She had always liked being in control, but this was something else entirely. It wasn't about getting the last word or winning an argument. It was deeper than that, more instinctive. It was about power that didn't need to be announced. Power that hummed beneath the surface and made itself known through a glance, a pause, the way someone shifted in their seat without knowing why. It had always thrilled her. That quiet influence. That ability to unravel someone without ever raising her voice.
And lately, that thrill had started to feel necessary.
Everything else had spun so far beyond her reach. She was living in a manor that didn't feel like a home, tied to a man she hadn't chosen, and trapped in a marriage that had nothing to do with love or future or even basic compatibility. She hadn't agreed to this. Not truly. No one had. But here she was.
So if she couldn't control the law, or the binding magic, or the heavy weight of her own fury, then at the very least, she could control this.
She could control the way he looked at her.
The rooftop had changed something. That much was obvious. Since that moment, when she caught him watching her like he had forgotten how to look away, she had felt it. A crack. A shift. The beginning of something she might not have asked for, but was certainly ready to lean into.
The very next day, he stopped hiding.
He no longer buried himself in unused wings of the manor or disappeared for hours without explanation. Now, he lingered. He hovered in doorways and wandered into rooms without bothering to pretend he had a reason to be there. He moved like someone trying not to be caught, even though she had already seen too much. And she noticed. Every single time.
There was something satisfying in the way he flinched when their eyes met. Something almost addictive in how easily she could pull his attention without lifting a finger. He used to look at her with disdain, but now there was something else in it. Something hot. Something careful. Like he was trying to fight it and losing every time.
And she loved it.
It wasn't petty. It wasn't about revenge. It was about reclaiming something. After all these years of being underestimated or dismissed, after all the trauma and noise of the war and the rules she'd been forced to follow, this was hers.
So she made a decision.
She started with a sundress. Light blue. Soft cotton. It clung to her waist in just the right way and drifted at her knees like it had secrets to tell. She didn't strut through the manor. She didn't put on a show. She just moved slowly, letting the hem catch the breeze, letting the sunlight touch her bare arms.
She saw him twice that morning.
Once in the corridor by the library, where he froze mid-step when he spotted her, then immediately turned to examine a painting he had clearly never looked at before in his life. And once again near the conservatory, where he sat with a book open in his lap and his eyes glued to the same page for over ten minutes.
He pretended not to look. He was terrible at it.
She didn't smile. Not where he could see. But later, alone in her room, she laughed into her pillow.
This became her rhythm.
A soft "excuse me" when brushing past him in the hallway. Bare feet on cold stone floors that echoed just enough to let him know where she was. Casual, quiet movements that made it impossible to tell if she was doing it on purpose. And always, always, that flicker in his gaze when he thought she wouldn't catch it.
He was unraveling. Slowly. Subtly.
And she was the only one who noticed.
He tried to keep his composure. That trademark Malfoy mask of indifference. But it didn't hold the way it used to. She could see it in the way his jaw tensed when she said his name. In the way his fingers curled against the edge of a chair when she leaned a little too close. In the way his gaze slid over her and then snapped away like it burned.
She didn't touch him. She didn't flirt. Not in any overt way. But her presence did all the work for her.
It wasn't just a game. Not really. It was a reclaiming. A reminder. She might have been forced into this situation, but she wasn't powerless in it. And if the world expected her to live in this house and share air with Draco bloody Malfoy, then she would do it on her terms.
She didn't need magic to unsettle him. She just needed to be herself.
And that, more than anything, was what thrilled her most.
One lazy afternoon, the kind that blurred at the edges and made the air feel thick with stillness, she stretched out across a garden chair with the sun licking at her skin. The cotton of her shorts clung gently to her thighs, and the bikini top she wore left little to the imagination. Bees hummed lazily nearby, a slow rhythm in the background.
She let her head loll back, eyes closed, the picture of ease. But from the corner of her vision, she caught movement. There he was. Draco Malfoy. Leaning against the study doorframe like he'd been planted there by some cosmic joke. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. His whole posture trying far too hard not to look like he was staring.
Except he was.
With a deliberate stretch, slow and almost feline, she shifted just enough to turn her head toward him. A smile curled at the corners of her mouth, sharp with amusement.
"Is there something you need, Malfoy?" she called out, her voice syrupy sweet, knowing full well he'd heard her even if he pretended not to.
His eyes widened the tiniest bit. He blinked, caught in the act like a boy who'd just been smacked with a truth he didn't want to admit.
"No. Obviously not," he said quickly. Too quickly. His tone was stiff, every word dragging out of his throat like it had teeth.
"Then stop staring," she said, drawing the words out lazily, her smile deepening as he shifted, clearly flustered. He looked like he wanted to bolt or vanish into the hedge behind him.
"I—uh—apologize," he stammered, and she watched his eyes drop to the ground. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
That was the moment she felt it again. The hit of power. That little thrill that came from watching him unravel, just slightly, just enough. She hadn't expected this when the Ministry paperwork arrived. She certainly hadn't expected this man to be so easy to shake.
"Oh, don't worry about it," she said lightly, flicking her hand in mock dismissal. "I'm just enjoying the sun."
And that was the beginning.
The days blurred, melted into each other like honey left too close to the warmth, and life inside Malfoy Manor became its own kind of dream—quiet, surreal, stretched out like a spell no one had ended. She wandered through it like she belonged, barefoot or in those soft little robes, always choosing the exact moment to pass him in the hallway, always knowing when he was just around the corner.
She got creative.
One night, long after the house had gone still, she drew a bath. A real one. The kind that turned time into a suggestion and made her limbs feel like velvet. Steam curled at the windows. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, skin glowing and slick with water.
She didn't shut the door all the way.
Just a sliver.
Enough for a trickle of candlelight to spill out. Enough for a silhouette to be seen if someone happened to be walking by. Not scandalous. Not quite. But just enough to invite questions.
She waited.
And sure enough, footsteps approached. Not fast. Not slow. That cautious rhythm he always had when he wasn't sure whether to stay or run.
Then he stopped. Right outside.
She didn't say a word. She didn't need to. She stayed still, half submerged, the scent of rose oil clinging to the air, and let the silence draw tight around them.
He stood there for a few breaths longer than necessary.
And then, just like that, he was gone. His footsteps retreated down the corridor, a little too quick, a little too guilty.
Hermione smiled into the steam.
It wasn't kindness she felt. Not exactly. It was triumph.
Because she wasn't the one who felt powerless anymore.
This thing between them, whatever it was, had shifted. Their strange, quiet war had taken on new rules. And every time he stared too long or stumbled over a sentence, every time he couldn't quite figure out what to say when she entered the room, she felt it.
She had the upper hand.
And it was starting to look like he knew it too.
The morning after that especially satisfying moment, Hermione took her time getting dressed. She chose her outfit with care, every detail deliberate. The sundress she pulled from the wardrobe was barely there, all soft lines and delicate fabric that whispered across her skin like a secret. It clung just enough to suggest, floated just enough to tease. When she slipped it on, it felt like wearing a spell. Light, effortless, and completely disarming.
It was the perfect choice for a warm day spent moving through sunlit corridors and pretending not to notice who might be watching. But she hadn't picked it for comfort. She picked it because she already knew what it would do to him. The thought alone made her breath hitch. She adjusted the hem, checked the mirror one last time, and stepped out of her room like she was walking onto a stage.
She didn't rush. Every step was intentional. The sway in her hips, the tilt of her chin, the slow, lazy arc of her arm as she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear—all of it calculated, all of it hers. Her bare shoulders caught the light. Her skin was still warm from the shower, and the confidence she carried shimmered around her like perfume.
And sure enough, he was everywhere.
He kept showing up without a reason. First in the hall. Then near the library. Then outside the conservatory, pretending to inspect a potted plant that hadn't bloomed since winter. His presence didn't feel like coincidence. It felt like gravity. Like something was pulling him closer every time he tried to keep his distance.
She walked into the kitchen without pausing. Her smile was ready.
"Good morning, Malfoy," she said brightly, voice as sweet as tea laced with something stronger.
He looked up too quickly. Froze. The tension in his shoulders could have cracked tile.
"Morning," he said, too flat to be polite and too strained to sound natural.
She caught it anyway. That flicker in his eyes. That sharp little moment when his gaze slipped and landed right where it wasn't supposed to. The curve of her waist. The dip of her collarbone. His jaw clenched. His stare snapped back to the countertop like it might save him.
She poured herself a glass of juice and kept the mood light. "I'm thinking about sunbathing later," she said casually, swirling the glass a little before lifting it to her lips. "You should join me."
The reaction was immediate. He scoffed, but the sound was brittle. His fingers tightened around the counter like it might hold him up.
"I'd rather not," he muttered, too fast. Too sharp.
The crack in his voice betrayed him.
"Suit yourself," she said with a shrug, though every inch of it was laced with challenge. She leaned back against the counter and took a sip, eyes dancing over the edge of her glass.
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
She could practically see the war playing out in his head. Stay and pretend. Leave before he said something stupid. Pretend he didn't notice the dress. Pretend she wasn't looking right at him. Pretend everything was still under control.
It wasn't.
And they both knew it.
· ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
The following week settled into a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. Golden sunlight spilled through the windows, bare skin caught the warmth of it, and everything seemed to move just a little slower. It was intoxicating, that subtle, deliberate dance between them. A kind of daily provocation that never broke the surface of politeness, but simmered just beneath it like heat under calm water.
Hermione embraced it. Every glance, every half-silence, every moment of tension that stretched just a second too long—it became her rebellion. Her way of taking back something that had been stolen when the world decided to write her future for her.
She couldn't undo the law. She couldn't tear down the ancient walls of Malfoy Manor. But she could control this. Her body. Her presence. The way she moved through the space like it belonged to her. The way she could turn a corridor into a runway, a chair into a throne, a stretch of sunlight into a trap he fell into over and over again.
She had started turning the entire house into a stage. And she was done pretending not to enjoy the performance.
The garden became her favorite set piece. She would sprawl across the loungers in soft cotton or sheer silk, her skin warm from the sun, her limbs stretched out in lazy ease. Her eyes would flutter shut, pretending to nap, but her senses stayed sharp. She could always feel when he was near. She could hear his hesitant footsteps or catch the flicker of white-blond hair disappearing around a hedge. He never came close enough to speak, but he never stayed far enough to forget her either.
He had become predictable in the most satisfying way. Always watching, never acting. Hovering like some moody phantom in the background of her days. And she loved it.
It was pathetic, really. The way he lingered like her existence alone had begun to unnerve him. Like he couldn't stop looking. Like the sight of her skin might be the only thing anchoring him to reality.
"Pathetic little boy," she often thought with a wicked smile, the words like a private inside joke between her and her reflection. It was too easy. She had him wrapped tighter with every day that passed. Every time their eyes locked, every time his mouth twitched like he was about to speak and then thought better of it, she felt the rush. That quiet, bubbling thrill that made her spine straighten and her smile sharpen. He couldn't handle her. Not even a little bit.
One afternoon, hotter than the rest, she stretched across a sunbed with no intention of moving for the rest of the day. The bikini was barely there, her skin glowed with sun and salt, and her whole body felt lazy in the best way. She knew he was nearby before she even looked. His shadow moved behind the study windows like clockwork.
There he was. Standing stiff in the library, pretending to read. The book in his hands hadn't been turned in ten minutes. His eyes were locked on her. He didn't blink. Didn't move. The tension in his shoulders was so tight she thought he might snap.
Hermione smirked.
"Malfoy!" she called out, her voice bright and teasing as she arched her back into a stretch that left very little to the imagination. "Are you going to keep standing there like a creep, or are you finally going to come outside and suffer in the sun with me?"
His entire body jolted like she'd slapped him.
He slammed the book shut. Too loud. His expression twisted into something scalded and sharp as he barked, "You're impossible, Granger."
She laughed, light and biting. "Impossible?" she said, eyes gleaming with mischief as she drew a slow circle on the arm of the chair with one fingertip. "Or just irresistible?"
He opened his mouth. Paused. Closed it again.
For a second, she thought he might actually say something clever. But instead, he just stood there, red-faced and furious, fists clenched like he wanted to throttle her or maybe himself. Then he turned sharply on his heel and stalked away, boots hitting the floor like gunfire.
She waited until the echo of him faded down the hall before letting her smirk bloom into a full, satisfied grin.
Another win. That was all it took. A bikini, a few teasing words, and once again, he had folded right in front of her.
She didn't need magic for this.
She already had him.
Hermione laughed out loud, the sound bright and unfiltered. It rang out across the garden, a clear, delighted burst that made the air feel lighter for a moment. She tipped her head back, eyes closed, her body shaking with the kind of laughter that came from the chest, warm and real. There was nothing quite like watching Draco Malfoy lose his grip on that cold, polished composure he wore like armor. Nothing quite like knowing she was the reason it slipped.
With each day that passed, she felt more like herself again. Not the girl who had been dragged into a law she didn't choose. Not the woman trapped in a house that wasn't hers. But someone sharp and bright and alive. This strange little war between them—half flirtation, half power play—had become something she clung to without even meaning to. It gave her back something she hadn't realised she'd been missing.
She thrived in this space. It was a quiet kind of power, the kind that lived in glances and silences, in the way his mouth twitched when he tried not to react, in the way his hands clenched when she passed too close. Every day brought something new. A longer stare. A shorter fuse. A sharper tone. And she drank it all in like it was the only thing that still tasted like freedom.
It wasn't just revenge anymore.
In the evenings, when the garden cooled and the shadows stretched long across the stone paths, she would make her way back inside. The manor was quiet then, the corridors soft with fading light. She'd peel off the remnants of the day—her bikini damp with sun, the salt still on her skin—and pull on something loose and comfortable, something that smelled like lavender and home.
Then she'd sit by the window. No wand. No books. Just her, the last bit of daylight, and the slow memory of how he had looked at her. Like she had become a problem he didn't know how to solve.
It wasn't just irritation anymore. Not even close.
His eyes gave too much away now. They held something heavier than annoyance. Something warm and reluctant. Something hungry.
And she felt it. Every time.
That pull between them had shifted into something more dangerous. No one had said it out loud. No one would dare. But it was there, thick in the silence between their conversations, curling under their skin.
And it thrilled her.
That part scared her a little. The way her breath caught when she caught him watching. The way her stomach fluttered, quick and unwelcome, when their hands brushed in the hallway.
But she wasn't ready to stop.
Not yet.
She would keep going. Keep pushing. Keep watching him stumble over himself while trying not to fall. Because whatever this was becoming, it wasn't just a game anymore.
It was something else. Something messier. Something real.
It was about what they might become, if they ever stopped pretending.
So as the sun dipped below the trees and the sky turned a soft, sleepy purple, Hermione exhaled slowly.
She didn't open her eyes. She didn't need to.
The day had been hers.
And tomorrow would be too.
They hadn't even come close to the end of this.
And she had no intention of stopping now.
· ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
Today was the kind of day Hermione lived for.
Sun-drenched, smug with heat, the sort of afternoon that didn't just invite mischief but practically begged for it. The air itself felt like it was in on the joke, whispering to her in a voice only she could hear. Be a menace. So she did.
And not half-heartedly, either. She committed.
The outfit she chose wasn't an outfit at all. It was a declaration of war. A black bikini so minimal it could barely be called clothing, the sort that made a statement without saying a single word. The fabric clung in all the right places, dipped where it had no business dipping, and left very little to the imagination. She wore it like armour. Or a dare.
Malfoy Manor didn't stand a chance.
She moved through its vast, echoing halls with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. Sunlight from the tall windows danced across her skin, turning her into something gilded and glowing. Her hair fell around her shoulders in soft waves, the kind that looked effortless but took a very expensive potion and twenty minutes of charmwork. She looked like she'd stepped out of a fever dream. And she knew it.
As she passed the dining room, she saw him.
Draco Malfoy.
Perfect posture. Crisp white shirt. Jaw set like he was preparing to scold a small nation. He sat at the head of that ridiculous table like the poster boy for intergenerational trauma and breakfast etiquette.
He had a fork halfway to his mouth when he caught sight of her.
And then it happened.
The moment hit him like a rogue Bludger. The fork slipped from his fingers, hitting the edge of his plate with a clatter that might as well have been a symphony. His mouth parted in stunned silence. His entire expression froze, caught somewhere between horror and awe.
His face went pink. Not soft pink either. Full, blotchy, what-the-hell-do-I-do-now pink.
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to hurt.
"Oh, did I interrupt your breakfast, Malfoy?"
She kept her voice syrupy. Innocent, almost. Except it absolutely wasn't. She dragged his name out like it tasted better than anything on his carefully arranged plate.
He didn't answer. Not right away. Probably couldn't.
She didn't give him the chance to regroup. That would've been merciful. And she wasn't in the mood for mercy. Not today.
So she kept walking.
Each step was a performance. Hips swinging just enough. Chin lifted. Her feet barely made a sound against the polished floors, but she might as well have been ringing a bell.
She didn't need to look back to know exactly what he was doing. Watching. Always watching.
She knew what he looked like when he thought no one could see him. Knew the way his eyes lingered. The way his throat moved when he swallowed hard.
And today? She had decided he was going to suffer.
It should have ended there. It would have, if he had just kept pretending to be unbothered. But then she heard it.
Footsteps. Quick ones.
Followed by the unmistakable sound of a man completely losing his mind.
"Granger, this has to stop!"
His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.
She didn't turn around. The grin that spread across her face was slow and dangerous, curling at the edges like smoke from a lit fuse.
Oh, darling. As if I'd stop now.
But just as Hermione spun around, ready to deliver her next bout of theatrical torment, the universe, in all its wicked timing, offered her something even better.
Out of the fireplace, like a smug little gift from the gods of chaos themselves, stepped Theodore Nott. His arrival was casual in the way only someone born with expensive cheekbones and an inflated sense of self-worth could manage. The man looked like sin wrapped in linen—shirt rumpled just enough to suggest effortlessness, smirk already in place, and eyes that immediately dropped to Hermione's very, very minimal bikini.
He let out a low whistle, the kind that could either start a fight or end a marriage, and grinned like he'd just walked into his birthday party two weeks early.
"Oh, Granger," he said, dragging the words out with theatrical pleasure. "What a bloody stunning welcome. Tell me this—" he gestured lazily toward her chest, wrist flicking like a wand in the hands of a menace "—is this for me?"
Hermione's grin widened as her heart gave a single traitorous thump. Not from Theo, obviously. But from the delicious perfection of it all. The timing. The spectacle. The sheer artistry.
"It could be," she said sweetly, turning just enough so the sunlight hit her in all the right places. "If you ask nicely."
Behind her, the temperature in the room plummeted.
Draco Malfoy, until this moment composed in his usual high-strung, aristocratic fashion, made a noise. The kind of noise that did not bode well for furniture. Or friendships.
His chair scraped backward across the floor with a screech loud enough to startle the crows outside. When he spoke, it was through his teeth, every word tight and clipped, the voice of a man on the verge of a full-scale emotional collapse. "Stop it, Theodore. Now."
Theo didn't even flinch.
He leaned casually against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world and not a single care in it. "Why should I?" he asked with mock innocence, then tossed Hermione a wink that practically glowed with trouble. "She looks fit."
That did it.
Draco's face went dark. Not pink. Not red. Just pure, storm-cloud grey. The kind of expression usually reserved for duels or international incidents. His jaw clenched so tightly she almost heard it click.
"Do not talk about my wife like that," he said, his voice low and shaking. "Ever."
It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a threat.
It was a claim.
Hermione, meanwhile, was practically glowing.
She took a small step toward Theo. Barely even a step. Just enough to tilt the balance of the room completely out of reason. She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. The kind that was just affectionate enough to be completely inappropriate. "It's good to see you, Theo," she murmured, her voice syrupy and amused. "Cheers."
Theo laughed, completely unbothered. "Next time, wear nothing. Saves time."
Hermione's reply came instantly, without a beat missed. "Anything for you, Theodore."
The explosion behind her wasn't metaphorical.
It was Malfoy.
The words that tore from his throat echoed through the manor like an ancient curse. "STOP IT. THEODORE. RIGHT NOW." His voice cracked on the last word. Actually cracked. And Hermione could practically feel the fury pulsing off him like heat from dragon's breath.
She didn't turn around.
She didn't need to.
With a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth, she turned on her heel, calm as you like, and strolled out into the garden. The sunlight welcomed her like applause. Warmth kissed her skin. The wind lifted her hair just enough to make her look like the victorious heroine in the last scene of a very dramatic play.
Behind her, Draco stood burning.
Burning with fury.
Burning with frustration.
Burning with something else entirely.
And she adored every second of it.
Sun-kissed. Smug. Unapologetically brilliant.
She was winning.
And Draco Malfoy?
He was one bad thought away from either snogging her senseless or throwing Theo off a balcony.
Possibly both.
Outside, the garden looked like something plucked straight from a painting hanging in a museum where the ticket prices were offensive and the benches were only for looking, not sitting. The hedges were trimmed to military precision. The roses had the kind of lush, shameless bloom that suggested they were well aware of their own importance. Crimson, blush, soft pink. It was a performance. They were thriving. And the bees? The bees moved through it all like they had a full calendar and somewhere urgent to be. It was a ridiculous kind of peace. Beautiful. A little smug. Exactly what Hermione liked.
This corner of the grounds had become hers.
It was far enough from the manor to feel untouched by its gloom. Close enough that she could still hear Draco shout about the laundry rotation if she left the windows open. And when the sunlight hit just right, it made the world feel quiet in a way that nothing inside ever could.
He hated it out here. Always had. The grass, the wind, the pollen. He treated nature like it was out to get him.
Which made it all the more satisfying when his angry footfalls shattered the stillness like a dropped plate.
Hermione reclined deeper into her sunbed, letting her legs stretch out and her bikini shift ever so slightly, the warmth of the sun soaking into her bare skin. Her eyes remained closed. Her grin, however, deepened.
She could practically hear the gravel protesting beneath his boots.
The footsteps got louder. Closer. More furious with every stomp. And then, with the drama of a thunderclap and the energy of a man who'd been holding a tantrum in since breakfast, she heard it.
"GRANGER."
She didn't move. Not even a twitch. Just let the sun wash over her and bit back a smirk that threatened to take over her whole face. She breathed in the roses. The distant sound of bees. The nearby squawk of a peacock deciding it wanted no part in whatever storm Draco had brought with him.
His voice cut through it all again, louder this time, the syllables clipped and absolutely fuming.
"Hermione Jean Granger."
Now that was new. Middle name. Full form. Excellent. She cracked one eye open just in time to watch him nearly trip over a decorative stone frog and curse under his breath like the frog had personally offended him.
When he finally reached her, he looked like someone who had been arguing with himself the whole way over. His hands were clenched at his sides. His hair was slightly windblown. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar like he'd gotten halfway through throwing a tantrum and had to cool down with sheer panic.
She didn't say a word.
Neither did he. Not for a second.
He just stared.
Then, with a sound that might have started as a groan but came out somewhere between a growl and a dying bird, he finally found words.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Hermione yawned. Sat up just slightly. The movement shifted her bikini top in a way that made his entire soul evacuate his body.
She stretched, arms above her head, and blinked at him. "Enjoying the sunshine," she said, like he wasn't vibrating with jealous rage.
Draco's face went pink. Not gently flushed. Just properly, cartoonishly pink.
"I'm not talking about the sun, I'm talking about you snogging Theodore Nott within view of every living thing on this property, including my ancestors, who are absolutely rolling in their graves right now."
Hermione tilted her head and gave him a very innocent, very pointed look. "It was a kiss on the cheek. I've kissed Pansy on the cheek."
Draco looked personally betrayed. "You and Pansy don't flirt."
She shrugged. "We could."
"Granger."
She stood then. Slowly. Like she was floating. The grass was soft beneath her bare feet. Her skin glowed from the sun, and her smile was the kind of thing that should be illegal during daylight hours.
He took a half-step back without meaning to.
Hermione closed the distance again and stood toe-to-toe with him, lifting her chin just slightly so their eyes locked.
"Are you jealous?" she asked.
Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"That's not the point," he said, voice cracking halfway through. "He's Theo. He flirts with everyone. He once flirted with the portrait of my great-aunt in the hallway. She was a known bigot and also dead."
Hermione didn't laugh. Not yet. She just hummed thoughtfully, her fingers brushing imaginary dust from her shoulder. "And yet it's not the flirting that seems to bother you."
He stared. Openly now. There was no point pretending.
She was glowing. She knew it. He knew it. The peacocks in the distance probably knew it. And as the breeze played with the loose strands of her hair, and her bikini held his attention like a hostage negotiation, he looked one wrong word away from combusting entirely.
Hermione leaned in just enough to shatter the last bit of control he had managed to gather. There was no dramatic pause, no setup. She just moved close. Close enough to smell his cologne, that ridiculous clean scent of money and ego. Close enough that whatever lecture he'd prepared melted into nothing.
"Relax, Malfoy. It was a kiss on the cheek."
His jaw locked so tight it looked like it hurt. Still, she didn't pull back. Instead, she tilted her face and pressed her lips to his cheek. Not a teasing kiss. Not rushed. Just soft. Steady. Unapologetically slow. Her mouth lingered there like she had all the time in the world and no plans to use it wisely.
She felt the sharp breath he tried to swallow, the way his body went still like he didn't trust himself to move.
"Now you're equal," she murmured, the words brushing against his skin like a secret. Her voice sounded like sin in a glass of champagne. Amused. Pleased with herself. Effortlessly cruel.
Draco just stared. His mouth parted like he was about to say something meaningful, but the words didn't come. For a few long seconds, he stood there blinking, absolutely ruined by that single moment of contact. He looked like someone trying to remember how standing worked.
Then, clearly desperate to regain whatever scraps of authority he had left, he made a panicked gesture toward her bikini. It was the flailing motion of a man fighting gravity, as if that could help him find solid ground again.
"You need to stop this," he said, though his voice had softened, stripped of all its earlier sharpness. It wasn't a command anymore. It sounded closer to begging. "Seriously. You can't keep wearing that. Not around Theo. Not around anyone. Honestly, not even around me. This is not—this is completely unfair. I have no defence against any of this."
Hermione tilted her head like she was listening, like she might consider his words, but her eyes told a different story. She smiled. Wide. Sweet. Absolutely evil. It was the kind of smile that made men build temples and then burn them down in her name.
"As you wish," she said brightly, voice light and innocent in a way that made it clear she meant the exact opposite.
Then she turned her back on him and walked away, each step unhurried and devastating. Her hips moved with the kind of rhythm that didn't need music. Every inch of her retreat was its own small act of sabotage, and she knew it.
Draco didn't follow. Couldn't. He stood there, statue-still, watching her like a man witnessing the end of civilisation. His brain had clearly exited the premises. He didn't blink. Didn't speak. Just stared. The look on his face was pure, chaotic suffering. Obsession. Disbelief. Maybe even love, though he'd probably deny that for another six months.
Hermione reclaimed her sunbed like nothing had happened. She reclined with a soft sigh and let the sun warm her all over again. The breeze returned. The bees buzzed. The garden carried on as if it hadn't just hosted the emotional undoing of one of the most feared wizards in Britain.
Somewhere behind her, Draco still hadn't moved. He looked like a Victorian man who had just witnessed a scandalous ankle and might need to lie down for a fortnight.
She smiled.
The sun was warm. The world was hers.
And the game?
Nowhere close to finished.
If Draco thought this was her at full menace, he was in for a very long summer.
· ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
Malfoy's week had gone straight to hell. Not in a dramatic, entertaining sort of way, but in the slow, unraveling fashion of a man whose life was folding in on itself while he stood there holding a teacup like an idiot. The descent hadn't stopped. It just kept getting worse, like someone had greased the rails on his last shred of dignity and given it a good shove. There was no normal spiral here, just a sharp plummet into something unhinged, something that came with too much thinking, too much silence, and a simmering desire to punch a wall because what else was he supposed to do with all this... feeling?
He wasn't a stranger to irritation. In fact, he'd spent years mastering it. Decades of eyebrow raises and dry retorts had turned him into a professional. Gryffindors, in particular, brought out the worst of it. And Hermione Granger had always been the patron saint of everything annoying. Her insufferable cleverness, her smug little mouth, her compulsive need to win every argument—he'd survived all of that. No, more than survived it. He had trained for it. Honed his responses like a duelist. She'd throw some barbed remark, and he'd parry with bored disdain. It was a system. A well-oiled machine.
But now?
Now there was nothing.
No snide comments. No footsteps echoing down the corridor. No flicker of her silhouette disappearing around corners, all curls and attitude and the unbearable curve of her bare legs under some summery bit of cotton that she insisted on wearing like she didn't know what it did to him. She was just... gone. Not literally. Her things were still there. But the woman herself? Vanished. Silent. Out of reach.
It wasn't right.
It wasn't fair.
It felt like someone had stolen all the sound out of the manor and replaced it with a feeling he didn't know how to name. Not anger. Not exactly. More like a gnawing ache that didn't know where to sit. The worst part was that it didn't start as panic. At first, he'd convinced himself it was a relief. No more tight little swimsuits appearing at breakfast. No more flirty glances over teacups. No more of that maddening habit she had of pushing his buttons just enough to make him lose sleep. He should have been grateful.
He wasn't.
He was circling the drain.
Every time he passed by the hallway leading to her room, he slowed. He never meant to. It just happened. His feet would betray him, his ears straining for any hint of sound. A soft step. A sigh. Even that ridiculous humming she did when she was reading Muggle books. But there was nothing. Day after day. Not even the creak of floorboards.
The silence was a personal attack.
At some point, concern had crept in, quiet and unwelcome. What if she was ill? What if she was avoiding him? What if she had finally figured out just how thoroughly she had messed with his head and was now punishing him by disappearing completely?
It was unbearable.
And then came the realisation. One so jarring that it stopped him cold in the middle of the corridor. His foot hit the edge of the carpet, and he actually stumbled, hand shooting out to brace himself on the wall. He blinked, horrified, as the thought landed with all the subtlety of a Bludger to the skull.
He missed her.
Not in the annoying way. Not in the I miss having someone to argue with sort of way. He missed her, truly missed her. Missed the sound of her voice, the clatter of her books, the way she flounced into a room like she owned every square inch of it. He missed the chaos. The noise. The entire atmosphere that followed her like perfume.
"What the actual fuck," he muttered, dragging a hand over his face.
He glanced up and caught a glimpse of himself in the antique mirror hanging at the end of the hall. The reflection was brutal. He looked like someone halfway through a breakdown and pretending it was just a mild inconvenience. His hair was a mess. His eyes had that twitchy, sleep-deprived look that didn't go well with tailored robes. And beneath all of that, stamped across his face in undeniable clarity, was something else. Something he wasn't ready to admit, not even in the privacy of his own mind.
He looked like a man who had been ghosted by a woman who still lived under his roof.
Haunted.
By sundresses.
He'd always considered himself the picture of control. Detached when it mattered, focused when it counted, excellent at locking up his emotions and stuffing the key somewhere no one would ever find. But this—this was something else entirely. It wasn't anger, not really. It was restlessness, an itch under the skin, a constant hum of tension he couldn't shake. Something about the quiet in the manor had shifted, and it had everything to do with the absence of one infuriating, curly-haired menace.
He couldn't concentrate. Couldn't think. Couldn't sleep without imagining her on the other side of the house, lying in bed and choosing, very deliberately, not to come out. Maybe she was doing it just to drive him mad. Maybe she was testing how long it would take for him to snap. If that was the plan, she was succeeding.
He started pacing, hoping the movement would wear the thoughts out. It didn't. They only got louder. Was she ill? Had she been crying? Was she avoiding him on purpose? Had she finally had enough of their ridiculous dynamic? Had he ruined it? Was it that kiss he didn't give her? Was it all the staring? He had definitely stared too much. Every time she walked past in that bikini, he looked like he was trying to memorise the curve of her thighs with his soul.
It was pathetic.
He found himself in front of her door again, the fifth time that day. This time he didn't walk away immediately. He just stood there, hand halfway to the knob, heart in his throat for absolutely no reason. He felt stupid. He wasn't here to beg. He just needed to know she was there. Breathing. Still real.
He imagined knocking. Imagined her opening the door with her unimpressed face and some sharp remark ready to slice through him. He imagined her voice, bored and biting. "Yes, Malfoy? Come to argue or pine?"
He could already hear himself snapping back with something idiotic.
"Just checking you hadn't died in there. I can't afford to be haunted by your ghost. I already hear you in my head enough."
Get a grip.
He dropped his hand and stepped back, face twisted in something close to disgust. Not with her. With himself. He was being toyed with, and he knew it. She was letting him stew. Letting his thoughts chew through him like termites. And the worst part? He liked it. He missed her. He hated that he missed her, but he did.
She'd wormed her way into his routine, and now that she was gone, he felt off-kilter. Like the air didn't move the same anymore. Like every room echoed too loudly without her presence to fill it.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd missed someone. Not like this. Not so badly that the silence in the manor felt like punishment. Not so clearly that he could hear her laugh in his memory and swear it was real.
He tried to stay busy. Reorganized the entire library. Twice. Sat down to read and immediately abandoned it because the heroine in the book had curly brown hair and kept winning arguments. He barked at one of the house-elves over something minor, then immediately felt sick with guilt and apologized. Then he sulked in the garden for a full hour, glowering at the roses like they'd personally offended him.
By the time the sun started setting, he could feel it in his chest—that unbearable tension curling tighter with each passing minute. Something had to give.
Somewhere between the fourth imaginary sigh and the third time he thought he heard her voice from across the hall, he finally snapped. Muttering a string of curses under his breath, he pulled on his robes like armor, shoved his hands through his hair, and marched through the manor like a man on a mission. Not a sensible mission. Not even a planned one. Just a chaotic, emotion-driven, pride-destroying disaster of a mission.
He was going to find her.
He was going to ask what the hell was going on.
He was going to make her explain why she had taken herself away from him like it was no big deal.
He would not grovel. He would not beg. He would simply demand some clarity. Or, at the very least, force her to look him in the eye while he pretended not to care.
Because this game she was playing?
It had gone on long enough.
And if he was already halfway ruined by her absence, then the least she could do was show up and finish the job.
As he stalked through the corridor that led to her wing of the manor, Draco barely noticed the paintings glaring at him. His steps were sharp and loud, a deliberate sort of fury keeping him upright, though there was no plan in his head. No speech prepared. Just a mounting pressure in his chest that had nowhere else to go.
That was when he heard it.
Not music. At least, not anything that deserved the word.
It hit him like a physical force, an onslaught of sound that made his eye twitch on contact. The bass was too loud, shaking the air itself, and the voice that cut through it sounded like a Muggle drowning in a vat of static, wailing through what might have been lyrics if you squinted at them sideways. The noise rolled through the corridor, so aggressive and strange that Draco stopped in his tracks, brow furrowed, mouth set in a line of deep and confused judgment.
What in the name of Merlin was she listening to?
He tilted his head toward her door, as if angling himself might help translate the chaos. It didn't. If anything, the effort only made him more aware of the unrelenting rhythm thudding through the floor.
It was getting louder.
He stepped forward again, drawn by a mix of dread and concern, the kind only Granger could summon in equal measure. The door to her room vibrated faintly with each beat. He could feel it in his chest, a steady pounding that matched the temper building beneath his ribs. It wasn't just loud. It was offensive. Blasphemous. If music was meant to soothe the soul, this was an outright attack on it.
He knocked.
Once. Sharp and demanding.
No answer.
He knocked again, harder this time, his fist rattling the wood in a way that made his shoulder sting. Still no response. The music continued to blare, uninterrupted, like she hadn't heard him. Or worse, like she had and was choosing not to respond.
His jaw clenched so tight his teeth protested the strain.
Was she ignoring him?
Was she seriously ignoring him?
He began pacing just outside her door, back and forth, each step heavier than the last. His fingers twitched at his sides. He felt like a man unraveling. He didn't even know why it mattered so much. He just knew he had to see her. He needed to know what she was doing in there. Whether she was sulking. Crying. Plotting. He needed to see her with his own eyes and confirm she hadn't simply disappeared to punish him with her absence.
He hated how easily the thought made his stomach twist.
After too long—far too long—he gave up on knocking.
To hell with decorum.
With a sound of pure exasperation and very little grace, he threw the door open, prepared to launch into a tirade or at least glare her into feeling some sort of guilt for ignoring him.
What he found stopped him cold.
Hermione Granger, not curled up in angst or buried in sullen silence like some tragic heroine. No. She was in the middle of her bed, bouncing like a child possessed, arms in the air, hair an absolute riot, her entire body moving with the same chaotic rhythm that had been blaring through the door. She wore the most offensively soft-looking pyjamas he'd ever seen, the top sliding off one shoulder like it had given up trying to stay respectable. Her curls were wild, haloed around her flushed face as she sang into a hairbrush with zero shame and even less talent.
Her voice was horrible.
It was actually painful to hear.
Like a dozen kneazles stuffed into a tin bucket and kicked down a hill.
And yet she didn't stop.
She didn't even blink.
She saw him standing in the doorway—gaping, scandalised, absolutely thrown—and carried on like he was just another piece of furniture. She twirled. She shrieked the next verse. She pointed the hairbrush at him with the kind of energy usually reserved for battle or theatre performances.
Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
There were no words.
There weren't even vowels.
He had stormed down here expecting a confrontation, a fight, maybe tears or a door slammed in his face. Instead, she was staging a full-scale Muggle pop concert with herself as the lead singer, the backup dancers, and the intoxicated audience all at once.
She was… radiant.
Not in a poetic way. Not even in a way he could process with dignity. Just bright and infuriating and alive. She looked like joy had grabbed her by the wrists and spun her in circles until everything else fell away.
And he couldn't look away.
Even when she nearly knocked over a lamp during an overly ambitious spin, even when she belted out another off-key line like she thought she was on a world tour. He stood there, dumbstruck, trying to remember why he had been angry in the first place.
She didn't stop.
Not even a flicker of embarrassment. She just kept going, bouncing on the bed like she was headlining a concert only she had tickets to, hair flying, hips moving with no rhythm at all, singing like the ghosts of terrible karaoke choices past were possessing her.
Draco stared.
Absolutely dumbfounded.
"Granger," he said, his voice pitched somewhere between panic and outrage, "what in the actual fuck are you doing?"
She glanced over her shoulder, still bobbing to the beat, her curls wild and eyes lit up with mischief. "What are you doing here?" she shouted, as if he had barged in uninvited to her private concert and was now the unreasonable one.
He blinked like someone had just dropped a piano on his head. "What am I—what—what are you doing? Is this… is this some sort of ritual?" He gestured helplessly at the chaos around her. "Are you summoning a Muggle boy band? Should I be concerned?"
She grinned. Not sheepishly. Not even a little bit repentantly. Just wide and wicked, like he was the one out of line. "I'm having fun, Malfoy. That thing you lot seem to think is contagious. You know, joy? Movement? Light?"
His mouth opened, then closed again. "I know how to have fun," he said, sounding like someone trying to remember what fun actually meant. "I'm plenty fun. I've done fun things."
She tilted her head at him slowly, like she was studying something mildly pathetic at the zoo. "Oh yeah? Name one."
He faltered. "That's not the point."
"It's completely the point," she said, arms crossed now as she stood on the mattress. "All you do is scowl and complain about my outfits like a grumpy uncle at a beach holiday."
His ears went pink. "I was not complaining," he said, stiff with defensiveness. "I was simply suggesting you wear something more appropriate."
Her brows rose, her whole face lighting up with the exact kind of trouble he was not equipped to handle. "Suggesting?" she repeated. Then she stepped off the bed in one smooth movement, eyes locked on his. "You mean telling me to cover up because you can't look without losing your mind?"
He backed up a step. It didn't help.
Her voice dropped. Sweet and slow. "Want me to take it off then?"
His entire brain exploded.
There was no language left in him. Just static. Pure, unfiltered panic. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure of what to do with themselves. His mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came out.
"You… you need to stop this," he managed eventually, but his voice had none of its usual bite. "You like pushing my buttons, but I know what you're doing. It's not going to work."
She laughed. Loud and delighted. "Not going to work? Malfoy, you already tripped and fell face-first into it."
He pointed at her, floundering for pride. "You are an actual menace. And your singing is a war crime."
She gave him a curtsy so sarcastic it might have been art. "Always a pleasure, your grace."
Draco turned around before he said something truly unwise. He stalked out of the room with as much dignity as a man can have while blushing down to his collarbones. Her laughter followed him like perfume, thick and cloying and impossible to forget.
This girl was going to ruin him.
She was unhinged. Unbothered. Utterly impossible to manage. And yet she'd somehow wrapped herself into every corner of his thoughts.
It wasn't just the teasing. It wasn't just her laugh or the way she always seemed to get under his skin without trying. It was everything.
The fire in her. The fact that she never backed down. The way she existed like she owed nothing to anyone.
She was brilliant.
And it made him insane.
As he walked down the hall, he tried to gather himself. He really did. But all he could see was her in those awful pajamas, hair flying, mouth open wide in some godawful Muggle song, smiling like no one had ever told her she wasn't allowed to be that free.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't right.
And worst of all, he couldn't stop thinking about her.
He told himself she was a nuisance. A disruption. A problem to be managed.
But the truth was already there, buried somewhere deep in the part of him he didn't want to touch.
She was getting to him.
And it terrified him.
· ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
It was the first month of their so-called wedding anniversary. Not that either of them had said a word about it.
No flowers. No wine. No dinner plans or meaningful glances. Just a quiet, pointed silence that had lasted all day, as if they had both taken one look at the date on the calendar and made the exact same decision without needing to speak.
Ignore it. Pretend it meant nothing. Pretend the last four weeks hadn't meant anything either.
It wasn't a celebration. It was a sentence. A strange, twisted milestone marking how long they'd managed to coexist without bloodshed—or worse, something genuine.
And yet, as the afternoon bled into evening, Hermione stood in her room with that particular glint in her eye—the one that always came right before she did something she could never take back.
She was bored. She was restless. And she was not about to let the day end quietly.
If Draco Malfoy thought for one second that her little games had lost their edge, if he believed she had worn herself out, that her chaotic streak had finally dulled, then he didn't know her at all.
And he was about to be reminded.
Her final act of the day wasn't subtle. It wasn't sweet. It wasn't some coy glance from across the library or a suggestive comment whispered too close to his ear. She was done with that. Done with teasing and playing at innocence.
This time, she was going to set the whole house on fire and watch him burn in it.
She let her robe slide from her shoulders, silk slipping to the floor in one slow, fluid movement, catching for just a second at her elbows before pooling around her feet. The cold air met her skin instantly. The manor always had that chill, even in summer, like the walls were built to keep people uncomfortable. It raised goosebumps across her body, sent shivers along her arms, but she didn't flinch.
She straightened her shoulders. Tipped her chin up.
Then she walked out into the hall with nothing on but a wicked sense of purpose.
No hesitation. No nerves.
Just the sound of her bare feet on polished stone, soft as breath, steady as a heartbeat.
The hallway stretched before her like a stage, every step echoing through the empty space. The heavy chandeliers glittered overhead. The tapestries lining the walls didn't rustle, but they seemed to watch. The portraits didn't speak, but their silence pressed in close.
The manor had always felt like a museum to her. Now it felt like a dare.
She passed two house-elves on her way, and they nearly dropped the linens they were carrying. One of them squeaked. The other looked like he might faint.
She didn't stop. Didn't slow down. Didn't even glance at them.
She wasn't embarrassed. She wasn't performing for them. She was hunting one very specific man.
She knew exactly where to find him. Draco had a pattern, as predictable as clockwork, and she'd learned it without even trying. He always paused by the long window at the end of the south corridor before dinner. Always stood there like he was thinking about something far away. Maybe pretending he was alone in the house. Maybe pretending she wasn't in the next wing, rearranging his peace with every breath.
He liked routine. He liked control.
And she liked ruining both.
She reached the corner quietly and turned it without pause. And just like she knew he would be, he was there.
One hand in his pocket. The other holding a glass of something expensive. His back to her, tall and sharp in his perfectly tailored black robes, the pale angle of his jaw catching the last of the dying light.
She kept walking.
Didn't speak.
He heard her anyway.
His shoulders went stiff. His hand twitched around the glass. She didn't stop moving. Not until she was close enough to see the edge of his reflection in the tall window he'd been pretending to admire.
When he finally turned, the reaction was instant.
Shock, followed by disbelief, followed by fury—and then something else. Something that hit so hard he almost dropped his drink.
He didn't say her name. Didn't speak at all.
But his gaze snapped to her body and stayed there, like he couldn't decide if he was about to start shouting or fall to his knees.
She smiled. Not smugly. Not sweetly.
Just enough to let him know this was exactly what she'd planned.
And it was only just beginning.
She stepped into the living room without a word.
The sun had dipped low, gold spilling across the floor in long, lazy streaks, dust motes drifting through the air like the room was holding its breath. The manor was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that asked to be broken. And there he was.
Draco Malfoy, stretched across the velvet sofa like he owned the bloody world. One leg crossed, a book in his lap, spine relaxed, eyes on the page but not moving. Pretending to read. Pretending he wasn't waiting for something to happen.
Or someone.
He didn't look up right away. Not until the silence shifted, thickened, sharpened.
Then he looked. And everything changed.
The book slipped from his hands without ceremony, hitting the rug with a soft, forgotten thud. He didn't react. Didn't blink. His gaze locked on her like a man seeing fire for the first time and not knowing if it would burn or save him.
His jaw tightened. His shoulders rose. He sat forward slowly, every line of his body tensing, like a panther waking from sleep to find prey standing right in front of it.
And still she said nothing.
She stood there, bare as the day she was born, golden in the afternoon light, still as a spell half-cast.
That was all it took.
He moved.
Not in a panic. Not with hesitation. With precision. With fury. With a kind of violence that came from being held too tightly for too long. He was on his feet and across the room before she had even drawn her next breath.
He reached for her.
His hand closed around her arm, not roughly but with a grip that left no room for misinterpretation. He spun her, quick and deliberate, backing her into the nearest wall, pressing her against the stone like he needed to remind them both who he was. Her skin met the cold surface with a gasp, breath caught sharp in her throat.
The shock of it lasted only a second. Then it settled into something else.
Something electric.
Something she had been waiting for.
His body crowded hers. One hand still at her hip, firm and grounding, the other sliding up to her neck. Not cruel. Not careless. Just there, warm and steady and claiming. His thumb pressed against the hollow of her throat, where her pulse jumped under his touch.
Their faces were close enough to share breath. Her eyes searched his, and what she saw there made her stomach twist. Fury, yes. Frustration, absolutely. But also something deeper. Something he didn't know how to name and would never say out loud.
"I told you to stop," he said. The words came out like gravel, torn from somewhere low and tight in his chest. "I told you to act like a normal person. Put on some clothes, for Merlin's sake."
Her expression didn't flicker.
She didn't blink. Didn't flinch. She only smiled. Slow. Wicked. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth and lingered there, soft and deliberate.
He inhaled like it hurt.
His grip shifted slightly at her throat, not tighter but more aware, more reactive, as if even that small movement had cost him.
She saw it. She saw the way he was holding on by a thread. She saw the way that thread had frayed, and frayed, and now trembled.
"Did you hear me?" he asked again, voice rougher this time. Less command, more plea.
Her lips parted, not in apology, not in mercy, but in challenge.
She leaned in, her breath brushing the shell of his ear. "I heard you," she whispered, her voice soft as sin. "But I don't think you heard me."
His entire body went still.
No comeback. No insult. Just the sound of his breath stuttering against her cheek.
His thumb traced a slow line along her jaw, feather-light now, as if he didn't trust himself to hold on without breaking something.
"You need to stop this," he said again. But even he heard the difference now. He sounded different. Less certain. Less composed. The words came out uneven, one step away from something reckless.
"This game of yours, Granger. Walking around naked. In my home. Looking at me like that. Like you don't know exactly what you're doing."
Her smile widened.
He closed his eyes for half a second. Just long enough to curse himself.
"You're parading around like you've forgotten I'm a man," he added, softer this time, almost to himself. "Like you don't expect me to crack."
Her head tilted slightly, curious, almost kind. As if she was listening closely. As if she wanted to understand what line he thought still existed between them.
"Then do it," she said.
Her voice was calm. Barely above a whisper.
"Break."
He froze.
No part of her flinched. No part of her tried to soften it. She just watched him with steady eyes, bare skin flushed from the cold wall at her back, body warm and willing, gaze unblinking.
The invitation was clear. So was the danger.
He looked at her like she was a war he had lost the first day they met and had only just realised it.
The hand at her throat didn't move. The other still held her hip, grounding both of them in place.
His mouth opened, then closed again, as if whatever words he'd planned had already turned to ash.
And Hermione, very slowly, leaned in once more.
Not for a kiss. Not for kindness.
Just close enough to say the next words right into his mouth, a breath away from sealing her fate and his with it.
"I think you want to lose control," she said. "And I think you're waiting for someone to give you permission."
His body shook with how much he didn't want that to be true.
He inhaled, sharp and shaky, the kind of breath a man takes when he's losing the fight. His whole body trembled. Not enough to be obvious, not enough that anyone else might notice—but she did. Hermione saw the way the tension curled just beneath his skin, like something wild was trapped inside him and desperate to claw its way out.
He looked like he didn't know whether to pin her to the wall again or turn around and vanish into smoke. His hand tightened at her hip, fingers digging in hard, and it didn't feel like control anymore. It felt like he was holding on because she was the only thing tethering him to reality. And at the same time, she was the one unraveling him from it.
"Granger," he said, low and hoarse, barely more than a growl. It came from somewhere buried deep, somewhere where reason didn't exist anymore. "Don't test me."
There was no threat in it now. No edge. Just the brittle tremble of someone on the verge. Not lust. Not fury. Something in between. Something hot and dark and about to spill over.
Hermione's smile widened, slow and sure. She stepped closer, the movement fluid and deliberate, like she already knew he was hers. Like she had known for weeks.
She brought her mouth to his ear, her breath brushing warm across his skin, and the way he shuddered made her stomach twist with satisfaction.
"I'm not testing you, Malfoy," she whispered, soft and syrupy, each word a carefully measured drip of temptation. "I'm giving you an opportunity."
And that was it. That was the moment.
She felt it the way a storm feels a shift in pressure before it breaks. His fingers faltered. His breath hitched. The air between them thickened until it was impossible to ignore. Something had cracked, and there would be no gluing it back together.
But she wasn't done yet.
She pulled back slowly, just enough to look at him properly. His eyes met hers, and what she saw there lit a fire under her skin. She was getting to him. She had already won, but she wanted him to feel it. To remember it.
Her smirk didn't soften. If anything, it deepened.
"Now," she said sweetly, like it wasn't a dagger to the gut, "if you don't mind, I believe I'll return to my little stroll."
Then she turned.
Not in a rush. Not with the urgency of someone fleeing the aftermath. She moved with the same maddening confidence she always had, the kind that made him want to scream and sink to his knees at the same time.
She walked away.
Naked. Bare. Unbothered.
As if nothing had happened. As if his hands hadn't just been on her. As if they hadn't stood inches from something neither of them would be able to forget.
He didn't chase her. He didn't speak.
He just stood there.
Breathing hard.
The kind of breathing that made his chest rise too fast and his throat close up. His fists were clenched. His jaw ached from holding it shut. His whole body burned like it didn't know what to do with itself.
The spot where she'd stood still felt warm. Her scent hung in the air like a curse he had no intention of breaking.
He turned suddenly, teeth bared, and slammed his fist into the wall.
The crack of bone against stone echoed through the room.
It wasn't about pain. He hardly felt it.
It was the silence after that hurt more.
She was gone. Out of sight. But her words stayed behind, whispering themselves into the corners of the room. Her voice lingered in his head. Her touch haunted his skin.
She was going to destroy him.
That wasn't a theory anymore. That was fact.
Hermione Granger—with her chaos, her confidence, her bare goddamn feet on his floor and that wicked little smile—was going to be the end of him.
And the worst part?
He wanted it.
He wanted every second of the downfall.
Some broken part of him had always craved fire, had always chased the thrill of the fall just to see if he could survive the landing. And she was the flame. She was the spark and the gasoline and the match all at once.
One day soon, he wouldn't stop himself.
He wouldn't walk away.
And when that moment came, he didn't know what would happen first.
If he'd kiss her.
Or curse her.
Or ruin them both, and never look back.