The days bled into one another, bleak and colourless, the Scottish sky hanging heavy over the castle like a sodden curtain. Grey and still, occasionally weeping drizzle. The castle halls remained cold, as if the very stones could sense the weight of the war creeping closer.

Draco had put it off long enough. He needed to go. He needed to see it.

So, after his Friday patrol with Granger passed in complete silence, under the cover of dusk, he trekked up to the seventh floor, nerves gnawing at his stomach. The torches flickered dimly as he strode past tapestries and locked doors, his breath uneven, hands buried deep in his pockets. He knew the instructions. Walk three times, think of what you need.

And so, he did.

I need to find the room where things are hidden.

The door revealed itself, and he stepped inside.

It was a graveyard of lost things, stretching endlessly, mountains of forgotten artefacts and discarded secrets. Dust swirled in the air, the scent of old parchment, rotting wood, and something faintly metallic filling his lungs. His legs took him through the maze until his eyes landed on it.

The vanishing cabinet.

It stood there, broken, its dark wooden frame rotting at the edges, the polish long since faded. It looked sick, the cracks in its surface splitting it apart like veins.

Draco swallowed thickly and bent down, grabbing the first book he could find from a pile beside him. Without hesitation, he placed it inside the cabinet and shut the door, fingers twitching against the handle. He waited. A beat. Two.

A soft whoosh sounded from within.

He pulled the door open again, and his stomach dropped.

The book lay in a ruined mess—torn to pieces, shredded into unrecognisable fragments. A useless pile of parchment.

He cursed under his breath.

This was going to take time.

The library became his second home that weekend. Every free hour when he was not dragged to meals by his friends was wasted in the endless shelves. He scoured texts, flipping through pages until the words blurred, eyes burning from candlelight.

Nothing.

Nothing remotely helpful, nothing even mentioning the damn cabinet in a way that mattered.

His patience wore thinner by the minute.

And before he knew it, Tuesday arrived again.

His body protested as he sat up in bed.

Pain throbbed at his temples, his limbs stiff and aching, as if he had spent the night being wrung out like a rag. But, worst of all was his arm.

The Dark Mark pulsed against his skin, slow and heavy, like a second heartbeat beneath his wrist, sending sparks into the unhealed, thin cuts, neatly arranged above the Mark. His stomach curled with nausea. He pressed his palm against it, uselessly, as if that would dull the sensation. It never did.

It was another day.

Another fucking day.

And tonight, he'd have to patrol again. With her.

Brilliant.

Friday was uncharacteristically quiet. Too quiet.

Draco refused to acknowledge her presence. The last thing he needed was to relive whatever strange sensations had stirred in him after their last encounter in the library. That moment of hesitation, of regret—pathetic. He wouldn't allow it to happen again.

She did not exist.

At least, that's what he told himself.

He sat at the Slytherin table, stomach tight with an unfamiliar hunger, but the thought of eating—properly eating—made him nauseous. Still, he reached for a crumpet, buttering it absently before shoving a bite into his mouth. The taste was good . Warm, rich, a brief comfort.

He chewed slowly, savouring it longer than he should have.

But he knew better.

If he ate too much, he'd only end up hunched over the nearest toilet, emptying his stomach before the hour was up. It had become routine by now, this careful balance—just enough to survive.

With a sigh, Draco stood.

He didn't miss the way Pansy's eyes flickered up at him from across the table, sharp with concern. Nor the subtle glance from Theo, who had long since stopped commenting on his refusal to eat.

They noticed.

And he hated them for it.

The minutes crawled by at an agonizing pace, each second stretching unbearably as Binns droned on about yet another Goblin Rebellion. Draco barely resisted the urge to slam his head onto the desk.

Then—

"Mr. Malfoy?"

His quill halted mid-swirl.

Slowly, he lifted his head, composing his face into something unimpressed, vaguely interested at best. The classroom was silent, save for the occasional rustle of parchment..

Across the room, Granger sat poised, practically vibrating with the need to answer whatever Binns had asked.

Draco blinked. "Pardon?"

Professor Binns, floating aimlessly at the front of the room, barely seemed to notice the delay. His translucent form flickered slightly.

"I asked if you could explain the primary causes of the 1612 Goblin Rebellion," he droned, his voice as lifeless as ever.

Draco scoffed internally. Honestly.

"Following the 1611 ruling by the Wizengamot, goblins were banned from purchasing potions, under Section IV of the Potion Control Act," he drawled, voice laced with boredom. "Further disputes arose when the Ministry attempted to impose a new tax on non-human businesses, including Gringotts, despite the fact that goblins had already been refused representation in government. So, naturally, they rioted. Massacred some wizards. Wizards massacred them back, the usual."

Binns blinked—or did whatever it was ghosts did when attempting to process information. "Adequate," he finally said.

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose. Adequate? He had summarized an entire historical conflict in three points. If Granger had given that exact answer, Binns would've probably declared her the next Minister for Magic on the spot.

He glanced sideways.

Not because he wanted to. Of course not.

But because Granger was furiously scribbling away as if the fate of the wizarding world depended on it. Her brow was furrowed, her quill moving at an almost inhuman speed, and her bottom lip was caught between her teeth.

His fingers clenched around his own quill. Ridiculous.

At that moment, she looked up, and for one horrifying second, their eyes met.

Draco immediately snapped his gaze back to his parchment, heart thudding in irritation. He did not want to be seen looking at her. Especially not by her.

"Salazar, I'm losing the will to live," Theo muttered beside him, slumping forward dramatically on his desk. "If I have to hear one more sentence about the Goblin Rebellions, I'll start one myself."

Draco huffed out something that wasn't quite a laugh.

Suddenly, the bench in front of him creaked. Draco, already irritable, looked up, locking eyes with none other than Potter himself.

The expression on Scarhead's face was unreadable, but his eyes—those strange, green eyes—bored into Draco with a sharp intensity that sent a strange prickle up his spine.

Draco didn't react. He refused to. Instead, he kicked Theo under the table, sharply enough to get his attention.

Theo jolted slightly, looking up from his parchment. "What—?"

Draco didn't respond. He kept his focus on Potter, holding his gaze for another second before the idiot finally turned away, breaking eye contact as if nothing had happened.

Draco turned to Theo, nose wrinkling in distaste. "Why in Merlin's name was the bloody Boy-Who-For-Some-Reason-Lived staring at me?"

Theo blinked, then—completely unhelpfully—grinned. "No idea, mate," he choked out, clearly struggling not to laugh.

Draco's scowl deepened. "What?"

Theo shrugged, barely suppressing his amusement. "I mean, he does look at you a lot."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "What's your point?"

Theo tilted his head in mock thoughtfulness. "Maybe Pansy's got competition."

Draco gagged. "Shut the fuck up, Nott. "

Theo snickered, shaking his head. "I'm just saying—"

"Don't say ", Draco cut him off, sneering. "I'd rather shag Filch."

Theo outright cackled at that, earning a glare from a Pansy.

Draco rubbed his temple. "Honestly," he muttered.

His steps echoed in the stone hallway, the rhythmic sound barely cutting through the silence. Beside him, Hermione was walking at an uncomfortably close distance, her footsteps too light, too quiet, as if she was constantly measuring the space between them.

They had been walking for the better part of thirty minutes now, the silence between them hanging heavy. Draco's mind raced with the events of the past few days, but Hermione's steady presence kept drawing his attention. She hadn't said a word since they'd left the common room, but her curiosity was palpable.

Finally, she broke the silence, her voice quietly sounding. "Malfoy, I've been meaning to ask you something."

Draco barely resisted the urge to scowl. He wasn't in the mood for another one of her questions, especially not now. He did, however, manage to raise an eyebrow. "Do you?" His voice was tainted with annoyance. "What is it, Granger?"

She shot him a look—cool and unbothered by his tone. "You've got a title, right?" she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly. "An aristocratic title."

Draco's eyes flicked to her, a knot of confusion and weariness forming in his chest. "I do," he replied, his voice neutral, but there was an undeniable tightness to his tone. "Draco Lucius Malfoy," he recited, bored, "Earl of Pembroke, heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy, and son of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, Duke of Somerset."

Hermione's expression shifted into something almost mocking. "It's fascinating, really—how you Malfoys manage to be so distant from Muggles, yet both you and your father hold Muggle titles. Must be awkward at dinner parties, trying to keep the lines straight."

Draco's lips curled into a tight sneer, the barb she'd thrown landing harder than he cared to admit. He could feel the blood rise to his cheeks, a small flare of irritation lighting up in him, but he forced himself to remain composed. He wasn't about to let her see how uncomfortable her words made him.

"My family immigrated from France in 1067, following the Norman Conquest of England by William the Conqueror," he echoed, the words familiar from countless repetitions. "The Earldom of Pembroke was established for us in 1138 by Stephen of Blois, and the Dukedom of Somerset was granted to us in 1547 by Edward VI. We also hold a French title."

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "Who knew you'd be so versed in Muggle history," she smirked.

"Sod off, Granger, It's about power," he said sharply. "The Malfoys don't need Muggle titles to feel important. But when it suits us, we use them."

Hermione's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into that familiar, knowing smile that always seemed to irritate him more than it should. "Right. Power. Always power with you, isn't it?" she remarked, her tone light but laced with something almost sarcastic. "And you really think that title gives you power over Muggles? Or is it just a way to remind everyone that you're better than them?"

Draco clenched his jaw, his hand instinctively tightening around the wand tucked into his robes. It was true, his family had always played this game—using whatever advantage they could find, no matter the source.

"You think I use it just to remind people I'm 'better'?" he asked, his voice rising slightly. "You don't understand. You can't understand. Power comes from every corner, Granger. It's not just magic. It's everything—titles, alliances, who you know, who you don't know. We don't have the luxury of picking and choosing what gets us ahead."

Hermione's eyes flicked up to meet his, no longer mocking, but something else. "You're right. I don't understand," she said quietly. "But I don't think that gives you the right to look down on people, either. It's just... It's just a title, Malfoy."

Draco felt a flicker of annoyance. "A title that grants a lot of influence. Not that you'd know anything about that, Granger."

She tilted her head slightly, a look of mild disdain crossing her features. "What exactly is it you want everyone to know, Malfoy? That you're better because of which family you're from? Because you can trace your name back to some dusty book? Is that what makes you important?"

Before Draco could respond, the sudden sound of voices caught their attention. As they walked around the corner, the faintest rustling of clothing and the wet sounds of snogging drifted toward them from the shadows.

Draco's face twitched in irritation as he looked away. "For Merlin's sake. What is it with people and their utter lack of decorum?" he muttered.

Hermione's lips twitched slightly at the corners as she glanced at Draco. "Should we, I don't know, break it up?" she asked dryly, clearly amused by his discomfort.

Draco stepped forward, making his presence known. As he stood there, he sent a cold glance toward the students, and the two of them immediately broke apart, stumbling over each other to adjust their robes.

"10 points from Ravenclaw and Huffelpuff!" He barked at them.

The couple scrambled away, their faces flushed with embarrassment, while Draco and Hermione stood in silence for a few moments. Draco glanced sideways at her, her lips still twisted in that faint smile, and his irritation flared again.

Hermione, despite her amusement, gave him a slightly more serious look. "You know, Malfoy," she said softly, "maybe if you focused on the real issues here in our world, instead of pretending that your blood status makes you untouchable, you wouldn't have to make judgments about everyone else's lives."

Her words stung, but he let out a small, exasperated sigh. "And maybe if you stopped asking questions about things you don't understand, Granger, you'd have a clearer picture of what's really going on."

She looked at him, for once not with mockery or derision, but with something softer, almost empathetic. And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, Draco wasn't sure if he hated it or wanted to run from it.

"Maybe," she said, her voice softer now, "but there are people who understand. Everyone in the school can tell something's wrong, and whatever it is, you don't have to face it alone. Talk to Nott or Zabini, or even Parkinson, for all I care."

With a flick of his wrist, Draco turned on his heel, trying to shake the feeling she had left him with. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that, Granger."

She didn't say anything else, and as they continued walking, the silence settled back between them—more significant than before.

Draco Malfoy was avoiding her.

Hermione should have been relieved. Should have been pleased, even. The boy who had tormented her since the moment she stepped foot in the wizarding world—the boy who had looked at her with something like curiosity, even the hint of a smile, before his expression curdled into disgust the second he learned she wasn't from a wizarding family—was steering clear of her.

And yet, the feeling was sour.

Not that she had any particular desire to be near him. But there was something in the way he carried himself now, the exhaustion in his gaze. He looked… defeated. The very sight of it irritated her. She shouldn't care. And yet, something about it gnawed at her, sitting uneasily in the back of her mind.

With a sigh, she shook the thought away, adjusting the strap of her bag as she walked toward the Quidditch pitch, books clutched tightly to her chest.

By the time she reached the stands, the afternoon light was beginning to slant lower in the sky, casting long, rare golden streaks over the field. The air was crisp, a lingering bite of summer warmth making an appearance in the autumn chill.

She had barely settled onto the bench before Harry swooped down in front of her, broom in hand, eyes bright with anticipation. "Glad you came to watch, 'Mione," he said, flashing a grin. "Though I can't promise it won't drag on."

Hermione returned his smile, shifting her books onto her lap. "It's alright, Harry. Good luck."

In truth, she had little interest in Quidditch. She had tried, she had, but beyond the occasional match where she feared for Harry's life, she couldn't bring herself to care about the sport. But she was interested in how his first tryouts as captain would go—especially since she had been the one to design and organise the entire thing.

As the prospective players milled onto the field below, she pulled The Stranger from her bag, smoothing her fingers over the pages. There was something about philosophy that always felt grounding, especially when she was surrounded by the noise of the pitch—the murmur of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter, the rustle of the breeze against the banners.

She had barely read a paragraph before the sound of whooshing air filled her ears again.

"You're joking," came an incredulous voice.

Hermione blinked, looking up from her book. Ginny Weasley was staring at her, arms crossed, expression caught between amusement and exasperation.

"You're actually reading?" Ginny gestured at the field, where a group of students were quietly talking to each other, waiting for Harry to begin. "There will be people flying at full speed, and you're reading some Muggle book?"

Hermione closed The Stranger with a sigh, tucking it back into her bag. "Camus would be devastated to hear you dismiss him like that."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Right. Tragic. "

Below them, Harry was attempting to gain the attention of the students. He sent an exasperated look in their direction.

Hermione let out a breath and settled into her seat. "I think the poor boy needs your help."

"He really is hopeless," said Ginny, half laughing, before mounting her broom and flying down to the field.

And, for the first time that day, Hermione didn't think about Draco Malfoy at all.

The only thing Draco could think about, however, was Hermione Granger.

Her voice echoed in his head, uninvited and persistent. Everyone in the school can tell something's wrong.

He gritted his teeth, fingers tightening around his quill. He never wanted to do that again. Ever. Could he ask Professor McGonagall to change his patrol assignment? No—that old hag was too stubborn.

They knew something was off.

He had been careful. And yet, somehow, his friends had started noticing. Theo, of course, but now even Blaise had started watching him too closely. And Granger—Granger, of all people—had noticed. Worse, she had voiced it.

Draco scowled, flipping the page of his book with unnecessary force. The candlelight flickered as he bent over his parchment, ink staining his fingertips. His notes sprawled across the page, chaotic but precise. There were a few theories he was eager to test on the Vanishing Cabinet, but so far, his research had yielded nothing useful.

The library was silent at this hour, only the occasional rustle of paper and the faint scratch of quills breaking the stillness. He preferred it like this—empty, quiet. No watchful eyes.

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. This needed to work. He had to fix that cabinet. His life depended on it. His mother's life depended on it.

And yet, for the past half hour, all he had done was replay a conversation with Granger.

Draco stood up with an exasperated huff, rubbing his temples. He wasn't going to get anything useful done tonight. His mind was fogged, his concentration shattered—he'd wasted more time brooding over bloody Granger than actually working. He could do it all tomorrow.

As he made his way through the dimly lit library, the candlelight flickering against the rows of ancient tomes, he caught hushed voices murmuring from behind one of the shelves. The conversation halted abruptly at the sound of his approaching footsteps.

Draco slowed his pace slightly, raising an eyebrow as he passed. As soon as he moved beyond earshot, the voices resumed, softer, cautious. He strained his ears, but all he caught was the airy, light cadence of a female voice and the low murmur of a distinctly familiar male one.

A strange feeling twisted in his gut—recognition without clarity. He knew that voice. But he disregarded it with a shake of his head. Doesn't matter.

Opting to focus on the quiet, rhythmic sounds of the castle—the faint groaning of the armour sets in the corridors, the echo of his own footfalls against the stone—Draco headed back to the Slytherin common room.

The moment he stepped inside, the atmosphere changed.

Low conversations hushed. Several pairs of eyes darted to him before quickly looking away. He ignored them all, throwing himself onto one of the plush velvet sofas, tipping his head back and shutting his eyes for a brief moment of respite.

"Oi, Malfoy, where the hell have you been all week?"

Draco opened one eye, his gaze landing on Crabbe. The dull expression, the beady eyes struggling to piece together a thought—it was almost pathetic.

"I've been busy, Crabbe," Draco muttered, letting his head fall back again. "And it's none of your bloody business."

Crabbe narrowed his eyes, his slow mind working its way through the words. Then, with a crude grin, he leaned in.

"I was starting to think the Mudblood's been seducing you on all those patrols." His chuckle was deep and throaty, full of amusement at his own wit. "Come on, tell us you've done her at least once."

Draco's stomach twisted in revulsion. His jaw clenched, and he fought the instinct to sneer in pure disgust.

He lifted his head, levelling Crabbe with an icy glare. "Why the fuck would I go anywhere near that?" His voice was calm, disinterested, as though the very notion was beneath him. Which, of course, it was.

Crabbe shrugged, chuckling again as he turned back to the others.

But then Draco heard it.

Low laughter. Whispered descriptions—filthy, grotesque fantasies spoken in mocking tones.

His stomach churned, his blood burned.

He didn't care about Hermione Granger.

He cared about the future of the wizarding society.

They were the future of the Dark lord. Those who think it okay to even entertain the possibility of dreaming about such deeds.

But something in his chest tightened as he listened.

He forced himself to stand, shoving his hands into his pockets as he made his way toward the dormitory stairs, pretending he hadn't heard a single word.

As he walked up the stairs, Draco was met with a very flushed and uncharacteristically disheveled Blaise Zabini. His robes were slightly askew, and there was a layer of sweat on his forehead, as though he had been rushing.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "What happened to you, mate? You look like you've sprinted here."

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Blaise huffed, distinctly avoiding Draco's gaze as he ran a hand over his face, smoothing away any signs of whatever had left him in this state. "I always look perfect," he added.

Draco smirked, crossing his arms. "Alright, Narcissus," he drawled. "Where have you been, anyway?"

Blaise shrugged carelessly, still refusing to meet his eyes. "Nowhere," he muttered before quickly brushing past and disappearing into his dorm without another word.

Draco watched the door swing shut behind him, his smirk fading into a thoughtful frown. Whatever Blaise had been up to, he clearly didn't want to talk about it.

Not that Draco particularly cared. He had enough to deal with.

Notes:

1. These are the real creation dates and timeline for the referenced muggle titles and historic events.

2. I'm a really big Philosophy nerd, so here I am, imposing my hobbies on you, the reader. However, I do recommend reading any of Camus' books.

3. Greek mythology reference: the man who fell in love with himself.