Draco Malfoy had been punched before.

It came with the territory of being who he was—Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most notorious pure-blood families in Britain, a Slytherin through and through, and, by all accounts, a bit of an insufferable git. He had taken a hex to the ribs from his father once in a particularly harsh training session, had been shoved into a wall by an older Slytherin when he was ten for speaking out of turn, and had been hit a few times by accident during Quidditch matches.

But never—not once—had he been punched by a girl.

By Hermione Granger, of all people.

His jaw still ached as he stormed back towards the Slytherin common room, his fingers pressed against the side of his face. He could still hear the gasps of Potter and Weasley, the stunned silence of the other students. The way her face had been twisted in anger—no, fury—as she drew her fist back.

And then—crack.

Draco had barely had time to react before her knuckles connected solidly with his face, sending him stumbling backward, his pride lying shattered at his feet. It had been humiliating. Infuriating.

And yet, somewhere deep down, beneath the shock, the outrage, and the need to get revenge, he couldn't shake one unsettling, horrifying thought:

That was the best thing that's happened to me all year.

——

Draco sat in the Slytherin dormitory, staring into the flickering glow of the fire, his hands clenched into fists. He told himself he was just plotting his next move, some way to get back at Granger that wouldn't make him look even more foolish. Maybe a hex, something humiliating. A well-placed insult. Something cutting.

But every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.

Not Granger the Mudblood. Not Granger the know-it-all.

No, what he saw was the way her hair had whipped around as she walked away, wild and untamed, catching the sunlight. The way her brown eyes had burned with rage, dark and furious, yet filled with something terrifyingly real.

Something that made him feel small.

He had spent years thinking of her as beneath him. An annoyance, a nuisance, nothing more. He had thrown slurs at her, mocked her, done everything in his power to diminish her worth.

And yet, when her fist had connected with his face, it was as if something inside him shifted.

It wasn't just that she had hit him. It was that she had fought back. That she had looked at him, not as if he was someone to be feared, or hated, or even pitied—but as someone unworthy of her time.

That stung worse than the punch itself.

———

Over the next few weeks, Draco found himself watching her. He told himself it was out of caution. He needed to know when she might strike again, needed to be prepared for any retaliation she might have planned.

But that was a lie.

He watched her because he couldn't not.

He noticed the way she chewed on the end of her quill when she was deep in thought, the way she scrunched her nose when something didn't make sense. He noticed how she always seemed to be two steps ahead of everyone else, how she was relentless in class, answering every question as if knowledge itself was a battle to be won.

He noticed how she smiled when she read. A real, genuine smile—not the polite, tight-lipped ones he saw when she was dealing with Potter and Weasley's antics, but a real one, the kind that made something in his chest feel strange and unsteady.

He hated it.

He hated her.

Didn't he?

Draco tried to remind himself of everything his father had taught him. She's a Mudblood, Draco. Beneath us. Weak. Not worth your time.

But the problem was, she wasn't weak.

She had stood up to him in a way no one else ever had. She had fought back, and she had won.

And Merlin help him, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

——

It all came to a head one evening in the library.

Draco had been sitting alone, pretending to work on his Potions essay but in reality doing nothing more than sneaking glances at her from across the room. She was hunched over a massive book, her fingers tracing the words as she read, completely oblivious to the rest of the world.

And then she looked up.

Their eyes met.

Draco felt something in his chest tighten.

He should have sneered. He should have made some snide remark, reminded her of her place, done something to erase the sudden feeling of heat creeping up his neck.

But he didn't.

He just stared.

And for the first time, Hermione Granger didn't look at him with anger or irritation or even disgust.

She looked at him like she was studying him.

Like maybe, just maybe, she was starting to notice him too.

The thought terrified him.

He snapped his book shut and stood so abruptly that his chair scraped against the stone floor, earning a glare from Madam Pince. Without a word, he turned and strode out of the library, his heart pounding in his chest.

Because for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy didn't know who he hated more—Hermione Granger, or himself for feeling this way about her.

———

Draco stormed through the empty corridors of Hogwarts, his pulse hammering in his ears. He told himself he was just angry. Angry at Granger for punching him, for existing, for invading his thoughts. Angry at himself for letting her.

But beneath the anger, beneath the frustration and confusion, there was something worse. Something he refused to name.

He didn't stop walking until he reached the Astronomy Tower. The cold night air hit him like a slap, but he welcomed it, inhaling sharply as he leaned against the stone railing. The castle stretched out below him, warm golden lights flickering in the windows.

He gritted his teeth. This was ridiculous.

This thing—this obsession—wasn't real.

It was just his ego bruised from being humiliated. That was all. A Malfoy wasn't supposed to feel this way about a Mudblood.

His father would kill him.

And yet, the thought of Lucius Malfoy's disappointment didn't bring him the usual sense of fear or urgency. Instead, it felt distant. Unimportant.

What was important was the way his stomach had twisted when Hermione had met his gaze in the library. The way, just for a second, she hadn't looked at him with hatred, but with curiosity.

Like she was trying to figure him out, too.

Draco let out a bitter laugh. "Merlin help me."

He was in trouble.

--

Draco spent the next week avoiding her.

It was the logical thing to do. He could not let this ridiculous distraction take root any further. He went out of his way to sneer at her when they passed in the corridors, scoffed at her answers in class even when he knew they were correct, and made a pointed show of rolling his eyes whenever she spoke.

And yet, it didn't feel the same anymore.

The words tasted hollow. The insults felt rehearsed.

And worse? She noticed.

She wasn't stupid. He knew she had picked up on the shift. The way his usual cruelty lacked its usual bite. The way he hesitated just a second too long before opening his mouth to insult her.

The way, when she caught him staring, he looked away first.

And then one evening, everything fell apart.

It was late, long after curfew, and Draco had been wandering the castle, trying to clear his head. But, as always, trouble found him.

Or rather—she did.

Hermione Granger, standing alone in the dimly lit corridor outside the library, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Waiting.

For him.

Draco stopped dead in his tracks. "What do you want, Granger?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "That's my question, actually."

He scoffed, trying to summon his usual bravado. "You cornered me, remember?"

She didn't take the bait. Instead, she tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she was determined to solve. "You've been acting weird, Malfoy."

He felt his stomach drop. "Oh, please—"

"You're watching me."

His breath caught.

"Not in the way you used to. Not like you're waiting for me to make a mistake so you can pounce." Her voice was quiet but firm, every word precise. "It's different now."

Draco's jaw tightened. "You're imagining things."

Hermione took a step closer. He willed himself not to move back.

"I don't think I am."

Draco could feel his heartbeat in his throat. He should have laughed. Shrugged her off. Said something cruel enough to make her go away.

But he didn't.

Instead, he did something far, far worse.

He dropped his gaze to her lips.

For just a fraction of a second. Just enough for her to notice.

And when his eyes snapped back up to hers, her expression changed.

Understanding.

Realization.

And worst of all—no disgust.

Draco's breath hitched.

Then—panic.

Before she could say anything, before she could make this real, he turned on his heel and walked away. Fast.

Not looking back.

Never looking back.

Because if he did—if he let himself face the truth—he wasn't sure he could stop himself

——

Draco didn't sleep that night.

His mind was a battlefield, caught between everything he had been raised to believe and everything that was unraveling inside him.

Hermione knew.

She had seen it. The way his gaze had flickered to her lips. The way he had panicked and run like a coward.

He could still hear her voice in his head, steady and knowing: You're watching me.

He didn't know what terrified him more—the fact that she had figured it out, or the fact that a part of him wanted her to.

For the next few days, Draco did his best to pretend nothing had changed.

But it had.

He could feel it in the way Hermione looked at him now. Not with the usual disdain, not even with pity.

But with curiosity.

And worse—something else. Something soft.

Something dangerous.

Draco told himself he was imagining it, that he was just being paranoid. But then, late one evening, fate—or sheer bad luck—forced them together once more.

———

It started with an argument.

It always started with an argument.

It was past curfew, and Hermione had caught him wandering the Astronomy Tower again. It was becoming a habit, his little escape from everything—his father's expectations, his own thoughts, her.

But tonight, she wasn't going to let him escape.

"You know, if you keep sneaking around like this, someone's going to think you're up to something," Hermione said, arms crossed as she stepped into his path.

Draco rolled his eyes. "And what, Granger, are you doing out so late? Practicing your punching?"

She flushed, but her expression didn't waver. "Don't change the subject."

"Oh, I'm changing the subject? You're the one who keeps stalking me."

Hermione let out an exasperated sigh. "You've been avoiding me."

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it. She wasn't wrong.

"Why, Malfoy?" she pressed. "Why are you acting like this?"

Draco clenched his jaw. "Like what?"

"Like—like you care."

Something inside him snapped.

"I don't," he lied.

She stared at him for a long moment. Then, in a voice quieter than before, she said, "Yes, you do."

Draco felt his heart pound against his ribs. The worst part was—he wanted to fight her on it. He wanted to sneer, to insult, to push her away before this went too far.

But she was looking at him like she knew him. Like she could see straight through the carefully built walls he had spent years hiding behind.

And Merlin help him, he didn't want her to stop.

"I hate you," he whispered, but there was no venom in it.

Hermione tilted her head, stepping closer, her expression unreadable. "No. You don't."

Draco swallowed hard. He could smell the faint traces of parchment and ink on her, could see the way her curls framed her face in the moonlight.

She was too close.

Or maybe not close enough.

His body moved before his brain could catch up.

One moment, he was standing there, barely breathing. The next, his hand had curled into the front of her robes, and he was pulling her toward him.

Hermione gasped softly, but she didn't pull away.

And then—Merlin help him—he kissed her.

It wasn't soft or hesitant. It was desperate. A clash of confusion and frustration and something neither of them wanted to name.

Her hands fisted in his robes, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. He felt her sigh against his lips, and it sent something shattering through him.

For a moment, there was no Malfoy, no Granger. No House rivalry, no blood status, no history of hatred between them.

There was only this.

Only them.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Hermione's eyes searched his face, her expression unreadable.

Draco swallowed. "Say something."

She took a shaky breath. "You're impossible."

A slow, reluctant smirk tugged at his lips. "And yet, you kissed me back."

Hermione huffed, crossing her arms. "You kissed me first."

Draco leaned in, just slightly, enough to make her breath hitch. "You let me."

Her face was flushed, her lips still slightly swollen. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," he murmured, brushing his fingers lightly against hers, "you're still standing here."

Hermione hesitated for only a second before her fingers curled around his.

Draco felt his pulse race.

He was so in trouble.

And for once—he didn't care..