suited her.

"What have you done to your hair?" he asked before he could stop himself. The words sounded dumb in his own ears, but he couldn't help it.

Granger smirked, turning her glass of firewhiskey between her fingers. "You noticed, huh? Didn't think you'd care about such things. Especially since I'm just a 'Mudblood,' right?"

The word hit him like a slap, and he flinched. She said it with a casualness that made it sting even more. He had been cruel to her—so needlessly cruel back then.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, staring into his drink again, ashamed of how easy those words came now. Too little, too late. He had spent so long being a coward. "About everything."

Granger's expression softened. She sighed and took a small sip of her drink, her lips barely grazing the glass. "I know. And maybe it wasn't fair for me to throw that back at you." She paused, her eyes searching his face as though looking for the boy she once knew. "But after everything, you deserve more than this."

Her words caught him off guard. He looked away, his chest tightening. "I don't deserve anything, Granger. I'm a Malfoy. This is how it is."

"Do you really believe that?" she asked quietly. There was no judgment in her voice, only curiosity.

He shrugged. "That's life. I can handle it."

Draco leaned back on his stool, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked over at Hermione. The dim, flickering light of the pub cast deep shadows across her face, but even in the half-light, he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she seemed just a little too focused on the drink in her hand.

"What brings you here, Granger?" His tone was casual, but the question carried a weight of curiosity he couldn't hide. He was good at reading people—especially people like Granger, who always carried themselves as if they had everything together. Except now, something was different. "Can't be for the ambiance." He gestured to the dingy surroundings, his voice laced with sarcasm.

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she tilted her head back and downed the last of her firewhiskey in one swift gulp. Her expression didn't change, but she stared down at the empty glass, turning it slowly in her hands as if it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. Draco's curiosity deepened. What the hell was going on with her?

"Come on, it can't be that bad." He tried to coax a reaction out of her, his voice adopting a mockingly dramatic tone. "I hear you're engaged to the Weasel and are one of the best Aurors we've had in centuries!" He waved his hands with exaggerated flourish at the word "centuries," half-expecting her to roll her eyes or give him one of her trademark lecturing looks.

But instead, she just snorted. A low, humourless sound that surprised him. His brow furrowed. Something's definitely up. Miss Perfect, the golden girl with her perfect job and perfect life, didn't seem so perfect tonight. And that unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Why? He wasn't sure. But it bothered him. Maybe because it made his own situation feel even more miserable. Or maybe because seeing Hermione Granger, the ever-steady force in a world of chaos, unravelling in front of him hit a nerve he didn't realise he had.

He opened his mouth to press her, to dig a little deeper, but before he could, she spoke. Her voice was steady, but there was a sharp edge to it. "Not that it's any of your business, Malfoy, but I was engaged to Ronald. I called it off after I found him sneaking around with some new Auror." Her eyes flicked back to him, daring him to react. He didn't. "I got her fired, of course. Still bugs me that I couldn't fire him too."

Draco's smirk faltered. He wasn't expecting that. His mind raced, trying to reconcile this new information with the image he had of Granger's life. Weasley? Cheating on her? That didn't fit the picture. It was like hearing the sky had fallen. He leaned in slightly, his smirk fading into something more neutral, more curious. He hadn't expected that. It intrigued him, though he wasn't quite sure why. "And here I thought your life was annoyingly perfect."

She snorted. "Far from it." She took a small sip from her new drink, staring into the distance like she was seeing something he couldn't. There was a hollowness to her gaze, a weight that felt unfamiliar to him, and for some reason, it bothered him more than he expected. He had always envied her for being everything he wasn't—respected, admired, someone who the world seemed to favour. But hearing her say this, seeing the cracks in the facade, it made his own resentment feel hollow.

And just like that, the old bitterness resurfaced. Why was she the one sitting here with doubts and struggles when he was the one who had been shut out, cast aside by the Auror office again and again? She had everything going for her, didn't she?

"But that's not why I'm here, Malfoy."

He raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"No it is not," she continued, her tone sharp, as if she were pushing the whole thing aside with brute force. "You see my job has become... difficult lately. I've set myself to do something impossible."

Draco tilted his head, forcing a smile. "Granger, Granger... what impossible case have you now set your brilliant mind on?" The sarcasm was there, but only barely. He was genuinely curious now.

Hermione shot him a look, her eyebrow arched, and he caught a flicker in her eye—something lighter, almost playful, something that caught him off guard. "I assume that was meant as an insult, but I'm going to take it as a compliment."

He couldn't help but grin, though it felt strange in the context of everything that had just been revealed. "You do that, love." His voice softened slightly, the teasing edge fading. He turned his body fully toward her now, leaning forward. "Now, seriously, what is it that's driving you mad enough to burn away your brain cells with endless firewhiskey?"

She didn't respond right away. Instead, she looked away, her eyes finding a spot somewhere beyond the dim bar lights, past the noise and the clinking glasses. The silence stretched, and for a moment, Draco thought she might not answer him at all. He felt a strange pang of discomfort, the kind he wasn't used to feeling. He almost regretted asking—almost.

Then, with a sigh, she turned back to him, her face unreadable. Her lips parted slightly, and when she spoke, the answer hit him like a physical blow.

"You."

Draco blinked. He felt the word land, heavy and disorienting. Me? His brain scrambled to make sense of it, but it didn't compute. Why him ? Why would he be the reason she was sitting here, drinking firewhiskey like she was trying to forget something?

"Me?" He asked, genuinely baffled. His voice, for once, lacked its usual sharpness.

She smiled, but it was a tired, weary sort of smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yes, you, Malfoy."

He stared at her, his mind racing to fill in the blanks. The firelight flickered between them, casting long shadows across her face, making her seem both familiar and distant. He realized, in that moment, how little he truly knew about Hermione Granger. All the assumptions he'd made about her over the years seemed to crumble under the weight of this one, unexpected confession.

"Why me?" The question tumbled out of him before he could stop it. He wanted to understand, to peel back the layers and see what was really going on beneath that calm exterior.

She let out a long breath, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. "Because," she said, her voice steady but quiet, "you've been applying to the Auror office for four years now. And they keep rejecting you."

Draco's heart skipped a beat. This was about the Auror office? About him not getting the chance he knew he deserved? He tried to piece it together, the puzzle of her involvement in all of this.

"I've been fighting for you, Malfoy," she continued, her gaze meeting him directly, unwavering. "I've been pushing for them to give you a second chance. Because I believe you deserve it. Despite everything."

He blinked, dumbfounded. Of all the people, why would she —after everything he had said and done—fight for him ? Maybe he had misjudged her all those years ago. Maybe, if he hadn't been so obsessed with bloodlines and family honour, they could have been something more than rivals.

His mind reeled. Granger, is leading my case? He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but something in her eyes—something serious and sincere—kept him from doing so. He didn't know what to feel. Gratitude? Confusion? Maybe a bit of both. But deep down, beneath the confusion and disbelief, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Hope.

And that, more than anything, terrified him.

The dull ache in Draco's head had grown sharper, creeping from the base of his skull and winding its way through his temples. He tried to massage the tension away, his fingers pressing into his forehead, but the throbbing only seemed to intensify. Five glasses of firewhiskey had done nothing to ease it; if anything, it made his mind sharper, too clear, too aware. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of galleons and dropping them onto the counter.

"Should be enough. Keep the change," he muttered to the bartender, his voice rougher than he intended. He stood up, swaying slightly, but steadied himself quickly.

As he turned, he noticed Granger reaching into her own wallet. He chuckled, unable to stop himself. "Granger, I already paid for you."

She paused, looking at him, and for the first time in the evening, Draco saw something that made his stomach twist unexpectedly. Her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink as she glanced at the table, clearly doing a quick mental calculation. Then, when her eyes met his, they twinkled—whether from the firewhiskey or something else, he couldn't tell. There was a warmth there, a calmness that made his pulse quicken, and for a brief moment, he found himself distracted by the way the light played in her eyes.

"Well, thank you," she said softly, her voice a little lighter now.

Without fully thinking about it, Draco waited while she gathered her jacket and shawl, his movements slowing as he watched her. Why was he suddenly so aware of her presence? The scent of her perfume lingered in the air, a subtle mix of vanilla and something else—something floral, like jasmine. It wrapped around him, making the enclosed space of the pub feel smaller, more intimate.

They left together, stepping into the biting cold of the January night. The wind stung against his skin, but Draco welcomed it. Anything to pull his thoughts back to something more solid, more familiar. Yet, as they walked down the darkened street, the silence between them grew heavier, filled with unsaid words, unasked questions.

Then Granger broke it, her voice a soft echo in the stillness of the night. "You know, Malfoy, you might not believe it, but I've forgiven you."

Draco's footsteps slowed, his brow furrowing as he glanced sideways at her. Her words caught him off guard, tugging at a part of him he thought he'd buried long ago. "Forgiven me?" He wasn't sure what she meant, and his mind scrambled to make sense of it.

She nodded, her breath visible in the cold air. "You were surprised when I started talking to you back at the pub. Even slightly drunk, you were surprised. And when I told you I was fighting for your case, you looked absolutely taken aback." She smiled—a small, gentle curve of her lips, but one that seemed to light up her whole face. And Draco found himself staring. "But it's been seven years, Malfoy. I'm not someone who holds a grudge for that long, at least not when it wasn't something truly unforgivable. But most people value their pride too much to actually do the right thing."

The light from the street lamps caught the soft glow of her skin, illuminating her features in a way that made her look almost ethereal. Draco's mind raced. He wasn't used to this—this warmth, this openness. He was used to cold indifference or harsh judgement. Not... whatever this was. And that smile—it made his chest feel tight, like something unfamiliar was clawing its way out of him. Something he didn't know how to name.

She continued walking, and Draco followed, though his thoughts were a tangle of confusion and something else. Something he didn't want to acknowledge. His mind spun with the implications of her words. She had forgiven him. And not just that—she was implying that maybe, just maybe, she regretted how things had played out between them.

Pride, she said. It was also pride that had held him back. Draco's lips twitched into a humourless smile. She wasn't wrong. He had let pride dictate so much of his life—who he trusted, who he hated, who he allowed close. And now, standing next to Hermione Granger, he wondered just how different things could have been if he hadn't been so consumed by it.

They walked further, the silence between them now less heavy, more contemplative. The sounds of the city echoed faintly in the distance, but in this moment, it was just them and the soft crunch of their shoes against the frosted pavement. And for the first time, Draco found himself not resenting the quiet.

After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice low and thoughtful. "I suppose if I hadn't been so obsessed with blood status and house rivalries… I might've actually liked you back in school."

He said it lightly, as though it was just a passing thought, but the truth of it sank deeper than he cared to admit. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, curious to see her reaction. To his surprise, her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, and she looked down at the ground. Draco smirked, feeling a flicker of satisfaction. So that part of him hadn't entirely disappeared.

Hermione cleared her throat, her voice softer now, almost shy. "You've changed, Malfoy. In a good way. Whether you believe it or not." She clasped her hands in front of her, as if trying to steady herself. "And I wish we had the chance to get to know each other better… back then."

Draco stared at her, something strange stirring in his chest. Her words hung between them, thick with something unspoken. Then, almost as if she couldn't hold it back any longer, she added, "Believe it or not, sometimes I… fancied you."

He stopped dead in his tracks, turning to face her fully. She had what ? His eyes widened slightly, searching her face for any sign that she was joking. But there was nothing but sincerity—and a tinge of embarrassment. She continued quickly, as if to cover her own discomfort. "I know it sounds ridiculous now, but back then… I used to look past all the bad things. I thought about the good in people. And, well… you had the looks. You still do."

Her voice trailed off, and she glanced away, clearly mortified. Draco could hardly breathe. His mind reeled. Hermione Granger— Granger —had fancied him? It was so absurd, so utterly unthinkable, that he couldn't wrap his head around it. And yet, the idea of it made something shift inside him. He had had his share of fleeting encounters. But the way she had said it, so vulnerable and genuine, unsettled him in a way he wasn't prepared for.

As they reached the end of the street, standing in front of what he assumed was her apartment building, Draco was hyper-aware of how close they were standing. The air between them felt charged, almost electric. He could smell her perfume again, a soft, intoxicating blend of roses and something sweet—like caramel. It wrapped around him, pulling him in closer, making him dizzy in a way a firewhiskey never could.

"It was nice seeing you again," Hermione said, her voice soft, almost hesitant. She looked up at him, her eyes warm, filled with a kindness he wasn't used to. Eyes he could get lost in if he wasn't careful.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "Very nice indeed," he managed to say, though his voice was rough. His hand ran nervously through his hair, and the other massaged his temple. He didn't know how to take this. He didn't know how to feel .

Hermione fumbled with her purse, pulling out her keys before looking up at him again. "Call me on the Floo phone sometime," she said, a playful glint in her eye. "I assume you have one?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "We're in the 21st century, Granger. I'm moving with the times, thank you very much." She flushed again, and he couldn't help but smirk—the kind of smirk he hadn't used in years. The kind he used when he flirted. "Just kidding. Yes, I have one, and I might call you. You're actually… good company."

Her eyes lit up, and she smirked back at him, the playful banter between them feeling surprisingly easy.

And then it happened. One moment she was fumbling with her purse, and the next, her face was inches from his. He could see her eyes slowly closing, feel her breath against his lips. And then her lips brushed against his, soft, fleeting, but enough to send a rush of warmth through him. A taste of cinnamon lingered on her mouth, and the scent of caramel surrounded him, wrapping him in something he didn't want to let go of.

When she pulled away, it took him a second to realise what had just happened. His heart pounded in his chest, his mind blank, unable to process anything except the feeling of her lips on his. He barely heard her whispered, "Goodnight," as she disappeared into the stairway.

Draco stood there, staring after her, dumbfounded. He had kissed plenty of girls before—many on the same night, even. But none of those kisses had ever felt like this. He could still feel the ghost of her lips on his, and for the life of him, he couldn't understand why this one kiss had rattled him so completely.

As her silhouette disappeared into the shadows, he mumbled a much delayed Goodnight into the darkness, before apparating home.

This chapter has been edited. The new version was posted on 22/10/24