Aftermath

S E V E N

The week following their tense meeting with McGonagall had been...strangely civil. It was as if an unspoken truce had settled between Hermione and Draco, one they each upheld with wary glances and minimal words. 

Draco had begun showing up consistently to their meetings in the library, sliding into the chair across from her without a word, watching as she poured herself into the work. He didn't contribute much, but he didn't disrupt her either, which was already a marked improvement.

They started acknowledging each other in the corridors—a curt nod here, a fleeting look there. Hermione even caught him holding the door open for her once, and though he grumbled something under his breath, she offered a faint "thank you" in response. 

She wasn't sure if she imagined it, but she thought she saw his lips twitch in what might have been an almost-smile.

One evening in the library, as Hermione was poring over a stack of parchment, Draco leaned back in his chair and stretched, sighing exaggeratedly. 

"You know, Granger," he drawled, eyeing the endless notes she'd made, "you could probably write a book with all of this. A riveting bedtime read for all the future generations of Gryffindors."

She snorted, glancing up from her notes. "Right, because a Slytherin like you would be caught dead reading anything scholarly." 

She raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be napping by the fire in your common room, or...polishing your broomstick, or whatever it is you do when you're not here?"

"Please," he said with a lazy smirk. "Polishing is second-year work. I have first-years do it for me."

Hermione rolled her eyes, though she couldn't hide the small smile tugging at her lips. He looked almost proud of his ridiculous statement, and for once, she couldn't bring herself to scoff. 

Their exchanges had an odd, bantering rhythm now, one that made the long hours in the library feel a little less heavy. He was still Draco Malfoy—arrogant, privileged, and occasionally insufferable—but she was beginning to see the hints of someone else underneath it all.

As they continued working together, Draco's presence seemed to shift. He started watching her more attentively, sometimes catching her eyes before quickly glancing away. 

There was a tentative energy in the air, a slow and silent adjustment to each other's company that neither of them acknowledged but both could feel. They were...almost friendly, though Hermione wasn't sure either of them would admit to it.

One evening, while they were working in comfortable silence, Hermione's gaze drifted from her parchment to Draco. 

She'd caught glimpses of his features before—his angular jaw, the sweep of his pale hair, the slight arch of his brow when he was lost in thought—but tonight, as he sat there, the glow of candlelight casting shadows on his face, she found herself truly seeing him for the first time.

His platinum hair fell messily over his forehead, a stark contrast to the dark fabric of his robes. His profile was sharp, almost sculptural, with cheekbones that cast shadows on his fair skin. She watched the way his long fingers tapped idly against his knee, the faint line of concentration between his brows as he scanned one of her notes. 

There was a certain elegance to him, one she'd never noticed before. His eyes, a steely gray, were piercing even in his quieter moments, as though they were always searching for something. 

Hermione felt her heart quicken, a strange and unexpected heat rising to her cheeks. What was she doing? She was staring at Draco Malfoy. Her rival. The boy who had sneered at her, insulted her, made her feel so much smaller than she ever deserved. And yet, sitting there, she couldn't help but feel something shift, something she didn't quite know how to name.

Clearing her throat, she looked away, focusing on the stack of notes in front of her as though they held the answers to every mystery in the universe. 

"Um," she muttered awkwardly, feeling a bit like a schoolgirl caught staring.

Draco didn't seem to notice, lost in his own thoughts, and for that she was grateful. The rest of the evening passed in silence, but her thoughts were no longer on the parchment before her. 

They drifted instead to the way his expression softened, the way his voice sounded different when he wasn't trying to mock her, the way his eyes held something deeper than she'd ever given him credit for.

Later that night, as Hermione lay in her bed, she stared at the ceiling, replaying the evening in her mind. What had come over her? 

Why was she noticing things about Draco Malfoy of all people? Her chest felt tight, her heartbeat loud in her ears as she remembered the way he'd looked tonight, the way he'd surprised her, unsettled her.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to stop thinking about him, to push him from her mind. But her thoughts betrayed her, and she found herself wondering what it might be like to truly know him, to understand the complexities and contradictions behind the gray-eyed boy who had once been her enemy.

"What are you doing, Hermione?" she whispered to herself, her cheeks warm in the quiet darkness of her room.

Her mind held onto that brief, forbidden moment in the library, and her pulse quickened all over again. She had no answers, only a heart racing with questions she hadn't dared to ask before tonight.