A.N : Hello! Thank you so much for reading! (And a special thanks to those who left me a review—I truly appreciate it!)
Now, watch as their rivalry starts to shift, and something more complicated begins to take its place…
I rushed through the dark corridors, careful not to make a sound. When I arrived at the spot where we'd met a few nights ago, the air was thick with silence. She wasn't here yet—or so I thought.
"Psst, Draco."
Her voice startled me, and I shivered at the sound of my first name. Uncomfortable. When had she started calling me that? She had no right. I told myself not to smirk.
I turned toward the source of the voice and opened the broom cupboard. She was crouched inside, huddled in the corner. But before I could speak—
"You bloody rat! What the hell do you want now?"
"And why the hell are you so chaotic?" I shot back. "Having trouble controlling your temper, Granger?"
"I—ugh! You're the one who told me to come, leaving some cryptic note without a specific time! I came hours ago. It was cold and lonely, and I thought it might be a trap. I was worried Filch would find me any second—"
"—so you hid in a cupboard," I interrupted smoothly. "And now you're shouting loud enough for Filch to hear? Brilliant strategy, Granger. Truly."
"Seconds later? I've been here for two hours, Malfoy! Two hours! I thought you weren't going to show up."
Her dark brown eyes blazed with anger, but I could see something else beneath it. Fear. She had been scared—of being alone, of being caught.
She looked… vulnerable. And ador—
I cut the thought off before it could finish. Shaking my head, I focused. Right. The robe.
"Granger," I whispered, pulling the robe out to show her, "look at this."
But she wasn't looking at me. Her eyes darted nervously around the hallway, clearly imagining Mr. Filch—or worse, Mrs. Norris—lurking nearby. I sighed.
"Fine," I muttered. "Let's move somewhere safer."
I led her to the that abandoned bathroom. She followed silently.
The room was dark and cold, but when I lit my wand, she mirrored me with her own. For a moment, the oppressive darkness lifted.
"And as I was saying," Malfoy began, his sharp gray eyes meeting hers, "look what you've done."
He held up his green Slytherin robe, pointing to a dark red stain on the edge. Blood.
Hermione's heart sank. It must have come from the wound he'd given her.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "But it's not a big deal, is it?"
"Oh, it is," Malfoy said coolly, his voice sharp. "Which means I'm owed something in return. I get to ask you one question."
Her stomach tightened. Questions. He loved those.
"No, I could just say Reparo and—"
"Shut your fat mouth!" he snapped, his voice cutting through her protest. "Why were Weasley and Potter late to school this year?"
Hermione froze. So he didn't know. It hadn't been Malfoy's plan. Then whose?
Her frown deepened as the question lingered in the air.
"They got trapped."
"What?"
"That's all," she said smoothly, her voice as calm as still water. "Just the length you gave me. To warn her. They got trapped." She tilted her head slightly, as if testing his reaction, her hair swaying in time with the motion.
"Where exactly?"
"I'll tell you, but no more. King's Cross. I mean, the wall—to get through the—"
"Platform 9 3/4, yes, I see," he finished, his tone clipped and knowing.
Her frown deepened. Had she overstepped again? Was she always too eager to say more than she should?
"Never knew that was possible," he muttered, his lips curling into a smirk—the kind that always made her feel like he had a dozen dangerous secrets he wasn't willing to share.
"I have a question for you," she ventured, her voice carefully measured now.
"And for what exactly? You get something by giving something. That's how this works. It's tactical. A trade."
Her brow furrowed. "I… don't know…" she admitted, her words hesitant. But then she squared her shoulders, the courage she was known for flickering back to life. "There's something I need to ask—"
"But if you've got no right or reason to ask it," he interrupted sharply, "don't bother. I won't answer."
"Fine," she shot back dramatically, feigning surrender. "I'll just find a better way."
And then, without hesitation, she raised her wand.
"Accio!"
His tie loosened itself from his neck and floated toward her outstretched hand with a gentle swish.
"There. If you want this back—"
"That's bloody unfair—"
"Oh, is it?" she countered, her grin sharp as a blade. "You used my wand as leverage just a few days ago, didn't you? And how did you get it? Ah, yes—Expelliarmus!"
"You're insufferable—"
"No, Malfoy," she said smoothly, echoing a phrase she'd overheard him use on Pansy, "I'm cunning. Not insufferable. Cunning."
"What's your question?" he snapped, his patience wearing thin. "Spit it out already!"
"It's not that simple," she said softly, almost a whisper. Then, after a pause: "Show me where you're hurt."
His expression froze, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face.
"What?" he said finally, his voice low and defensive.
"You heard me," she pressed, her tone gentler now. "Show me the wound you're hiding."
His eyes darted to the side as if he were scanning for an escape. When he looked back at her, the mask was firmly back in place.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Then," she said with a casual shrug, "the tie is mine."
She tucked it neatly into the inner pocket of her robes, flashing him a triumphant smirk. He lunged for it, but she stepped back, slipping it out of reach.
"You! How dare you! Give it back—"
"Not until you tell me about your wound," she interrupted, her tone firm but not unkind. Then, with a teasing smirk, she added, "I figured a tie was better leverage than your robe. After all, you won't catch a cold without it, will you?"
"Fine," he muttered through gritted teeth. "A tie's not a big deal."
"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. "It's an integral part of the uniform, you know. You'll notice its absence soon enough."
Rolling her eyes, she turned and began walking away, leaving him to fume.
"Where are you going?" His voice, sharp and demanding, followed her down the corridor.
"Back to bed," she called over her shoulder. "If you're not going to answer, there's no point in standing around here all night. Unless, of course, you'd rather linger near a Gryffindor—"
"No! Absolutely not," he snapped, cutting her off. "Just go."
She snorted softly at his arrogance but paused as a thought crossed her mind. Turning back slightly, she spoke in a quieter voice:
"I haven't taken the blood from your robe yet."
"What?" He stared at her, bewildered.
"The blood," she repeated calmly.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake! Get rid of it! That's disgusting—"
"Because I'm a Mudblood?" Her voice was calm, but her eyes burned with challenge.
He flinched. It was barely noticeable, but she caught it.
"I… didn't think you knew the definition of—"
"Of course, I do," she cut him off sharply. Her lips twisted into a humorless smile. "Funny, isn't it?"
"Blood is always disgusting when it's on robes," he said quickly, his tone clipped. "Even Weasley's."
Her anger faltered. His tone wasn't mocking—it was oddly neutral. And he'd mentioned Ron. A pureblood. Did he mean…? She let the thought trail off, and before she could stop herself, a small smile tugged at her lips.
"So," she said, her voice light and teasing again, "you're retiring from the trading business? You answered this question easily."
"I should've charged you for that information," he retorted, smirking. "Five Galleons, at least. No—ten. Since you were so desperate."
She laughed softly. The tension between them seemed to ease, even if only slightly. But there was something different in the air now. Something unspoken.
"You're unbelievable," she said with a shake of her head.
"And you're predictable," he shot back, his smirk softening into something almost like a smile.
As she turned and walked toward the dormitory, his voice carried after her one last time.
"I was just covering up about the wand, you see."
She paused, glancing back—but he was gone. The corridor was empty.
Back in her bed, she pulled out his tie and ran her fingers over the fabric. It was smooth, nearly perfect—except for the uneven stitching on the back. Her fingers traced the letters:
D.M.
The initials, stitched in black thread, were rough and clumsy. Handmade. She laughed softly, shaking her head. Draco Malfoy, of all people, doing something as human as sewing?
She murmured a spell to neaten the stitching, her mind replaying his last words:
"I was just covering up about the wand, you see."
What had he meant? Her thoughts drifted to their earlier exchange, and she suddenly understood. He hadn't meant what he'd said in class today—not really. He'd only said it because Crabbe and Goyle had been there. Because Ron and Harry had been watching.
Of course, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were, and always would be, enemies. They could never be close. They could never talk. Not in public. But in the secret trading thing…
She smiled softly, tucking the tie under her pillow as sleep overtook her.
A.N : Did you like it? Both Draco and Hermione are sweet in their own way, aren't they?