A.N : Someone pointed out that my timeline doesn't quite match the original, and I'm very sorry for that! The story is set in the second year, but I used "ferret" to try to capture a more Hermione-like vibe. I'll be more careful with continuity in the future. Thank you so much for the feedback!

"So, tell me who you think it is," Hermione said, breaking the silence with a measured tone, pretending to sound casual. She wasn't.

Ron looked at her like she'd just asked whether pumpkins were round.

"Are you joking? Hermione, come on. It's so obvious."

She crossed her arms. "Is it, though? Then do enlighten me, Ron."

"It's Malfoy," Ron said instantly, like the name had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for hours. "Of course it's Malfoy."

Malfoy.

Oh.

Hermione kept her face neutral, but her mind was already spinning.

She tilted her head. "I'm not sure there's enough to support that."

Ron nearly fell off the arm of the couch. "What? Are you serious? You of all people?"

"I'm saying," Hermione said slowly, "that we shouldn't jump to conclusions."

"Hermione, for Merlin's sake! It's Malfoy! He's got 'evil heir' written all over him!"

She let out a slow breath. "Look, even if I thought he might be involved, I just... I don't think he's the one masterminding it. He doesn't have the initiative for something this complex."

Ron scoffed. "Wow. So now he's too stupid to be dangerous?"

Hermione winced slightly. That was an oversimplification—and not even what she meant.

"I'm not saying he's stupid. I'm saying he's not... in control."

Her gaze dropped.

That wound.

She'd seen it.

The way he'd hidden it at first, then let her near it. The way his eyes shifted when she asked who had cursed it. He didn't answer. He didn't have to.

Lucius.

Maybe it really is him, whispered something inside her. Maybe he's the one pulling the strings. Maybe Malfoy's just obeying. Because he has no choice.

She swallowed hard.

"Anyway," Ron was still ranting, "McGonagall said the Chamber was opened by a pure-blood, right? So that fits Lucius perfectly. He probably told Malfoy to follow in his rotten footsteps."

"Right," Hermione said absently.

Lucius Malfoy. The man who cursed his own son to ensure obedience. A spell that lingered like a leash. The idea made her stomach twist.

And Malfoy...

She smirked.

She didn't mean to. It just happened.

Ron blinked. "What's funny?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, pressing her lips together.

But it wasn't nothing. It was the ridiculous, humiliating memory of herself—crying after Draco had called her a Mudblood, swearing on every textbook she owned that she'd never speak to him again. Ever.

And now?

Well. Not only had she spoken to him, she'd also... kissed him.

Just once.

Or twice.

Or more...?

And it had been stupid.

And reckless.

And maybe a little bit—

"You're so weird sometimes," Ron muttered.

"I'm not weird."

"Oh really?"

"I'm not!" she snapped. "I agree with you, I just don't think he's doing this alone! He doesn't have the... freedom."

"Exactly!" Ron said triumphantly. "Because his dad is the evil puppet master and Malfoy's just his loyal puppet."

She sighed again. "Honestly, Ron..."

The portrait door creaked open and Harry walked in, looking windblown and sweaty in his Quidditch robes.

"Having a pleasant chat?" he said with a smirk.

"Oh, lovely," Hermione said sweetly. "Right, Rony?"

"Yeah. Super pleasant," Ron mumbled.

Harry flopped down between them with the timing of someone trying to prevent a murder.

"So... who do we think is behind it?"

"Malfoy," both of them said at once—Hermione's voice flat, Ron's far too excited.

"She doesn't get it," Ron said.

"I do," Hermione snapped. "And I agree. But I think if he's involved, he's not the one calling the shots. He's not... independent."

Harry leaned forward slightly, more thoughtful than defensive. "I mean... I don't like the guy, but that's true. Doesn't mean he's innocent, though."

"Exactly," Hermione said quietly.

Harry glanced at her. "He called you a..."

"A Mudblood," Ron said bluntly, because of course he did.

Hermione didn't flinch this time. She just stared ahead and blinked once.

Harry hesitated. "McGonagall's theory makes sense, that's all I'm saying. And with the stuff Malfoy's been doing lately—looking pale, sneaking off—"

She clenched her jaw.

Because he's in pain, she thought bitterly. Because of a curse his father put on him. And he's hiding it. Like always.

"I admit it makes sense," she said aloud. "It just... doesn't feel like the whole story."

She stood up abruptly.

"Going to bed?" Ron asked, frowning.

"I'm tired," Hermione said quickly.

But the truth was—she wasn't tired.

She was restless.

Because tomorrow night, she was going to ask Draco for the truth.

And she had a feeling he just might give it to her.

Maybe not for free.

But for something real.

I was staring at the icy floor.

She was late.

And that wasn't like her.

Hermione Granger wasn't late. She was early. Annoyingly early. Precise. Organized. Always ten steps ahead of the world and making sure everyone knew it. But now—five minutes, ten, fifteen…

It was starting to get to me.

I closed my eyes, pressing a hand to my forehead. Focus, Draco. What are you even going to say?

"Hey Granger, by the way, your life might be in danger. Possibly my father's fault. But don't worry, I still totally despise you—except, you know, I maybe kind of don't."

Brilliant. She'd love that. Real smooth.

I sighed.

My whole body felt on edge. I could still remember her—like my nerves remembered her before my brain did. The way her fingers brushed mine that night, how close we stood, the moment I forgot how to breathe.

Her lips—soft. Unexpected. Completely stupid.

I ran my tongue across mine absentmindedly.

It was never supposed to happen.

And it won't again, I told myself. It shouldn't. It can't.

I shook my head sharply, as if I could toss the memory out of it like a bad dream.

I turned to glance at my reflection in the massive Hogwarts window. The moonlight made me look even paler than usual. My hair was messy—I'd rushed here after all—and for some reason I hated how imperfect it looked. I fixed a stray strand with my fingers, frowning.

At least my eyes were still the same. Cold grey. She once said she liked the color.

Not that it meant anything.

Still... did I look better than Weasley to her?

Oh, for Merlin's sake, stop it, Draco.

I was still smoothing my hair like an idiot when her voice broke the silence.

"Fixing your hair, Malfoy?" she teased from behind. Her voice was airy, like she'd caught me in something criminal. "If you need to hear it, you always look more than perfect."

She flushed the moment the words escaped her mouth.

"I mean—perfect like... structured. Like, your uniform. Not perfect perfect. I mean I saw Ron just now and then you, and obviously he looked like a—"

I laughed. Couldn't help it.

"You can compliment me anytime, Granger," I said, smirking. "I won't stop you."

"I wasn't complimenting you! I was just stating a visual contrast between... oh, forget it."

I raised a brow. "Wait—you saw Weasley just now?"

"What?"

"I've been standing here for over thirty minutes and you were off chatting with Weasley?"

"No—well, yes. Sort of."

"I left a note in the Great Hall," I snapped, annoyed by how much this bothered me. "Risked a lot, mind you. You could've at least pretended I was more interesting than the human howler monkey."

She rolled her eyes. "You did risk it. Again."

And the memory struck—her passing the parchment to Weasley. I nearly exploded.

"You showed him?" I said, stepping closer. "You actually showed Weasley the note?"

Her brows lifted. "Who's 'him'?"

"Weasley! Who else?"

"I didn't show him anything," she said calmly.

I folded my arms. "Don't lie, Granger."

She giggled. "Okay, fine. I did show him. But the note had a self-erasing spell on it, didn't it? You cast it yourself, Mr. Paranoid."

I froze.

Right.

It did have that charm.

And somehow, I'd forgotten.

I stared at her, speechless, feeling like an idiot.

Why do I always forget how clever she is?

She stepped forward and suddenly—gods help me—wrapped her arm through mine, looking up at me with a smirk that could melt steel.

"Oh, Draco," she said sweetly. "You don't have to be jealous of Ron."

I flushed and immediately pulled my arm away.

"I am not jealous."

"Sure you're not." Her grin widened. "You're evilly adorable when you are, though."

"I don't do adorable," I muttered, thoroughly offended. "I do brooding. And dark. And morally ambiguous."

She laughed again. A real laugh. Merlin, I hated how much I liked hearing it.

"Anyway, don't worry, " she said, the amusement softening into something else, "Ron and I... we're not exactly getting along these days."

Her voice wavered.

I looked at her. Really looked.

There was something behind her eyes—hesitation, maybe even guilt.

"What is it?" I asked, before I could stop myself.

She looked up at me, unreadable.

I hated that I wanted to understand her.

And I hated even more that maybe, just maybe... she understood me.

Because deep down, she didn't know everything.

And maybe tonight, I could finally tell her.

A.N : This chapter was a short one, but I hope you enjoyed it! Stay tuned for the next update—I promise things are just starting to heat up.