The door shut behind her with a soft click, and Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

She crossed the classroom slowly, choosing a seat near the middle—not too close to the front where people would stare, but not too far back either. She needed neutral ground. Safe ground.

She slipped her bag from her shoulder and pulled out a quill, parchment, a spare ink bottle—her hands moving with practiced precision. But her mind was nowhere near focused.

Draco Malfoy had just walked her to class.

And not as some sort of joke. Not to bait her. Not to pull one of his old Slytherin tricks.

He'd walked beside her like it meant something.

And Merlin help her, it had meant something to her.

She sat a little straighter in her seat, trying to push the thought away. But it clung to her like mist—gentle, lingering, impossible to ignore.

She kept replaying the way he'd looked at her when he said he didn't think he deserved her trust yet. There hadn't been any smugness in his voice. No arrogance. Just quiet truth.

And when had Draco Malfoy ever been honest with her?

She'd spent so many years hating him. Dismissing him. Ignoring the occasional flutter in her chest whenever their arguments turned too sharp, too intense, too… something.

But that was before the war.

Before she saw what the world did to people.

And maybe… maybe he wasn't the only one changed by it.

She still didn't know if she could trust him. Not fully. Not yet.

But she knew this: he wasn't the boy who called her names and threw insults across the hallway anymore.

And when he'd spoken to her just now, part of her wanted to believe him.

A dangerous, impossible part.

Hermione stared down at her parchment and found she'd written nothing.

Her quill hovered just above the paper, the tip trembling slightly between her fingers.

You're being ridiculous, she told herself. You're smarter than this.

But her heart wasn't listening.

Because her heart remembered the way he looked at her—like he saw her for the first time.

And that terrified her more than anything.

The classroom buzzed with quiet conversation as students filtered in, settling into their usual seats. Sunlight streaked across the stone floor, catching on stray wisps of parchment and glinting off cauldrons lined against the wall.

Draco took his seat beside Blaise, who slouched with practiced elegance, flipping casually through his textbook with one hand and popping a sugared fig into his mouth with the other.

"You're late," Blaise murmured, not looking up.

"I'm on time," Draco replied, pulling out his ink and quill.

"For you, that's late."

Draco rolled his eyes, though his attention flickered instinctively toward Hermione's desk. She was already seated, her curls catching in the sun, quill in hand but unmoving. She looked deep in thought.

He looked away before Blaise could follow his gaze.

He wasn't fast enough.

There was a pause. A beat of silence.

Then—

"You walked her to class."

Draco didn't answer.

Blaise closed his book with a soft thump, finally turning to face him, one brow raised. "Granger."

Draco didn't flinch. "Is there a question in there?"

"There's several, actually," Blaise said nonchantly. "Starting with: what the hell is going on with you?"

"Nothing's going on."

"Mm," Blaise said, folding his arms. "You never offer to walk anyone to class. Half the time you don't even show up to class."

"I'm trying," Draco said dryly, "to be less of a disappointment."

"And the best way to do that is by orbiting Hermione Granger like she's the bloody sun?"

Draco shot him a sharp look. "Careful."

Blaise smirked. "So sensitive."

"There's nothing to talk about," Draco muttered, flipping open his book.

"You like her."

"I don't," Draco lied.

Blaise leaned in, lowering his voice. "You keep looking at her like she's something you're not allowed to want but already do."

Draco didn't respond. His jaw tensed.

Blaise sat back, satisfied. "That's what I thought."

Draco glanced toward Hermione again. Her brow was furrowed, her quill now scratching across the page. Focused, brilliant, impossible.

He dragged his eyes back to his own parchment.

"Nothing's happening," he repeated.

Blaise hummed. "Yet."

Draco didn't say a word.

Because Blaise was right.

And that was the problem.

Blaise hadn't moved. He was still leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, a lazy smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth like he was enjoying the show far too much.

"Look," Blaise said casually, "I'm not saying it's impossible. I'm just saying—Granger?"

Draco didn't look at him. "What about her?"

"She's out of your league."

That made Draco's jaw tighten.

Blaise noticed.

"She's top of every class, beloved by teachers, literal war heroine," Blaise went on, counting on his fingers. "She's best friends with the Golden Boy and the Weasel. She's got a spine made of steel and a moral compass that could realign the entire Slytherin common room."

Draco stared straight ahead.

"And you," Blaise said, nudging his elbow, "are you."

Draco finally turned to him, his voice quiet but clipped. "Thanks for the pep talk."

Blaise shrugged. "I'm just saying—Granger doesn't go for complicated."

"I'm not complicated."

"You're a former Death Eater with a hero complex, a closet full of guilt, and—based on the way you just glared at me—feelings for a girl you spent six years insulting."

Draco didn't answer.

"Exactly," Blaise muttered, clearly enjoying himself.

But then he looked at Draco properly—without the teasing grin, without the smugness—and said, a little more seriously, "I'm not trying to be a prat. I'm just saying… don't screw yourself up chasing something you think you can't have."

Draco exhaled slowly.

"I'm not chasing her," he said.

Blaise arched a brow. "A walk to class says otherwise."

"I'm trying to prove I've changed."

"To her," Blaise clarified.

Draco said nothing.

But that silence was enough.

Because even if Blaise thought she was out of his league—even if half the school probably thought the same—it didn't matter.

Because he'd rather try and fail than sit back pretending he didn't want her at all.

Blaise turned his attention back to his textbook, apparently satisfied he'd stirred the cauldron enough for one morning.

Draco, however, was still sitting in the smoke.

He stared down at the open page in front of him—some passage on properties of magical herbs—but the words blurred together. His mind wasn't on powdered dittany or sopophorous beans.

It was on her.

Granger.

Brilliant, stubborn, maddening Granger.

Everything Blaise had said echoed in his mind like footsteps in an empty corridor.

She's out of your league.

Maybe she was.

But Draco knew what it was like to be surrounded by people who only saw what they wanted to see. He knew what it felt like to be boxed in by his past, by his name, by every mistake he hadn't been strong enough to stop.

And Hermione Granger—gods, she never saw people like that. Not really.

She saw what they were capable of. What they could be.

She had always fought for justice, for truth, for change.

And Draco—

He wanted to be someone worth fighting with, not against.

Even if he didn't deserve her. Even if people whispered behind their hands. Even if Ron Weasley threatened to hex him into next week.

He was tired of living in the shadow of who he used to be.

Maybe he couldn't change the past.

But he could rewrite the version of himself that existed in her mind now.

With time. With action. With patience.

He would prove he wasn't the boy who once mocked her in the courtyard.

He would be the man who could stand beside her—and deserve to.

His eyes flicked toward her desk, just briefly.

She had started writing, her brows furrowed in concentration, unaware of the storm she'd stirred in his chest.

Draco looked back down at his notes, picked up his quill, and began to write—slow, measured lines, steady as his new resolve.

He was going to show her.

Not with grand gestures.

But with truth.

And time.