Chapter Text
“Sometimes a man in armour might not even know he was being attacked. He will be slow to see, slow to hear—slower still to feel.” – Hercule Poirot
"Granger, hold on a moment!" Malfoy’s voice echoed as he bounded up the stairs behind her.
"You"re being absurd!" she called back, quickening her pace. She took the steps two at a time.
“I’m being reasonable!” Malfoy retorted, closing the gap between them. His legs were, annoyingly, much longer than hers. "Staying at the Manor would be safer for you, at least for now."
The Manor. Just the thought of that place sent a chill down her spine.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t just up and move to Malfoy Manor.”
“It would only be for the night—until we can be sure you’re protected here.”
“I survived Voldemort. I highly doubt I"m going to be undone now by some Riddler wannabe."
“It’s Tom Riddle, Granger. See? The stress is already making you slip up.”
“I wasn’t referring to Tom Riddle, you absolute—oh, forget it!” she stopped herself short of explaining the Batman to Malfoy.
She could hear his confusion now. So, some sort of unpaid Auror? And Muggles adore this man? I thought Potter and Weasley were insufferable, but apparently, the bar can sink lower.
“I assure you, I am perfectly safe here at Hogw—AHH!” Her protest turned into a scream as her foot sank into the trick step she"d forgotten about in her haste.
She pitched forward, her wand flying out of her hand, until two strong arms caught her around the middle and hauled her back.
“You were saying?” he teased in her ear.
She twisted around, still half-trapped in his grip. “That—was completely self-inflicted.”
“As are most of your problems.”
“What if something happens?”
“Like what?”
“Like someone else gets hurt! I have a duty as healer to be here.”
“I’ll have McGonagall connect the Manor to the Floo network in her office.”
“Would she even allow that?”
“For you, I’m certain she would,” he said, his hands finally falling away from her sides.
She missed his touch immediately and cursed herself for it.
“Why does it have to be the Manor, though?” she asked, still clinging to any excuse to refuse. “Why not my house? Or Harry’s, or Ron’s?”
Malfoy hesitated for a moment, then leaned closer. “Because the wards around the Manor are some of the strongest in the wizarding world,” he explained patiently. “And—” He paused, a hint of mischief lighting up his eyes. “I possess a number of rare texts in my library that might interest you.”
Her eyes widened with intrigue despite herself. “Really?”
“Really.”
“What kinds of texts?”
“You’ll just have to see for yourself.”
She arched a brow. “I thought you were trying to protect me. Don’t you know that curiosity killed the cat?”
“You are not a cat. You are Hercule Poirot, and it is simply in your nature to be curious.”
Somehow, that felt like the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.
“Ah,” she gnawed at her lip, then smiled. “I suppose—"
“Excellent choice,” he interjected with a satisfied nod, not waiting for her to finish. “I’ll speak to McGonagall and get it arranged. You go pack.”
“There’s a condition.”
He turned around. “Of course there is.”
“We’ll need to stop by mine first. There are some texts I want to retrieve from my own library.”
“You call this a library?” Malfoy asked as he took in the three floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books in her childhood bedroom.
“Don’t be a snob.”
“Apologies. I meant to say: What a charming little library. What happened to the rest of it?”
She scanned the shelf, shrugging. “I’ve always had ready access to other libraries. Hogwarts, the Ministry, even muggle libraries.”
She took out an armful of books and dropped them one by one into her beaded bag.
Malfoy eyed it curiously.
"Is that legal?" he asked as she dropped in yet another book.
She just smirked. It was surreal seeing him here, in the very room where she"d once cried her eyes out because of something cruel he"d said at King"s Cross. Out in the living room, her parents had put on her favorite Christmas vinyl. She remembered sobbing through all of Side A.
And now here he was, about to whisk her off to his mansion for safekeeping.
Strange times.
She handed him the last book from her stack.
“The Mysterious Affair at Styles,” he read.
“It’s the first Poirot novel.”
“Are you giving me homework, Madam Granger?”
“More like extra credit.”
He opened the book, and something fluttered out from between the pages. Hermione felt a pang in her chest as she saw the photo of her and her parents sprawled on the carpet.
She picked it up. "They used to joke that if they couldn"t find something, they"d check my books first. I was always using whatever was within reach as a bookmark."
He studied the photo too, taken at her third birthday party. She had chocolate frosting smeared all over her face.
“It’s hard to imagine you here. I suppose I always thought you came into the world fully formed, book in hand.”
“And maybe I thought you were born with a sneer on your face.”
“Oh, I was.”
“Really?”
“Mmm,” he hummed, handing her back the photo. “It was the talk of St. Mungo’s for at least a week.”
She laughed, looking down as tears welled up unexpectedly. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.
“Merlin, this is why I hate coming here. It’s like a time capsule. Being here is comforting and heartbreaking all at once.”
“What’s a time capsule?”
“I just mean that when I’m here, I can almost pretend nothing"s changed. Like if I turned the corner, Mum would be in the kitchen, complaining about Dad putting the big spoons in the wrong drawer."
Malfoy said nothing. He only explored around the house, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, careful not to brush against anything—like he thought the Muggle objects might detonate on contact.
“What’s that?”
“A CD player.”
“And that?”
“A toaster.”
“What does it do?”
“Toasts.”
“Toasts what?”
“Toast.”
“It just… toasts?”
“Yes, Malfoy. It toasts toast. That’s the entirety of its function.”
He pointed at the television, recognizing the boxy screen from the memory of Star Wars she’d shown him. She switched it on, and within seconds, he was absorbed by the rugby match on the screen.
A small smile tugged at her lips as she observed him, eyes wide, captivated by the fast-moving players on the screen. He wasn’t unlike a child discovering a new toy, the excitement bubbling up before he could hide it behind his usual mask of nonchalance. She could have stayed there, standing on the edge of this moment, making the safer, smarter choice. She could have retreated to the armchair across the room, maintaining that comfortable distance between them—safe, aloof, like she always tried to be around him.
But self-preservation had never been Hermione Granger’s strong suit. Instead, she chose the couch, and with every enthusiastic bounce of his knee against hers, she was reminded of that fact.
When England scored against Wales, he threw his arms up. Then, just as quickly, his arms dropped casually onto the back of the sofa. His hand was a mere inch from her shoulder, the heat of his body radiating through the slight space between them.
It would’ve been easy—too easy—to scoot closer, to slide under his arm like she was meant to be there, as if they’d done it a hundred times before. Instead, she sat up straighter, her back rigid as his sweater’s fibers tangled ever so slightly in her hair.
As they arrived at the Manor, he guided her directly to the library. He knew she didn’t want to see any other part of his house—not the grand staircase, not the formal dining room, and certainly not that room. He knew better than to take her there.
When the library’s massive double doors creaked open, Hermione froze on the threshold. She could do nothing but stand, wide-eyed, as if she’d stumbled into a sanctuary. Row upon row of towering bookshelves stretching up towards a vaulted ceiling adorned with gently twinkling constellations. Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to run along the spines, to claim them as hers.
“Dinner first,” he tutted before she could do just that, and conjured a table for two right in the library.
The meal was nothing short of spectacular—leg of lamb with minty peas and perfectly roasted potatoes. Each mouthful seemed to outdo the last. She had no illusions about who had actually prepared the meal. But Malfoy had the good sense to set the table himself, as if he understood that it might matter to her.
He leaned back in his chair, observing her as she stole glances at the surrounding shelves between bites. “Not what you expected, Granger? Thought Malfoy Manor would be all snakes and skulls, did you?”
“Well, I won’t rule anything out yet. This room is surprising, though.”
“How so?”
"It"s... warm," she admitted. "I like it."
“I aim to please,” he said.
“Do you?” she tilted her head. “I thought you were just trying to bribe me with first editions.”
"I wouldn"t need to resort to bribery if you weren"t so stubborn."
Before she could argue the point, he snapped his fingers. “You’re going to like dessert. I requested it special.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes, deeply suspicious. With a sharp crack, a chocolate cake appeared in front of them.
He grinned smugly. “Go on, smear it all over your face, if you like.”
She shot him a look but cut herself a rather indulgent slice. “I resent your teasing,” she said, taking a bite, “but I am powerless against this.”
His grin widened. "So, I"ve finally found your Achilles’ heel?"
“Mmm,” her eyes closed in bliss as the chocolate melted on her tongue. “Indeed. Chocolate cake is my Kryptonite.”
"Your what?" he asked, puzzled.
Hermione paused, realizing she was on the verge of explaining superheroes to Malfoy again. For the second time today, no less. And that thought, of all things, made her burst into laughter.
"What?"
“It’s terribly Muggle, is all.”
He leaned in, resting his chin on his hand. "Tell me anyway.”
So, she explained. Superman. Kryptonite. The whole thing. Malfoy listened, his expression shifting from intrigued to confused, then right back to intrigued again. When she got to Batman, though, his brow furrowed in that way that told her he was seriously reconsidering how much he actually wanted to know.
"And Muggles adore this man?"
Two slices of cake and half a bottle of wine later, Malfoy was dutifully trailing behind Hermione, holding an absurdly tall stack of books that wobbled with every step. The pile was so high it was a miracle he could see where he was going at all—though, judging by his occasional muttered curse, perhaps he couldn’t.
"You can"t possibly read all these in one sitting," he groaned.
“Who said anything about one sitting?"
“Who said anything about you taking any of these books with you?”
She stopped abruptly and he collided into her, the stack of books toppling over. She raised her wand, stopping them with a levitation charm. The books floated around them.
"Well," she huffed, pushing aside a large volume on memory charms that was hovering a bit too close to Malfoy"s nose, "if I can"t borrow them, I"ll just have to come back."
“Let me get this straight. Earlier today, you were desperate to avoid coming here, and now you"re already plotting your return."
“I like your… books.”
“I like your company.”
Hermione flushed red. She flicked her wand, and another large book floated conveniently between them. "So, can I come back?" she asked, peeking over the top of the book.
“If you agree to dine with me when you do.”
She nodded her head, then another flick of her wand had the books zooming back into his arms, stacking up precariously once more. “Where is the Draco constellation?”
“Oh, er,” the stack of books stammered. “This way.”
He led her toward a fireplace framed by two plush armchairs and a velvet sofa. Setting down the books with a sigh of relief, he pointed up at the ceiling. “There.”
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, settling down onto the sofa. “The ceiling, that is.”
"It was a wedding gift to my mother," Malfoy explained, taking a seat in one of the armchairs. "My father wanted to give her a place where she could still be Narcissa Black."
“That was kind.”
He glanced at her. "You don"t need to do that."
"Do what?"
"Find reasons to think well of him.”
"I mean it," she insisted.
“Well, anyway,” he said, looking around. “I think I know what you mean now by saying your home feels like—what was it? A time—” he snapped his fingers, searching for the word.
“Capsule,” she finished for him.
“A time capsule, yes.”
“Good memories or bad memories?”
"Both," he admitted, weighing the thought. "More good than bad, but the bad was... well—"
“Really bad.”
“Really fucking bad,” he agreed.
Her heart sank. She had never considered what it must have been like to have your home overtaken like that. To have all your childhood memories corrupted by terrible new ones. To see Voldemort at the head of the table where you once ate meals with your parents, or to see someone murdered where you once played wizards chess.
“Why stay then? Why not start somewhere new?”
He rolled up his sleeve, exposing his dark mark. “It doesn’t matter where I go, does it? I’ll always carry my name, and I’ll always carry this mark. I can’t change that. I can only change what it means.”
“I think you’ve achieved that already. Do you have any idea how well respected you are? You earned that.”
"I"m not just talking about me," he said, twisting the signet ring on his finger nervously. "I want any future Malfoys—if there are any more Malfoys—to have a different legacy."
She watched him fiddle with the ring, suddenly understanding why he still wore it. It wasn"t about clinging to old pride, it was about hoping for a better future.
Hermione tilted her head. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“I already said yes.”
“I’d hate to pry.”
“Just ask the damned question, Granger.”
“Why didn’t things work out with Astoria?”
He exhaled sharply “Astoria is... well, she’s lovely. Really. Kind-hearted, gentle.”
"But?" she pressed.
"But," he echoed, "maybe too gentle. She agreed with me on everything. Even when I was being an absolute arse."
“Which is often.”
He shot her a look but there was a smirk tugging at his lips. “It was like being on calm seas all the time.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“No, it wasn’t. But you also don’t get anywhere when there’s no wind in your sails.” He leaned back in his chair, looking more tired than anything. “She deserved better than me.”
“Did you love her?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.
His eyes flicked to hers, an unreadable look crossing his face. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, quietly, he said, “I tried to.”
Feeling a pang of guilt for digging up his past, Hermione grabbed the book on top of her stack, pretending to read it. She thought they’d leave it at that, let the awkwardness dissolve into silence.
“So, why didn’t you and Weasley pan out?”
“We were... volatile," she said, picking her words carefully. "If your relationship was a calm sea, ours was more like the eye of a hurricane. We fought. Constantly.”
He looked at her, running a hand through his hair. “But wasn’t that exciting, in a way? The passion?”
“Sometimes, yeah. Passion’s important. But it should be more like a fire you take care of together, something that keeps you warm. Ours was more like Fiendfyre, and it burned us until there was nothing left."
“But you’re still friends?”
She nodded. “It was awkward for awhile. But we both knew our schtick was more charming as mates at the pub. Less chance of burning down the whole bloody building that way.”
They kept talking, meandering through the paths of their lives—family, friends, careers. Everything he said seemed to interest her more than it probably should. Conversations with Malfoy felt like an archeological dig, uncovering odd little bits of him, piece by piece, each answer another shard of pottery or a strange bone, and she had no idea what the full picture would look like when she finished.
She was careful not to rush it, not to break anything.
Eventually, though, her eyes started to droop. The warmth of the room and his voice was lulling her into a sleepy haze. She tried blinking them open, but it was a losing battle.
“Don’t suppose you want to move to a guest room?” he asked.
She shook her head, sliding deeper into the sofa cushions. The effort of moving seemed monumental.
“You could sleep here,” he offered, eyeing her lazily. “Plenty of room. Could even transfigure it into a bed if you fancy.”
"The sofa is fine."
He gave a small shrug and flicked his wand, summoning a blanket. She felt it settle over her like she was a child again, tucked in. The fabric was warm and smelled like lemon sweeties.
He settled back into one of the armchairs, flipping open The Mysterious Affair at Styles.
"You don"t need to stay," she said. "I"m perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need a... watcher."
"Not watching," he said without looking up from his book. “Just reading Poirot, Poirot.”
Hermione sighed, curling up on the sofa. There was no point arguing with him, especially not when he adopted that maddeningly polite tone. The crackle of the fire was comforting, as was the sound of him flipping pages, and before long she was fast asleep.
When she stirred hours later, the fire was still glowing softly. She blinked, bleary-eyed, and there he was—Malfoy, his book long abandoned, just sitting there. Watching her. His gaze was soft, almost sleepy, like he hadn’t moved in hours.
“Malfoy…” she mumbled, still caught in that strange space between sleep and waking. “I said you didn’t need to stay.”
He shifted slightly, but his gaze remained fixed on her, the hint of a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “I’m not really here,” he murmured, his voice low. “You’re just dreaming of me again. Go back to sleep, Granger.”
And, somehow, that made perfect sense. So, she did.