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Hermione Granger did not believe in curses.

She believed in faulty piping, drafty insulation, and the very real consequences of poor structural upkeep. So when her building’s number thirteen flat sat empty for over a year, she rolled her eyes at the whispers of “cursed energy” and “haunted vibrations.” Haunted, honestly. The only strange thing about that flat was the way sound carried through the walls like gossip through a Weasley family dinner.

But now, number thirteen was no longer vacant.

She discovered this thanks to Crookshanks.

Her nosy, traitorous cat had taken to curling up inside the mysterious flat each afternoon, slinking back to her own with his fur smelling like expensive cologne and the faintest trace of something burnt—firewhisky, maybe? Or a spell gone slightly wrong. Either way, Crookshanks seemed enamoured.

And so, on a Wednesday evening, Hermione knocked on the door to number thirteen with a bag of green apples in her arms—her offering of peace, or at least curiosity. It wasn’t the most conventional welcome gift, but she’d had a peculiar feeling as she passed the fruit stall on the corner. Something told her the new tenant would appreciate apples.

She wasn’t prepared for the door to swing open and reveal... him.

Bare-chested. Tattooed. Lean muscle stretched across aristocratic bone structure. Silvery hair slightly tousled, storm-grey eyes fixed on her as if she'd disrupted a dream.

“Granger.”

Her mouth fell slightly open. “Malfoy?”

He took a slow sip from his glass, his fingers brushing across his lips with idle deliberation. “I was beginning to wonder when you'd stop sending the cat and come in person.”

Hermione blinked. “You knew it was my cat?”

“He announces himself quite loudly.” Draco Malfoy arched a brow, stepping back into the warm, golden light of his doorway. “Hard to forget a face like that. He used to glare at me in the castle corridors like I’d personally hexed his entire bloodline.”

​​He then eyed the bag in her arms with exaggerated interest. “Are the apples an apology for the surveillance?”

She flushed, thrusting the bag at him. “They’re a welcome gift.”

“Mm.” He leaned against the frame, entirely too casual, entirely too shirtless, and Hermione hated how her eyes kept betraying her, trailing along the ink that curled around his shoulder and down his arm. Runes. Serpents. Spells she hadn’t seen since the Department archives.

“Bit late, aren’t you?” he asked.

“To welcome you?”

“No,” he murmured, taking the apples and brushing her hand with his as he did. “To visit the haunted flat.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t believe that nonsense.”

“Don’t I?” He smirked, eyes glinting. “And yet, here you are. Compelled.”

“I came because my cat keeps—”

“—dragging you back,” he finished softly. “This place is supposed to be cursed, yet somehow, I keep getting visitors.”

Hermione opened her mouth, and closed it again.

Behind her, Crookshanks rubbed around her ankles, tail high, purring loud enough to be smug.

Malfoy turned on his heel, walking into the flat without another word.

He left the door ajar.

And somehow, she stepped inside.

Hermione stepped inside before she could talk herself out of it.

It was warm in the flat. Not just heated—but inviting, as though the walls held a lingering spell for comfort. The lighting was low and golden, conjured by enchanted sconces and floating glass orbs that hovered like lazy fireflies. Everything smelled like cardamom and something smoky-sweet. She half-expected a hidden jazz record to start playing.

Crookshanks trotted in like royalty returning to his court and promptly launched himself onto a worn leather armchair near the hearth. He circled once, twice, then collapsed into a purring heap.

“Traitor,” Hermione muttered.

Malfoy’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “I did offer him the chair. He seems partial to it.”

“Of course he is. It's probably enchanted.”

“Just old,” he replied. “A bit like me.”

Hermione snorted and wandered further in, her curiosity outweighing her sense of propriety. The décor was... unexpected. Deep greens and greys, rich textures, old books stacked on surfaces that were definitely not meant to be bookshelves. A framed constellation map. A decanter on a tray that looked suspiciously untouched, save for the glass in his hand.

“Alright, I’m going to say it,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’m impressed.”

Malfoy turned to face her again, now with two mugs in hand, steam curling from each. Still no shirt. No shame either, apparently.

“That must’ve hurt,” he said, offering her one.

“Only a little.”

He gestured toward the fireplace. “Sit, if you’re not afraid of haunted furniture.”

“I’m more afraid of you hexing the tea.”

“If I wanted you dead, Granger, I’d have let Crookshanks do it. He’s a far more efficient assassin.”

She huffed but sat, tucking one leg beneath her and cradling the mug in both hands. “This is nice.”

“I try.”

“Honestly, I expected more... black marble and ancestral gloom.”

“You wound me.”

She gave him a slow look over her cup. “Yes, well, you’re full of surprises lately.”

There was a beat of silence as he settled opposite her, long limbs folding into the other chair with fluid ease. She tried not to stare—but her eyes betrayed her. The tattoos were intricate, delicate even, inked along his left side like someone had painted runes with a lover’s hand. And he’d filled out. He wasn’t the wiry, sharp-angled boy she remembered from school. He looked... comfortable in his skin now. In a way that was rather inconvenient.

Hermione took a long sip of her tea.

He’s your neighbour , she reminded herself sternly. Not a snack.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “So.” He took another slow sip of tea. “Is this your usual way of greeting new neighbours, or am I special?”

Hermione gave him a look over the rim of her mug. “Let’s just say I don’t usually hand-deliver produce to men who steal my cat.”

“Then I feel deeply honoured.”

“You should,” she said, deadpan. “It’s a very exclusive club.”

They both took a sip of their teas.

Hermione gave a soft, amused hum, tapping a finger against her mug. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Still?” he asked, voice low. “After all these years?”

She shrugged, watching Crookshanks stretch and sigh in blissful betrayal. “You used to be scrawny. And very loud.”

“And you used to hex people for fun.”

“Only when they deserved it.”

His lips twitched, dangerously close to a smile. “Have I earned one yet?”

“Give it time.”

Eventually, the clock on his mantle chimed. The hour was later than she’d realised. Crookshanks blinked sleepily at her as she stood.

“Come on, you disloyal ball of fluff.”

He ignored her.

Malfoy stood too, somehow managing to look both casual and deliberate in the way he moved. “He’s welcome anytime.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I’ll let him know.”

She crossed the room, pausing just at the threshold. Crookshanks leapt down, finally remembering his allegiances—or at least his dinner schedule—and padded after her with a grumble.

“Thank you,” Malfoy said, leaning one hand against the doorframe. “For the apples.”

His voice was quieter now. Softer. She looked up, surprised to find him closer than she expected. That storm-grey gaze met hers—and for the briefest moment, she could’ve sworn it dropped to her mouth.

Hermione’s pulse kicked.

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” she said, managing a composed tone that absolutely did not match the heat creeping up her spine.

He gave her a small nod, unreadable. “Sleep well, Granger.”

She stepped into the corridor, her cat trotting ahead, and shut the door gently behind her.

Only then did she exhale.

Hermione locked her front door behind her, balancing her satchel on one shoulder and mentally reciting a to-do list already far too long. Her heels clicked a steady rhythm down the hallway floorboards as she fished distractedly in her coat pocket for her wand—only to collide with a tall, solid figure stepping out of number thirteen.

“Merlin—sorry,” she blurted, stumbling a half step back.

Draco Malfoy caught her elbow reflexively, steadying her with one hand before he stepped aside. “Well,” he said, expression unreadable. “You’re very eager this morning.”

She looked up—and her heart did something stupid.

Fully clothed. Damn it.

And not just clothed— tailored .

He was wearing a three-piece charcoal suit, the waistcoat buttoned just tightly enough to suggest a borderline indecent level of torso beneath. His shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the trousers were doing exactly nothing to discourage further scrutiny. His hair was artfully tousled. His smirk, unfortunately, was not.

Hermione managed to smile. “Didn’t recognise you without the tattoos on display.”

Malfoy arched a brow. “I assure you, they’re still there. Just slightly more workplace appropriate.”

“Pity.”

His smirk deepened.

Focus , she told herself firmly. You’re late and mentally undressing your neighbour in the corridor.

Still, her brain offered helpfully, those shoulders should be a controlled substance.

“I didn’t know you worked,” she said, adjusting the strap on her shoulder. “You give off a strong... lounging aesthetic.”

“I do a bit of consultancy.”

“Oh?” She narrowed her eyes. “Mysterious and vague. How very on brand.”

“I could explain, but it would require three flowcharts and a headache.”

“You really know how to charm a girl.”

“I thought I had last night, actually,” he said casually. “You did bring me fruit.”

Hermione coughed to cover the laugh that escaped. “Yes, well. That offer has expired.”

He adjusted the wand holster strapped beneath his blazer, sleek and fitted against the waistcoat, then looked up with a half-smile that could probably undo better women.

“And what about you?” he asked. “Still solving the world’s problems before breakfast?”

“Trying,” she sighed. “But unfortunately, I’ve yet to make any real progress on people who stop in the middle of corridors.”

He stepped back with a gallant little bow. “By all means, Granger. Lead the way.”

She brushed past him, chin lifted with mock hauteur, but the scent of him—clean, expensive, maybe bergamot and woodsmoke—lingered a fraction too long.

Crookshanks chose that exact moment to appear from beneath the stairwell and twine around Malfoy’s ankles with a pointed meow.

“Traitor,” Hermione muttered again.

Malfoy glanced down. “You know, I’m starting to feel like this is more of a shared custody situation.”

“I’d fight you for him.”

“Would you win?”

“Of course,” she said sweetly. “I fight dirty.”

He laughed—low and surprised—and she turned away quickly, a smile threatening.

“Have a good day, Malfoy.”

“You too, Granger.”

She walked on, ignoring the flutter just under her ribs and firmly refusing to look back.

There was a knock.

Not loud. Not urgent. But enough to drag Hermione from the soft fog of sleep and the half-finished glass of wine on her coffee table. She blinked blearily, pushing her curls from her face, and glanced at the time. 23:42.

She groaned.

Crookshanks, she mused, he finally learned how to knock.

Or possibly karma.

Padding across the living room in sleep shorts and an oversized jersey— Potter stitched across the back in faded gold lettering—she squinted through the peephole, then blinked again.

Oh. Oh no.

Draco Malfoy. Barefoot. Shirtless. And holding her cat.

Only wearing grey joggers.

She opened the door slowly, gripping the edge as if she might need the support. “Is this a dream, or have you just committed to becoming my personal fever hallucination?”

Malfoy gave her a dry look, Crookshanks draped in his arms like a spoiled prince. “Sorry to bother you. Normally I’d let him do as he pleases, but I’m leaving early. I’ll be gone until next week. Thought it might be kinder not to make him forage for food or affection.”

Hermione blinked again, fully awake now, though not for the reasons she’d like. “You could’ve left a note.”

He gestured vaguely with his chin. “Didn’t want to risk the wrath of a neglected half-Kneazle. Or his owner.”

Her eyes dropped—completely accidentally, of course—to where Crookshanks lounged, clearly reluctant to surrender Malfoy’s chest as a resting place. The traitor actually purred .

She stepped forward and took him, muttering under her breath, “You ungrateful lump.”

Crookshanks grumbled and immediately tried to twist back toward Malfoy, his paws stretching out dramatically.

“Oh, come on ,” she scolded. “He doesn’t even feed you the right treats.”

“I have excellent taste in snacks,” Malfoy said, tone absurdly dignified for someone dressed in nothing but joggers. “Though I suspect that’s not what you’re evaluating right now.”

Hermione flushed, adjusting her grip on the now-struggling cat. Had he gotten more attractive since last time she saw him? That was entirely unfair. His arms were annoyingly defined. His skin luminescent in the hallway light. And honestly, the sheer mass of him—how did one person fill out like that?

She cleared her throat. “Where are you headed?”

“Client in Copenhagen,” he said easily. “Something sensitive. Magical architecture in the old city—wards in the foundations, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds suspiciously legitimate.”

He smirked. “I like to keep you guessing.”

Crookshanks made a sudden leap from her arms and landed with a disgruntled thud on the floor, stalking off as though insulted.

Hermione exhaled, arms now folded across her chest—and instantly regretted the movement. The jersey slid up her hip slightly, the shorts riding higher with it. She caught Malfoy’s gaze flicking downward. Just for a moment.

But it lingered.

She raised an eyebrow. “Get a good look?”

His eyes returned to hers, unrepentant. “Just confirming the cat wasn’t the only traitor tonight.”

She snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.”

They stood there, in the low light of the hallway, soft silence hanging between them.

“Well,” she said finally. “Safe travels.”

“I’ll try.”

He took a step back, but paused.

“Thanks,” he said, with the faintest nod toward Crookshanks’ retreating tail. “And—nice shirt, by the way. Big fan of Potter, are you?”

She shut the door in his face, but couldn’t stop smiling.

Later, in bed, Hermione lay tangled in her sheets, one arm flung across her forehead, the other curled loosely at her side. The flat was quiet. Still. Crookshanks had curled himself into the armchair by the window, snoring gently.

She stared at the ceiling.

But her mind wasn’t still.

Not with the image of Malfoy standing in her doorway—shirtless, lean, glowing, and infuriatingly composed. That ridiculous, lazy elegance. The way the muscles in his forearms shifted as he held Crookshanks, veins visible beneath smooth skin. How the waistband of his grey joggers clung just low enough to suggest and not quite reveal.

And his voice. Low. Casual. Always a little amused, like he knew she was watching.

She exhaled, long and slow, and let her hand slip beneath the hem of her sleep shorts.

She wasn’t in her bed anymore.

Not really.

In her mind, he was still standing just inside her flat, one hand braced above her on the doorframe, eyes hooded and heavy with something that wasn’t just dry humour. That same gaze raked down her body, like he was assessing more than just the fit of Harry’s old jersey.

Her fingertips found a slow rhythm, her thighs shifting under the duvet. Her breath caught as the image sharpened: his lips brushing the shell of her ear, voice a husky murmur.

“I’d say sorry for staring, Granger… but we both know I’m not.”

He kissed her neck, she imagined—slow, deliberate. His hands framing her hips, firm and possessive. One sliding up the back of her shirt. The other—

Her back arched as her fingers moved faster, matching the pace of the scene unfurling behind her eyes.

Malfoy on his knees.

His mouth on her.

His hands holding her open like she was something precious and profane at once.

She pressed her mouth into the pillow, a soft sound escaping—needy, breathless, half-frustrated.

And when she finally tumbled over the edge, it was his name that flickered at the edge of her tongue.

She didn’t say it.

But she thought it. Hard.

Afterward, she lay still for a moment, staring into the dark.

Well , she thought dryly, this is a problem.

There was a knock at the door.

Hermione froze in the kitchen, tea mug halfway to her lips, heart giving a small, traitorous flutter.

Malfoy?

It had been three days since he had left for his trip. Three days since she’d closed the door and promptly thought about his mouth for an amount of time that really ought to come with a self-imposed restraining order. She hadn’t seen him since, hadn’t heard him, hadn’t even smelled the faint traces of firewhisky and sandalwood through the paper-thin walls.

And now, there was a knock.

She padded barefoot to the door, tugging down the hem of her oversized jumper, trying not to appear as eager as she felt. She checked her reflection in the hallway mirror—just in case.

Then she opened the door.

“Harry?”

Her voice faltered a little, her brain requiring a second to recalibrate. Not bare chest. Not tousled hair and sinfully smug mouth.

Just Harry. Adorably rumpled in a Weasley jumper and looking vaguely concerned, as if he suspected she’d taken up illegal potions brewing in her flat.

He blinked at her. “Did I catch you at a weird time?”

“No! I mean—yes. No. Not really,” she said, her words tripping over themselves. “I just thought you were someone else.”

He gave her a look. “Expecting company?”

Her face heated. “Not exactly.”

Harry’s brow arched, curious and mildly entertained, like a dog catching the scent of drama. “Is that code for Malfoy?”

“What? No!” she said too quickly. “Of course not. That’s absurd. Why would you even—he’s just—he lives next door.”

“Right,” Harry said slowly. “And how’s that going?”

Hermione crossed her arms, realising too late that the movement pressed the neckline of her jumper lower than strictly necessary. Harry, mercifully, didn’t notice—or pretended not to.

“It’s fine. We barely speak.”

“Uh-huh.”

She squinted at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Lunch,” he said simply, lifting a brown paper bag. “I was in the area. Got you that lentil salad you like from Lina’s. Figured I’d check in. You’ve been a bit... distant lately.”

She sighed, stepping back to let him in. “Sorry. Work’s been intense.”

“Mmm.” He looked around as he entered, eyes scanning the flat like a suspicious Auror. “Funny, I thought you’d say it was quiet.”

“It is quiet.”

Harry sniffed. “Smells like men’s cologne in here.”

Hermione choked on her tea. “Excuse me?”

“I’m kidding.” He grinned and plopped down on her sofa, legs sprawling. “Though you do have that look about you.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’ve been thinking about doing something reckless but I’m trying very hard to look responsible while I do it’ look.”

Hermione glared. “I hate that you know me so well.”

He winked. “It’s a gift.”

They ate lunch. Or rather, Harry did. Hermione pushed her salad around, distracted. Every knock in the hallway made her glance at the door. Every creak had her straightening just slightly.

Harry noticed. Of course he did.

“So,” he said between mouthfuls, “if you ever want to talk about anything. Or anyone. Who may or may not be living shirtless next door—”

“I don’t.”

“Right,” he said easily. “Just saying. I’m here.”

She smiled, touched in spite of herself. “Thanks.”

After he left, she stood by the door for a moment too long, fingers curled around the edge, watching the corridor beyond.

And when she returned to the couch, her food forgotten, her thoughts wandered—again—to tall silhouettes, grey eyes, and hands that looked like they could ruin her in the most spectacular way.

When the knock came, it was late again—nearly midnight—and this time, Hermione didn’t pretend she wasn’t hoping for him.

She hesitated, barefoot in her living room, clutching a mug of tea she’d long since forgotten to drink. She told herself she’d wait a beat or two before answering, play it casual. Mysterious.

She opened the door almost instantly.

Malfoy stood in the corridor, a light overnight bag slung over his shoulder and the sharp smell of cold air clinging to his coat. His hair was windblown, more silver than blond in the low lighting, and his expression was unreadable.

“I’m back,” he said, voice low, a little rougher than usual. “Did you miss me?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. “Obviously. I’ve barely slept.”

“I’d believe that, if you didn’t look so smugly well-rested.”

She stepped aside. “I thought you weren’t coming back until next week.”

He shrugged. “Plans changed.”

Malfoy crossed the threshold with the casual grace of someone used to being let in—someone who, if she wasn’t careful, might become too comfortable in her space.

He looked around as he shrugged off his coat, his eyes tracking over the room with quiet interest.

Her flat was nothing like his. Warm, cluttered, lived-in. Books stacked in corners, spilling off shelves. Mismatched cushions on the deep navy sofa. Candles of various heights on the windowsill, melted wax caught mid-drip. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and sandalwood, with a hint of old parchment.

He wandered further in, brushing his fingers along the edge of her bookshelf. “You always this tidy?”

“That is tidy,” she said, defensively.

He picked up a small brass trinket from her mantel—an enchanted time-turner replica—and gave her a look. “Functional decor?”

“Sentimental,” she corrected.

He nodded once, and placed it back with an unexpected gentleness. “It suits you.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “What does?”

“This,” he said simply, turning back to face her. “The flat. The chaos. It’s... domestic in a terrifyingly you sort of way.”

She crossed her arms. “Are you trying to insult me?”

“Absolutely not.” He smirked. “I’m trying to disarm you.”

“With honesty?”

“With accuracy.”

She gave a quiet laugh, soft and reluctant. “You’re in a strange mood.”

“It’s been a long week,” he said, lowering himself onto her sofa like he’d done it a dozen times before. “And I’ve been thinking.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It usually is.”

She brought him a glass of red wine without asking and took her own seat in the opposite chair. For a moment, they sipped in silence, the low hum of magical heating the only sound between them.

“So,” she said, finally. “Did Copenhagen survive you?”

“Barely. Wizards over there are obsessed with efficiency. It’s deeply unsettling.”

“I’m sure they found you equally disturbing.”

He smirked again, but there was something quieter beneath it now—something thoughtful.

She watched him, watched the way his fingers curled around the stem of the glass, how he moved in her space like he belonged there. How he’d noticed the little things. Paid attention.

And then his eyes lifted to hers.

And held.

Her breath caught slightly.

Crookshanks chose that precise moment to saunter into the room, tail high, and meow pointedly at Malfoy before hopping into his lap.

“Of course,” Hermione muttered. “He’s missed you.”

Malfoy glanced down at the cat, then up at her. “He has impeccable taste.”

Hermione huffed and stood, brushing imaginary lint off her thighs as she crossed to the window. “He also eats plastic, so let’s not get carried away.”

Behind her, she felt the silence stretch again—charged now. Not awkward, but thick. Expectant.

She turned to find him still watching her, wine untouched, fingers idly stroking the cat’s fur.

His gaze dipped. Just for a moment. From her face to her bare legs beneath her oversized jumper, then back again.

She lifted her chin. “Are you ogling me again, Malfoy?”

His mouth curved. “Just confirming you’re still dangerously distracting.”

Her pulse kicked.

She took a slow sip of her wine. “Careful. I might start thinking you’re flirting.”

“Oh, Granger,” he said, voice warm, low, teasing. “That ship sailed about three sarcastic remarks ago.”

It began, as most minor domestic catastrophes in Hermione’s life now did, with Crookshanks dragging something suspicious across her living room floor.

She paused mid-sip of her morning tea, brow furrowing as her cat proudly deposited what looked like—surely not—

She stood, crossing the room in her dressing gown, and stared down at the crumpled mess of black cotton and smug feline satisfaction.

A shirt.

Not hers.

Expensive. Tailored. Familiar.

She picked it up and turned it in her hands. The fabric was smooth, crisp, and smelled—Merlin help her—like bergamot, firewhisky, and warm male arrogance. The top two buttons were undone. There was a faint trace of something that might’ve been wand polish near the collar.

It was, unmistakably, Malfoy’s.

Her cat had stolen Malfoy’s shirt.

From his flat.

Somehow.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered.

Crookshanks yawned, unbothered.

Two minutes later, she was standing in front of number thirteen, still in her dressing gown, clutching the shirt like a shameful secret. She knocked once—firmly. A warning knock, not a request.

The door opened almost immediately.

Draco Malfoy appeared, hair damp from a shower, a towel slung over one shoulder, and a rather distracting lack of urgency in tying the robe he was wearing. His chest was partially exposed—of course it was—and he raised a brow as his gaze dipped to what she was holding.

She thrust it toward him. “This is yours.”

He took it slowly, fingers brushing hers, amusement already tugging at his mouth. “I was wondering where that went.”

“Crookshanks brought it back like a bloody trophy.”

“Clearly I’m irresistible.”

She scowled. “Is your flat not properly warded?”

“Are you suggesting your cat broke through my defensive spells?”

“I’m suggesting he’s morally compromised and clearly in league with your ego.”

Malfoy gave a low chuckle and stepped aside, gesturing her in. “If he steals my pants next, I might start to worry.”

Hermione hesitated, then stepped in, arms crossed tightly across her front as if shielding herself from how ridiculous this felt—and how quickly it had gone from absurd to charged.

The flat was warm, fragrant with something spicy and magical and inherently him. She tried not to notice the robe slipping open slightly as he tossed the shirt onto the back of a chair.

“You can have it cleaned, if you like,” she offered stiffly.

“I think I prefer it this way,” he said, eyes glinting. “Worn by your cat. Delivered by you. Very personal service.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I could hex you.”

“I know.”

They stood there, the silence between them suddenly thick. His gaze drifted down her body—robe, bare legs, toes curled slightly against the hardwood. She felt it like a touch.

And her eyes, traitorously, wandered lower—to the open collar of his robe. The defined lines of his collarbones. The faint trail of water from his hair running over his chest.

He caught her looking.

“See something you like?”

She exhaled slowly. “You really don’t get out much, do you?”

“Not when I have neighbours like you.”

She folded her arms. “You’re terrible.”

“And yet, you keep knocking.”

“I was returning something.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

He stepped forward, slowly, closing the distance between them. Not quite touching. Just there .

“If you wanted an excuse to drop by,” he murmured, voice lower now, “you could’ve just said so.”

She looked up at him, pulse ticking at her throat, sharp and steady. “And if I had ?”

His eyes flicked to her mouth, then back again. “Then I’d suggest you stay a little longer.”

Hermione held his gaze a moment too long.

The air between them pulsed—slow and simmering, like the breath before a storm. His presence was overwhelming up close. Clean skin, soft warmth, the scent of magic and something faintly spicy that clung to the open collar of his robe.

And his mouth—smirking, infuriating, very kissable—curved slightly as if he could read every unspoken thought flashing behind her eyes.

She blinked, and it snapped her out of it.

No. Nope. This was not her. She did not flirt with Draco Malfoy. She did not fantasise about wandering into his flat half-dressed and lingering on the precipice of kissing him.

She cleared her throat and took a step back.

“Well,” she said, far too brightly. “I’ve returned the stolen property, so... that’s that.”

His brow lifted, mouth twitching. “Is it?”

“Yup. All done.” She gestured vaguely between them. “Transaction complete.”

He didn’t move. Just watched her, lazy and sharp, like he was both amused and cataloguing every twitch of her mouth.

Hermione took another half-step back.

Her heel caught the edge of Crookshanks, who had very suddenly and very inconveniently decided to insert himself into the threshold like a sentient tripwire.

“Oh—bollocks—!”

She stumbled, caught herself on the doorframe, and just barely avoided face-planting into her own hallway. Her robe, in all its treacherous glory, chose that moment to gape open at the front, revealing far more thigh than she had any emotional readiness for.

Crookshanks yowled.

She bent to scoop him up with what little dignity remained, which only managed to flash even more leg. The cat twisted in her arms, indignant. She cradled him like a squirming melon.

Malfoy—utterly unhelpful—leaned casually against the edge of his kitchen counter, arms crossed, that maddening half-smile still plastered on his face.

“You alright there, Granger?”

“Perfectly fine,” she snapped, voice a little too high. “Just—cat wrangling. It’s a sport.”

“Looks rigorous.”

She huffed, hugging Crookshanks tighter. “Right. I’ll just—yes. Going now. Thanks for—um—existing. Bye!”

She spun and marched out with all the grace of a panicked owl, robe flapping, Crookshanks grumbling, cheeks burning like lit coals.

Behind her, she didn’t need to look to know he was still watching.

The door to number thirteen clicked shut with an infuriatingly soft finality.

And behind it, Draco Malfoy laughed—low, quiet, and entirely too pleased with himself.

Rain tapped insistently at the windows, casting soft shadows across Hermione’s walls. The sky was the kind of grey that clung to the edges of the world—misty, bruised, restless.

She’d just poured herself a glass of wine when the knock came.

Soft. Measured. Familiar.

She padded to the door barefoot, this time not bothering with a mirror check. She already knew who it would be.

Malfoy stood in the hallway, slightly damp from the rain, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair falling in soft, wet strands around his temples. He looked unfairly good for someone claiming to have a problem.

“Is this a bad time?” he asked.

“Do I look like I have a social life?”

He smiled. “Fair point.”

She stepped back. “Come in before you drip everywhere.”

He did, toeing off his shoes near the door and glancing around as though double-checking that he hadn’t entered a dream. Without a word, he flicked his wand in a casual arc over his clothes, drying the rain from his shirt and sleeves in a soft whisper of magic. He held something under one arm—a folded towel?

“I need your help,” he said, crossing to her sofa and setting the towel down.

Hermione followed, only to watch him unfold the bundle and reveal—

Crookshanks.

Wrapped in a blanket, scowling like a war general removed from the front lines.

“I found him outside. In the rain. Sitting under the front steps like some cursed gargoyle.” He gave Crookshanks a look. “Sopping wet. Growled when I tried to leave him. I had to carry him upstairs like some ridiculous feline hostage.”

Hermione blinked. “Why was he wet?”

“I have no idea. He might’ve bathed himself. Or thrown himself in a puddle. Possibly both.”

“He’s dramatic.”

“He’s you in feline form.”

She snorted and took the damp bundle from him. “You brought him back like a cursed artefact.”

“I panicked. He gave me that look. The one that says ‘I might be plotting your slow demise.’”

She looked down at her cat, who blinked up at her with wide, judgmental eyes. “That’s just his face.”

Malfoy chuckled. “Remind me to ward my flat.”

“Tea?” she asked, nodding toward the kitchen.

“Only if you’re drinking something stronger.”

She raised an eyebrow, then grabbed a second glass and poured him wine. He followed her to the sofa, Crookshanks now curled like a spiteful hot water bottle between them.

The rain deepened outside, thunder a soft grumble in the distance. Inside, everything was warm and golden and quiet.

They talked. Not about the war. Not about old grudges. About ridiculous things: a disastrous Apparition lesson he once witnessed in Knockturn Alley. A Ministry memo gone wrong involving a mislabelled dragon egg. She told him about a plant in her office that kept hexing her quills.

Malfoy laughed.

Really laughed.

And something inside her shifted.

Because it was a good laugh. Rich, surprised, unguarded. And she wanted more of it. Wanted to draw it out of him over and over like a spell she’d just discovered.

“Merlin,” she said, smiling. “You should do that more often.”

“What, laugh?”

She nodded, sipping her wine. “It’s strangely... nice. You’re very human when you do it.”

“High praise.”

“I’m serious.”

Malfoy looked at her for a long moment. “So are your eyes always that warm when you’re teasing someone, or is that just for me?”

She went still.

Her pulse fluttered in her wrist, her wineglass suddenly too full. The room seemed quieter somehow—just the rain, the soft click of Crookshanks’ breathing, and the sudden thrum beneath her skin.

He was closer now. Not too close. But the kind of close where if she leaned forward even slightly, she could—

He reached out.

Tucked a curl behind her ear, fingers barely brushing her cheek.

Her breath caught.

His eyes dropped to her mouth.

And then—

He pulled back.

Not abruptly. Not coldly. But deliberately. Gently.

Like someone who knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how dangerous it would be to take it.

“I should go,” he said, voice low.

Hermione swallowed. “You don’t have to.”

His smile was soft and quiet and completely wrecking. “If I stay, I’m not going to keep pretending I don’t want to kiss you.”

She sat frozen, heart hammering, words lost somewhere between her throat and her chest.

Malfoy rose, fluid and graceful, brushing a thumb over the rim of his wineglass before setting it down.

“Goodnight, Granger.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving behind her cat, the empty glass, and Hermione—entirely undone on her sofa.

It was late.

Not the kind of late where the world slept peacefully—but the kind where everything felt suspended. Rain misted against the windows. The hallway was silent, dimly lit by the low enchantments embedded in the sconces. And Hermione stood outside Number Thirteen, barefoot, heart pounding, wearing a robe that had no business being so thin and a singular intention that she was done denying.

She didn’t knock like she had before—nervous, curious, careful.

She knocked once .

Firm. Clear. Certain.

When the door opened, it felt like breath leaving her lungs.

Draco Malfoy stood before her, just as he had the first time—bare chest, ink curling like secrets over pale skin, tousled hair, storm-coloured eyes.

But this time, she wasn’t surprised.

This time, he was.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t ask why she was there.

He just looked at her.

And then—he stepped back.

She stepped in.

The door clicked shut behind her, sealing the quiet, humming tension into something alive.

She was barely two steps in before he reached for her.

His hand cupped her cheek, the other at her waist, and he pulled her to him with a swiftness that was all instinct and intention.

And then he kissed her.

Gods, he kissed her .

His mouth was warm and demanding, tasting faintly of mint and want and something that had been simmering for weeks . Her hands fisted in his hair without thinking, pulling him closer, deeper. His kiss wasn’t hesitant. It was hungry. Like he’d been waiting for her to make this move and was now determined to ensure she never regretted it.

He pressed her back against the door, and she gasped as his thigh slid between hers, as his hands— big hands —roamed under her robe, skimming over bare skin.

“You came back,” he murmured against her mouth, the words breaking softly between kisses.

“I never left,” she whispered, and pulled him back in.

His lips dragged down her throat, slow and hot, and she tilted her head to give him space, heart thudding as his teeth scraped over her pulse point.

Her robe slipped from her shoulders, pooling silently at her feet, baring her completely to him.

He pulled back to look at her.

And the way he looked at her—

Not just with heat, but with reverence. Like she'd surprised him, undone him, and he was scrambling to put himself back together just enough to keep touching her.

“You’re dangerous,” he said hoarsely.

Hermione, breathless, replied, “I know.”

He kissed her again, slower this time. Deeper. One hand moved up her ribcage, brushing the side of her breast with a touch so light it made her shiver. She pressed into him, fingers tracing the lines of his back, the dip of his spine, the heat of his skin beneath her palms.

He walked her backward, guiding her with the steady rhythm of his mouth on hers, his body a constant pressure against her own.

When the backs of her knees hit the edge of his sofa, he paused. Just long enough to look at her, asking permission without speaking.

She nodded.

And then they were tangled on the couch—skin to skin, legs wrapped around his waist, breath mingling in gasps and half-sighed names.

His touch was thorough, almost reverent. She felt worshipped, explored, undone.

The tattoos along his arms shifted with every movement, his muscles taut under her hands, his mouth mapping a path from her collarbone to the underside of her breast to the edge of jaw, tasting, testing, making her squirm.

Her hands roamed—chest, back, hips. That ridiculous V-shape that disappeared beneath his pyjama trousers, tugged slightly lower every time she shifted beneath him.

“Draco,” she breathed, and he groaned like her saying his name physically affected him.

He pressed his forehead to hers, both of them panting. “Tell me to stop.”

She shook her head.

“Tell me this isn’t just one night.”

She opened her eyes. “It’s not .”

And that was all he needed.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his grey joggers. The fabric slid down slowly, dragging over his hips, revealing lean muscle, ink, skin—and the full truth of how much he’d wanted this. Wanted her .

Hermione’s breath hitched, eyes raking over him like she couldn’t quite decide where to look first—his defined chest rising and falling, the trail of hair down his stomach, the heat in his gaze that made her feel bare before he’d even touched her again.

She sat up, one hand reaching to trace along the sharp edge of his hipbone, thumb brushing over his skin. Her fingers dipped lower, slow and unhurried, until they wrapped around the thick length of him.

He exhaled sharply, a low sound catching in his throat as her touch closed around him. He was hot and heavy in her palm, already leaking at the tip, and her thumb swept over it instinctively.He twitched in her grasp—muscle coiling beneath skin—and his eyes fluttered shut for half a second.

“Fuck,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, voice gone wrecked.

She watched him—watched the way his body responded to her touch, the way his jaw tightened, how his hips shifted just slightly forward, instinctual and utterly vulnerable. He was gorgeous like this. All that composure undone. All that smug charm stripped away until there was just him —bare, breathless, and hers .

“Beautiful,” she whispered, almost to herself.

His eyes opened at that, fixing on her like she’d just said something far more intimate than her hand currently wrapped around him. And when he kissed her again, it wasn’t just heat—it was reverent. Like she’d shattered something in him, and he was thanking her for it with every part of his body.

He eased her back against the cushions, their bodies aligning in a slow, perfect press. His hands followed the curves they already knew by instinct—trailing down her arms, her sides, until he could coax her thighs open again with a quiet, coaxing grip. The softness in his eyes hadn’t faded, but it had deepened into something hungry. Focused. Worshipful .

Then his hand slid lower.

He parted her thighs with a quiet kind of authority, settling between them like he belonged there, fingers slipping through the heat of her with a groan so low she felt it in her chest.

She sucked in a breath, hips lifting into his hand, wordless and wanting.

Malfoy teased her—circling her clit with maddening precision, light, patient strokes that had her thighs trembling around his wrist. She bit her lip to stay quiet, but he looked up at her from between her breasts, utterly focused.

“Don’t do that,” he murmured, voice gravel-dark. “Let me hear you.”

And when he pressed two fingers inside her—slow, steady, curling just right— everything inside her contracted.

Her body jolted like he’d flipped some secret switch, one she hadn’t even known she had, and suddenly all that teasing heat was pulsing sharp and hot beneath her skin. She fisted the cushion beside her, the other hand tangled in his hair, dragging him closer like she needed him to hold her together—because she was coming undone.

Her back arched. Hips rolled to meet every stroke. She tried to keep control, to bite down the sounds clawing up her throat, but it was impossible.

Merlin, his fingers—how did he know ?

The pressure built so fast it felt like falling—helpless and headlong. No spell, no wand, no theory could explain how this man , with just his fingers and that maddening mouth, could take her apart like this.

And when she came, it ripped through her—white-hot, shaking, her breath caught on his name and her body wracked with waves of release that left her gasping.

“Fuck—Malfoy—”

“Draco,” he rasped against her chest, lifting his head. His voice was wrecked, raw. “Say it.”

She blinked down at him, lips parted, hair wild around her flushed face. “Draco.”

It wasn’t a plea. It was a claim .

And it snapped something inside him.

He lined himself up, the head of his cock slipping through her folds, teasing, testing. Her breath caught—every nerve ending focused on that maddening pressure, that promise of fullness.

He pushed in slowly.

She gasped—back arching, thighs spreading wider around him as her hands gripped the back of the sofa, fingernails digging into the velvet.

Malfoy cursed, low and broken. “You feel— fuck, Granger —you feel unreal.”

Her voice was breathless. “Don’t stop now.”

He moved—long, smooth strokes that had her clawing at him, hips lifting to meet his rhythm. The sofa creaked beneath them, the leather sticking faintly to damp skin. She tilted her head back, moaning when he shifted slightly, the angle hitting something devastatingly deep.

How does he know?

“Right there,” she whispered, barely able to speak, and he obeyed—again and again, hitting that spot with maddening precision, his breath ghosting hot and damp over her neck.

She wrapped a leg around his waist, dragging him in deeper, needing more, needing all of him . Her other foot pressed against the sofa arm for leverage, trying to ground herself, but nothing could anchor her when he touched her like this—like he was born to ruin her.

Godric, how is he real?

Everything about him was infuriatingly perfect. The way his body fit against hers like a bloody secret. The way his hands held her, strong and sure, like he'd mapped every curve in some dream and was now committing them to memory with reverent accuracy. The way he moved—deliberate, confident, devastating.

He knew exactly what he was doing. Exactly how to touch her.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against her skin.

“Because I’m about to—”

He kissed her then—hungry, rough, a hand sliding between them, fingers finding her clit and rubbing fast, tight circles until—

She shattered.

Her eyes squeezed shut, a cry caught in her throat. Her entire body locked, then trembled, then melted around him as the orgasm ripped through her—pure, molten heat pouring down her spine, stealing her breath, emptying her thoughts.

He did that. He—Draco Malfoy—just did that. With his hands, his mouth, his body.

She didn’t even have time to recover.

Malfoy groaned—hips stuttering—then buried himself deep, grinding once, twice, and spilled inside her with a soft curse against her throat. His whole body trembled above her, like she’d undone him just as thoroughly.

And gods, that thought— that she could make him come apart like this —was almost enough to tip her over again.

But she didn’t get the chance to recover.

Because he kissed her again, slower this time, lingering. One hand dragged gently down her thigh, the other cradled the back of her head, and his voice—low, wrecked, reverent—breathed against her skin.

“Come to bed.”

She barely nodded before he was lifting her—effortless, solid, his arms strong around her thighs—and carrying her through the dimly lit flat toward the four-poster in his room, the sheets already rumpled from too many nights alone.

There, he laid her out like something precious. Worshipped her all over again.

This time, he took his time.

Brought her to another orgasm with his mouth alone, his fingers keeping her exactly where he wanted her until she was sobbing his name into the pillow.

And then—on all fours, hair wild, his hands gripping her hips as he thrust into her from behind, harder now, deeper—he made her come again with a cry that left her shaking in his arms.

It was messier. Rougher. Filthy and desperate. And completely them .

By the time they collapsed into the pillows—limbs tangled, breaths staggered, bodies aching in the most exquisite ways—Hermione wasn’t sure where she ended and he began.

His hand rested low on her stomach. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his shoulder. Their legs intertwined under the sheets, warmth humming between them like magic left unspoken.

She felt him exhale beside her, nose buried in the curve of her neck, utterly content.

And then—there was a sound.

A soft thud .

Followed by the telltale jingle of claws on the floorboards.

Hermione blinked one eye open just in time to see Crookshanks leap onto the bed—proud, puffed, and carrying something in his mouth.

A green apple.

Dripping slightly from the stem.

He dropped it between them with a grunt, tail flicking like a banner of victory, and promptly curled up at the foot of the bed, smug as a king reclaiming his throne.

Hermione stared at the apple.

Then at Malfoy.

And burst out laughing.

Full-bodied, breathless, tears-pricking-her-eyes laughing .

“Oh my gods,” she choked. “This is how it started .”

Malfoy glanced at the cat. Then at the apple. Then at her.

And smiled.

Soft. Rare. Unmistakably sincere.

“Well,” he murmured, dragging her closer, tucking her under his arm like she’d always belonged there, “I can’t say I mind the ending.”