Draco's POV
The library was quiet when I entered, save for the faint sound of the feather duster brushing against the shelves. Hermione Granger stood near the far wall, her back to me, methodically working her way through the endless rows of books. Her brown curls were tied loosely, falling across her shoulders as she reached for the top shelf. The sight of her here, in my home, was surreal.
For a moment, I considered turning around and leaving. I wasn't sure why I'd come in the first place. I'd given her instructions, so there was no real reason to check on her. Yet, here I was, watching her clean like some—what? A coward too afraid to face what this situation really means?
She didn't look like she belonged here. Not in this manor, not in this life.
She turned suddenly, and our eyes met. Her expression hardened immediately, her body stiffening as though preparing for a fight. I couldn't blame her. That's all we'd ever done, after all—fight.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" she asked, her voice sharper than the edge of a broken glass. She clutched the duster in her hand like it was a weapon.
"I'm just checking on your progress," I replied smoothly, folding my arms and leaning against the doorframe. It wasn't true, of course, but it was easier than admitting that I didn't know what the hell I was doing here.
She narrowed her eyes, clearly unimpressed. "Do you really care if the library is dusted? Or are you just here to gloat?"
I opened my mouth to respond, but the words caught in my throat. She didn't give me a chance to recover, stepping closer, her eyes burning with defiance.
"You're no different from your parents," she said, her voice low but laced with venom. "You might stand there pretending you're above all of this, but you're just as complicit. You bought me. You put these cuffs on my wrists. Don't think for a second I'll forget that."
Her words hit harder than I wanted to admit. I clenched my jaw, refusing to let her see how they affected me. "You think I had a choice?" I snapped before I could stop myself.
Her eyes widened slightly, and the surprise in her expression made me feel strangely exposed. "You always have a choice, Malfoy," she said, her voice softer now but no less fierce. "You just choose the one that benefits you."
The truth in her words stung, and I hated that she was right. I hated that I'd spent my life letting others decide who I was supposed to be. But what could I say to her? That I'd wanted to stop my father from bidding on her? That I'd felt sick watching the auctioneer parade her like an object? That I didn't know how to fix the mess we'd all made?
Instead, I said nothing. The silence between us grew heavier by the second, and I could see the tension in her shoulders as she waited for me to speak.
Finally, I stepped back, running a hand through my hair. "Just finish the library," I muttered, turning on my heel and striding out of the room before she could say anything else.
Back in my room, I paced restlessly, her words replaying in my mind like a curse.
"You always have a choice."
I sat on the edge of my bed, my head in my hands. She didn't know what it was like to be me. She didn't understand what it meant to live under my father's rule, to carry the expectations of the Malfoy name.
And yet, part of me wondered if that was just an excuse.
For years, I'd told myself I was trapped. That I had no choice but to follow orders, to be the person my parents wanted me to be. But now, for the first time, I wasn't so sure.
Hermione Granger was a slave in my house, and she was freer than I'd ever been.
Hermione's POV
The library felt emptier after Malfoy left, but the weight of his presence lingered. I tightened my grip on the duster, my knuckles turning white. His words, his tone, the flicker of something I couldn't quite place in his eyes—it all left me rattled in a way I hated.
I sank into one of the armchairs, letting out a shaky breath. He wasn't the boy I remembered from Hogwarts. The boy I'd hated, the boy who'd delighted in tormenting me, was gone. What was left in his place was… complicated. And I didn't like complicated.
I glanced down at the cuffs on my wrists, their faint glow reminding me of my reality. Whatever flicker of humanity I might have seen in Draco Malfoy didn't change the fact that I was still a prisoner here.
But I wouldn't be forever. I wouldn't let them break me.
I stared out the library window at the sprawling gardens beyond, my mind already turning over the beginnings of a plan. If I was going to survive this, I needed to stay sharp. Stay focused.
And most importantly, I needed to remember that Draco Malfoy—whatever he was now—was still my enemy.
Draco's POV
The Three Broomsticks was packed as usual, buzzing with chatter and laughter that grated on my nerves the moment I stepped inside. Pansy Parkinson looped her arm through mine, her perfume sickly sweet and cloying as she leaned in closer.
"You've been awfully quiet lately, Draco," she said, her tone teasing but with an edge of suspicion. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about us."
I forced a smirk, the kind that came naturally after years of practice. "You know me, Pansy. Busy keeping the family name afloat."
She gave a tinkling laugh that set my teeth on edge and tugged me toward the back of the pub, where Blaise, Theo, and Daphne were already seated. Blaise leaned back in his chair, an expensive-looking Firewhisky in hand, while Theo toyed absently with his wand, his expression as bored as ever.
"Look who decided to grace us with his presence," Blaise drawled, raising his glass in mock salute. "I was starting to think the Malfoy heir had locked himself in his tower."
"Hardly," I replied, sliding into the chair next to him. Pansy took the seat beside me, her hand still resting on my arm. I resisted the urge to shrug her off.
"Well, it's good to see you out, Draco," Daphne said, her tone syrupy. "You've been hiding away at that gloomy manor of yours for weeks. What's going on?"
"Nothing worth talking about," I said, keeping my voice light. The last thing I wanted was to discuss what was actually happening at the manor—or who was there.
"Nothing worth talking about?" Pansy repeated, raising a perfectly arched brow. "Come now, you can't fool us. Something's different. Even Blaise noticed, and he hardly pays attention to anything."
Blaise snorted but didn't deny it.
I rolled my eyes, reaching for the glass of Firewhisky Theo slid toward me. "You're all imagining things," I said, taking a sip. The burn of the alcohol was a welcome distraction, if only for a moment.
"Sure we are," Pansy said, her voice dripping with skepticism. She leaned closer, her dark eyes studying me intently. "You've been… off. Ever since the auction."
My grip tightened on the glass, but I kept my expression neutral.
"Ah, yes," Theo said, his tone lazily amused. "The great Malfoy family taking in a Mudblood. I'm still trying to wrap my head around that one."
"Careful, Theo," Blaise said, smirking. "Draco's parents might hear you and decide you need to learn some loyalty."
Theo shrugged. "I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking. The Malfoys are all about blood purity, so why buy her? Surely there were… better options."
Pansy giggled, and I fought the urge to slam my glass down on the table.
"Maybe they needed a new housekeeper," Blaise said lightly. "Or maybe they just wanted a reminder of their glorious victory."
The conversation felt like nails on a chalkboard, and every word stoked the anger simmering in my chest. They didn't care. None of them did. To them, Hermione was nothing more than a joke, a curiosity to gossip about.
I drained my glass in one gulp and stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"Where are you going?" Pansy asked, startled.
"I need some air," I muttered, ignoring the questioning looks from the others as I turned and strode toward the door.
Outside, the cool evening air hit me like a slap, but it wasn't enough to clear my head. I leaned against the wall of the pub, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.
Their words shouldn't have bothered me. I'd heard worse over the years, even said worse myself. But this was different. It felt wrong in a way I couldn't explain, and the more I tried to brush it off, the more it stuck.
The truth was, I couldn't stop thinking about her. About Granger. About the way she'd looked at me this morning, all fire and fury, daring me to contradict her. She was right—I'd always had a choice. I just hadn't had the courage to make it.
But now? Now I wasn't so sure I could keep walking the line between my family's expectations and the growing weight of my conscience.
With a frustrated sigh, I shoved my hands into my pockets and stared up at the sky. For years, I'd thought freedom was something I already had. Now, I wasn't so sure I even knew what it meant.
And the worst part? The person forcing me to confront that wasn't someone I could talk to, let alone trust.
Hermione Granger was a prisoner in my home, but somehow, I was the one who felt trapped.