When He Became Mine
Alyakeiram
"10… 9… 8… 7…"
The crowd's voices swelled into the crisp air, echoing through the packed square as bursts of light exploded across the night sky in vivid, dazzling colors.
Hermione tilted her head back, her eyes wide in awe as enchanted fireworks soared above, transforming into sweeping dragons made of emerald fire and majestic phoenixes cloaked in shimmering gold. The air shimmered with residual magic, crackling faintly around them like static electricity.
"6… 5…"
Draco's gaze wasn't on the sky.
The shifting light from the fireworks bathed Hermione's face in radiant hues—first a soft rose, then deep amethyst, and finally an ethereal gold as another phoenix burst overhead. Her eyes gleamed with wonder, reflecting the brilliance of the night as she followed the glowing patterns across the sky.
He felt something stir—something he didn't quite recognize but couldn't deny.
"4… 3…"
Hermione turned her head—drawn by a feeling she couldn't name—and met his gaze.
He was already looking at her, his expression unguarded and steady, his silver eyes softened by something almost tender.
The world seemed to fade, the sounds of the countdown dimming beneath the steady pulse of her heartbeat. The chilly air no longer bit at her skin, and her coat suddenly felt too warm and confining.
Draco slowly reached out without thinking, his fingers brushing hers with quiet certainty.
Their hands met—tentative at first—but when she didn't pull away, his grip tightened, his palm warm against hers.
For the first time in what felt like forever, touch didn't feel like an obligation but a choice.
Hermione's breath hitched softly, but she didn't look away when he gently lifted her hand toward his lips.
It was instinctive, almost reverent—a small, quiet gesture that felt far too intimate for something so simple.
His lips brushed against the back of her hand, warm despite the cold, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
Hermione's fingers curled slightly, her pulse thrumming in her ears as her chest tightened—not with anxiety, but with something entirely different.
"2… 1… HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
The crowd erupted, voices cheering, laughter ringing out as the night sky exploded into a brilliant cascade of enchanted fireworks—dragons, phoenixes, and stars swirling across the heavens.
Neither of them moved. Neither spoke.
Draco slowly lowered her hand, his fingers lingering just a moment longer before reluctantly letting go. His gaze stayed fixed on hers, the unspoken weight of what had just passed hanging gently between them.
Hermione swallowed, her breath still uneven, her lips parting slightly—searching for something to say.
But nothing needed to be said.
Not yet.
*
The Next Morning, soft morning light crept reluctantly through the frosted windows of Hermione's cozy home, illuminating stacks of parchment and half-read books scattered across the worn coffee table. The wireless in the corner hummed faintly, playing a gentle, slow melody—something soothing, something safe.
Hermione stood at her kitchen counter, staring blankly at the steaming cup of tea in her hands, her thoughts elsewhere.
Her mind kept drifting back to last night—to Draco's fingers brushing against hers, the warmth of his lips against her skin, the way he'd looked at her—steady, intent… real.
She swallowed hard, setting the cup down with a quiet clink as though the movement could dislodge the memory still lingering behind her ribs. It had felt… different. Unexpected. And far too intimate for something that wasn't supposed to mean anything.
She exhaled, shaking her head. She was overthinking it—as she always did. It was just a moment. One moment.
Before she could spiral further, a sharp, familiar tapping echoed from the kitchen window. She turned, spotting an official-looking owl perched impatiently on the sill, a rolled newspaper tied neatly to its leg.
Her stomach twisted in instinctive dread. "Oh, no."
Across London, Draco sat at the small, well-worn desk tucked into the corner of Ash and Echo, reviewing purchase ledgers and scribbling notes on future shipments. He'd come here early, hoping the familiar work task would keep his mind from wandering.
From her.
But it hadn't worked. Nothing had worked—not after last night.
He could still feel the lingering warmth of her hand against his, see the way her breath had heightened when his lips brushed her skin… and hear the distant hum of fireworks fading into the quiet stillness between them.
His fingers tapped restlessly against the edge of his quill. What was that? He'd meant it to be… what? Polite? Charming?
No.
It had been instinctive. Something that felt entirely out of his control—which terrified him in ways he hadn't been prepared for.
A sharp flutter of wings startled him from his thoughts. He glanced up as a familiar dark-feathered owl swooped through the shop's half-open transom window, landing squarely on the corner of his desk with a pointed, almost judgmental glare.
The Daily Prophet.
Draco sighed, already regretting opening it—but he reached out, untied the twine, and unrolled the thick parchment. His eyes flicked briefly toward the front page—and froze.
A Magical New Year's Spark? Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy Seen Sharing an Intimate Moment in Midnight Celebration.
Below the headline, an enchanted photograph played on an endless loop:
Hermione's bright, open expression as she met Draco's eyes, his fingers gently intertwined with hers… the way he lifted her hand so delicately to his lips, their faces softly illuminated by the magical fireworks bursting behind them.
They looked close. Private. Connected.
Draco swore quietly under his breath, his jaw clenching as he threw the paper down—but not before the image burned itself into his mind again.
Of course this would be front page news.
Back in Hermione's kitchen, her hand trembled slightly as she unrolled the newspaper, her eyes widening in slow, mounting horror.
There they were.
Frozen forever in a moment that had felt private, safe, and theirs—now splashed across the front page for everyone to see.
Her breath caught as her gaze lingered on the enchanted photograph… the way he'd looked at her—like she mattered.
Like it had been real.
She sank slowly into the nearest chair, her fingers still clutching the paper.
"Of course, this would be front-page news." Her voice was quiet, bitter—but beneath it all, there was something else…
Something she wasn't ready to name.