Tangled Cravings

April's Daydream

The sun dipped low over Diagon Alley, casting long, golden rays that split across the cobblestones. Hermione Granger stood behind the counter of *The Spell & Ink*, absentmindedly sorting through a pile of books while the smell of fresh ink and parchment filled the air. Theo Nott's combination bookstore and tattoo parlor had been her sanctuary for the last three years, the one place where she could disappear into the noise of other people's lives.

"Granger, you look worse than usual," Pansy drawled from her spot by the window, flipping through a magazine. Her black hair shone in the fading light, and her sharp green eyes never missed a thing. "Another rough night?"

Hermione glanced over, already tired of the conversation. "Do you ever get tired of looking perfect?" she muttered, brushing her wild curls out of her face.

Pansy smirked. "Never."

Hermione pulled a small vial from her pocket, hesitating only a second before swallowing the liquid inside. The bitterness hit her immediately, but the calm that followed was worth it. Her hands stopped shaking as she set the empty vial aside.

Before Pansy could throw in another snarky comment, the door swung open with a loud creak. Two figures entered, and Hermione's heart sank to her stomach.

Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini.

They looked different—older, somehow, and sharper around the edges. Both were tall, their frames leaner than she remembered, as if the weight of the world had been slowly chipping away at them. But there was something else in their eyes, something hard to place: a quiet determination and, underneath it all, exhaustion.

Blaise was the first to speak, flashing a grin. "Well, if it isn't the famous Hermione Granger," he said, spreading his arms wide. "Long time, no see."

Hermione felt her throat tighten, but she forced a smile. "Zabini," she greeted him, her voice neutral.

Theo emerged from the back, grinning like a madman. "Look who finally decided to rejoin the living!" He strode forward, wrapping his arms around both Draco and Blaise in a rare show of affection. "How was rehab? You two look...well, alive."

"Barely," Blaise replied with a chuckle, though the humor didn't quite reach his eyes.

Draco, on the other hand, said nothing, his pale gaze flicking over Hermione briefly before he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. He seemed quieter than she remembered, almost... subdued. The tension in his posture betrayed the fact that he wasn't as put-together as he pretended to be.

"We're doing fine," Draco muttered, though there was an edge in his voice, the same edge Hermione had learned to recognize in herself. She knew it well. The edge of someone still clawing their way back from rock bottom.

Hermione kept her focus on the books in front of her, her hands now steady from the potion she had just taken. But she could feel Draco's presence in the room like a weight pressing down on her. He hadn't spoken to her directly yet, and she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

Theo, ever the peacemaker, clapped his hands. "Well, we've got drinks in the back if you two need something. Figured you might want a bit of normalcy after two years in a place that probably sucked the life out of you."

Blaise laughed. "You have no idea, mate."

As they moved toward the back room, Draco lingered for a moment, his eyes settling on Hermione again. She met his gaze, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. The unspoken weight of the past—the war, the years of animosity, the personal battles—hung between them like thick smoke.

"You look... different," Draco finally said, his voice softer than she expected. It wasn't a compliment, but it wasn't an insult either.

Hermione felt a rush of irritation. "I could say the same about you."

Draco's lips twitched, but it wasn't quite a smile. "Rehab does that, I suppose."

"Yeah, well," she muttered, "we all have our vices."

Before he could respond, Blaise's voice called out from the back. "Malfoy, you coming, or are you going to stand there awkwardly all day?"

With one last glance at Hermione, Draco turned and followed Blaise into the back, leaving her standing behind the counter, feeling a strange mixture of relief and frustration.

Pansy, who had watched the entire interaction with a raised eyebrow, snorted. "Well, that was tense."

Hermione shot her a glare. "I wasn't asking for commentary."

Pansy shrugged, her smirk never fading. "Oh, darling, I don't think you need to ask.

Later that evening, after the shop had closed and Theo, Pansy, Blaise, and Draco had settled into their usual corner of the tattoo parlor, the atmosphere grew quieter, heavier. Hermione stood behind the bar, pouring herself a drink—just one, she promised herself. But her hands shook slightly as she reached for the bottle, and before she knew it, she was filling the glass higher than she intended.

Draco, sitting nearby, watched her with narrowed eyes. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Granger," he said softly, his voice barely cutting through the low hum of conversation, "you're not exactly subtle."

Hermione's jaw tightened. "And you're not exactly one to talk."

He leaned back, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. "Fair enough. But I've just spent two years in a place where they drill into your head how important it is to recognize your own downfall before it happens."

She stared at him, her fingers tightening around the glass. "You don't get to lecture me, Malfoy."

"No," he said quietly, "but I understand what it feels like to hate yourself a little more every day."

For a brief moment, the sharp, biting exchanges they had always thrown at each other softened. The weight of their shared struggles—addiction, loss, the burden of surviving the war—hung between them. Neither was willing to admit it, but in each other, they saw something familiar, something they had never expected: understanding.

"I'm not your project," Hermione whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

"I don't want you to be," Draco replied, his voice steady. "But I'm not blind either."