Hermione's POV

The grand hall of Malfoy Manor was transformed into a spectacle of elegance. Crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating polished marble floors and silk-draped tables adorned with golden centerpieces. Guests dressed in the finest robes mingled, their laughter and conversation blending into a symphony of affluence.

I moved carefully through the room, a tray of champagne flutes balanced in my hands. Narcissa's voice had echoed in my mind all day—her warnings, her demands. Every step, every movement, was calculated, deliberate. I couldn't afford a single mistake.

Luckily, Lucius wasn't here. I had overheard Narcissa mentioning that his conference had run late and he wouldn't return until tomorrow. The relief I felt at his absence was overwhelming, though I didn't dare let it show.

"Careful, girl," one of the guests sneered as I passed by, reaching for a flute. His gaze lingered on me for a moment too long, but I kept my head down, muttering a quiet "Yes, sir" before moving away. The sooner this night was over, the better.

By the end of the evening, the tray in my hands was lighter, but my muscles burned from hours of carrying and serving. My feet ached from standing on the hard floors, but I couldn't stop—not until Narcissa gave the signal.

I noticed her across the room, standing near the fireplace and laughing lightly with a group of women. Her mood was noticeably lighter than usual, her movements graceful and confident. It seemed the party was a success, which meant I could breathe—at least for now.

As I passed the far end of the hall, I caught sight of Draco standing with a small group of people. Among them was Blaise Zabini, who I recognized from Hogwarts. Blaise leaned casually against the wall, a glass of Firewhisky in hand, while Draco stood beside him, his expression relaxed but guarded.

I watched them for a moment, curiosity flickering in my mind. Draco had been different lately, softer in some ways, but I still didn't understand him. His gestures—the books, the candy, his quiet support—were confusing, unsettling. He was a Malfoy, after all. Trusting him felt dangerous, but ignoring him felt impossible.

Shaking off the thought, I turned and made my way back toward the kitchen. The faster I finished this job, the faster I could retreat to my room.

Draco's POV

The party was exhausting. Not because it required any real effort on my part, but because of the sheer amount of pretending involved. Pretending to care about the hollow conversations, the fake smiles, the endless discussions about bloodlines and power. It was always the same, and I hated it.

Blaise, at least, was tolerable company. He sipped his drink lazily, his dark eyes scanning the room.

"Your mother's done well tonight," he said, nodding toward Narcissa. "The place looks perfect. Very… Malfoy."

I snorted. "You mean ostentatious."

He smirked, swirling his Firewhisky. "Call it what you want. It's impressive. You've got half the Ministry here, practically eating out of your family's hands."

"That's the idea," I muttered, glancing around the room. My eyes landed on Hermione as she moved toward the kitchen, her tray now empty. She walked with her head down, her movements careful but efficient.

Blaise followed my gaze, raising an eyebrow. "Interesting choice of help," he remarked casually.

"Don't," I said sharply, my tone colder than I intended.

Blaise looked at me, his smirk widening. "Touchy, aren't we?"

"She's here to work," I said firmly. "That's all."

"Of course," Blaise said, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. "Nothing more to it than that."

I didn't respond, my jaw tightening. I knew Blaise too well; he wouldn't press further tonight, but I also knew this wasn't the last I'd hear of it.

As the evening wore on, the crowd began to thin. Narcissa was positively glowing, her success evident in the satisfied look on her face. The guests seemed equally pleased, their chatter full of praise for the event.

When the last of them finally left, I slipped away from the main hall and headed toward the kitchen. I found Hermione there, scrubbing the counters with a tired but determined look on her face.

"You did well tonight," I said, leaning against the doorframe.

She glanced at me, her expression unreadable. "Thanks," she said curtly, turning back to her work.

I frowned. "I mean it, Granger. My mother's in a good mood for once, and the guests didn't complain. That's a win."

"Good to know I've earned my keep," she muttered, her voice laced with bitterness.

I sighed, stepping closer. "I'm just saying you handled it well. That's all."

She stopped scrubbing, her shoulders tense. "Why do you care, Malfoy?" she asked, turning to face me. Her eyes were tired but sharp, challenging.

I hesitated, unsure how to answer. The truth was, I didn't entirely know why I cared. But I did.

"Because," I said finally, meeting her gaze, "you're better than this place. And you deserve to know that."

Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her face. For a moment, neither of us said anything.

"Goodnight, Malfoy," she said softly, turning back to her work.

"Goodnight, Granger," I replied, stepping out of the kitchen and leaving her to her thoughts.

But as I walked away, I couldn't shake the feeling that something between us had shifted—something I wasn't sure I could ever undo.