Chapter Text
September 20th, 1994
Malfoy,
Thank you so much for the birthday candies. They are delicious! I’m rationing them so I can enjoy them as long as possible.
I had no idea there was a French Diagon Alley. I took a trip there the summer before last. I wish I could have visited then. If I’m ever back in France, I’ll be sure to stop for some more nougats. What is the name of the sweet shop, so I know where to go?
Thank you again,
Hermione
P.S. my favorite candy is chocolate.
Draco folded the parchment and shoved it into his pocket before anyone could notice he’d been exchanging letters with the Gryffindor swot.
Exchanging was a generous term. He’d received far more letters from the bushy-haired know-it-all than he’d ever bothered to reply to. Why she felt so compelled to write to him was beyond his comprehension.
It had started last year when she’d had the audacity to ask him to defend the bloody hippogriff that attacked him. Naturally, he ignored her first letter. His silence, however, hadn’t discouraged her. She sent two more.
What she didn’t know was that he’d already asked his father to drop the charges. Contrary to popular belief, Draco wasn’t cruel. He knew he’d provoked the animal. The whole situation had been ridiculous.
He’d only wanted to ride it—just like the Myopic Boy Wonder had.
Draco loved flying. Why shouldn’t he have the same opportunity?
In his eagerness, he’d ignored the proper approach. Truthfully, it hadn’t even been the creature he’d been insulting—it had been Scar Head. Why did Potter always get special treatment?
One thing led to another, and… well. Not his proudest moment.
He’d written home about the injury only because he’d been told to. Lucius Malfoy was protective of his only heir—as he should be. Draco hadn’t anticipated his father would escalate the situation to that extreme. If he had, he never would have reported something so minor.
Suffice it to say, he’d become far more careful about what he wrote home…lest he get slapped in the face by the roaring lioness of Gryffindor.
He would never admit it, but Granger’s apology letter had been hilarious. He reread it occasionally when he needed a laugh.
In the dormitory, Draco checked that the room was empty before opening his trunk. From the very bottom, he retrieved a small wooden box and sat on his bed. He added her latest letter beside the birthday card she’d sent him over the summer.
She’d actually sent him a birthday letter.
He huffed, scanning it again. Not for the first time, he wondered if she’d lost her mind. Why she thought he’d care about a birthday greeting from her was baffling.
Fortunately, his parents hadn’t seen it arrive. They hated muggleborns. He didn’t like to think about what they would have done if they’d seen it.
His fingers brushed over her most recent letter—the one that had finally prompted him to reply.
After the Weasel picked a fight that ended with Moody turning Draco into a ferret—a ferret!—Granger had gone to the headmaster on his behalf.
He’d written back immediately, telling her not to interfere.
She hadn’t listened.
The entire ordeal had been humiliating, and the last thing he’d wanted was to owe her anything. But thanks to her meddling, the ginger git received detention while Draco walked away untouched.
Which, of course, was the proper outcome.
Still… he doubted the headmaster would have seen things fairly otherwise.
Reluctantly, Draco admitted that without her interference, he might not have come out on top.
So, he’d repaid her—with candy. Framed as a birthday gift, not a debt.
He refused to acknowledge that she’d actually helped him.
But now…
Now he had a problem.
Should he reply?
She’d asked a direct question. And given her track record, she wouldn’t stop until she got an answer.
With a sigh, Draco shut the box, returned it to his trunk, and retrieved his monogrammed stationery.
***
The school owl swooped in and landed at the foot of Draco’s bed, dropping a purple box wrapped in gold ribbon before taking off again.
Draco pulled it toward him, pushing aside his other Christmas gifts. Beneath the ribbon was a note.
He unfolded it.
December 25th, 1994
Malfoy,
Happy Christmas! I know you love La Confiserie de Magique’s caramel apple nougat, but since I’m unable to pop on over to France at the moment (bummer), I thought I’d gift you with my favorite brand of chocolate. Enclosed, there is a selection of Cadbury chocolates. My personal favorites are the raspberries and cream, and orange truffles, but you can’t go wrong with any of them.
Enjoy!
-Hermione
“Oí! Who’s that from?” Vince called from across the room.
Theo, Blaise, and Greg all glanced up.
“Mind your own business,” Draco snapped, yanking his curtains shut.
He shoved the note under his pillow and immediately began writing a reply—sharp, irritated strokes scratching across the parchment.
Who did she think she was, sending him a Christmas gift?
They weren’t friends.
They didn’t exchange presents.
He wouldn’t allow this to continue.
He’d send it back. End of story.
***
“Coming, mate?”
Draco slammed the drawer shut, furious.
She’d sent it back.
Perfect timing, too—he didn’t have the time to return it properly.
He briefly considered confronting her in the Great Hall, forcing her to take it. But that would draw attention. And that was the last thing he needed.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”
As they made their way to the Entrance Hall to meet up with their dates for the Yule Ball, Draco stewed over the unexpected gift from the witch he’d been studiously ignoring all semester.
Well… mostly ignoring.
He hadn’t intended to keep the correspondence going with the Gryffindor princess, but after replying to her initial question, he’d found himself asking a few of his own.
When Pansy had caught him reading one of Granger’s letters, he’d been certain she would call him out. But, to his surprise, she hadn’t said a word. A few weeks later, he’d discovered why—she had gone and befriended the little swot.
He still wasn’t entirely sure of Pansy’s motivations, but the rumor was she’d secured the youngest Tri-Wizard Champion as her date to the ball. The timing of that friendship was… suspicious, to say the least.
Draco, on the other hand, had asked Tracey Davis.
She was pretty in a classic sort of way, and while she wasn’t a pureblood match his parents would have preferred, she was still a Slytherin—which counted for something. Truth be told, Draco had chosen Tracey less for her company and more for what she represented.
After Granger had explained what a muggle “cell phone” was in her last letter, Draco had found himself… curious.
He couldn’t exactly ask Professor Burbage without raising suspicion. And with the way his father had been behaving lately, Draco had no doubt Lucius would ship him off to Durmstrang without hesitation if he thought Draco had developed an interest in muggles.
So, he’d done his research quietly.
A few books, checked out under an alias. The covers spelled to hide the titles and read in the privacy of his four poster.
And yet, the more he read, the more questions he had.
How did a massive metal aeroplane stay in the air? How could a wizard—no, a muggle—survive a journey into space? And what exactly was the purpose of a telly?
When the Yule Ball had been announced, Draco had realized he had the perfect opportunity.
There were no muggleborns in Slytherin—but there were half-bloods.
Tracey, therefore, served two purposes.
One: secure an acceptable date for the ball.
Two: provide insight into the muggle world.
Not that he would ever admit as much.
No—he would simply ask polite, conversational questions about her mother. Nothing more. Certainly not because he was personally interested.
Because he wasn’t.
Not in the slightest.
“Draco! There you are—and right on time too.”
Tracey’s voice cut through his thoughts as he and Theo entered the Entrance Hall.
“Tracey, good evening,” Draco said smoothly, taking her hand and brushing his lips over her knuckles in greeting. “You look…”
He gave her Slytherin-green dress a brief once-over. Unoriginal.
“…very nice.”
Tracey beamed. “Thank you, Draco. You’re looking very dapper yourself.”
He smoothed a hand down his black dress robes, silver accents catching the light. His mother had insisted on the new set, despite his preference for the navy ones he’d worn in the past. Blue brought out the subtle undertone in his eyes—something few people ever noticed.
“Thank you. Would you—”
“No way!”
Tracey’s voice jumped an octave as she stared toward the staircase.
Draco turned.
“I can’t believe Viktor Krum asked her!”
His gaze followed hers—and landed on Granger.
She stood at the top of the staircase; her hand extended as Krum pressed a kiss to her knuckles. For a moment, Draco didn’t recognize her.
Her hair—usually wild—had been tamed into soft, elegant curls. Her gown, a flowing periwinkle, moved like water as she descended the stairs.
She didn’t look like the same girl.
She looked—
Draco frowned.
Pretty.
“She doesn’t even like Quidditch,” Tracey muttered, watching as the pair entered the Great Hall. “Why would Viktor Krum ask Hermione bloody Granger?”
Draco blinked, dragging his attention away.
“Shall we?” He asked, offering his arm.
Inside the Great Hall, Draco quickly located his friends. Theo had already vanished—likely with the Beauxbatons girl he’d been eyeing all week. Greg stood near the edge of the dance floor with Millicent, while Vince lingered nearby with a girl Draco vaguely recognized but couldn’t name.
“Oh my gosh—is that Pansy Parkinson with Harry Potter?” Tracey whispered.
Draco followed her gaze and hummed in acknowledgment, though his attention drifted elsewhere.
Back to Granger.
How had he never noticed she wasn’t entirely unfortunate to look at?
He hadn’t paid much attention to girls before this year, but he’d always assumed she wasn’t attractive. When had that changed? Or had she always been this easy on the eyes—and he’d simply never bothered to notice?
It had to be a spell.
Surely, he would have noticed before now the curve of her hips, the graceful line of her neck, the shape of her lips…
“Let’s dance,” Tracey said, pulling him onto the floor.
Draco fell easily into step, guiding her through the waltz with practiced precision. He focused on the rhythm, the movement, anything but the witch in periwinkle.
But as the evening wore on, avoiding her became increasingly difficult.
At one point, Pansy dragged Granger and Potter over to join their group. Draco didn’t need an introduction, but he politely introduced Tracey anyway.
It was… strange.
Standing there. Talking.
Listening to Potter recount his encounter with the Hungarian Horntail—and actually finding himself interested.
The bespectacled git wasn’t nearly as insufferable without the Weasel glued to his side.
Which begged the question—
Where was the Weasel?
Draco had just begun to consider the mystery when—
“Did you like the chocolates?”
He turned.
Granger had dropped into the chair beside him, reaching for a glass of water.
“What?” He called over the music.
She leaned closer.
“The chocolates I sent you. Did you like them?”
Up close, her eyes caught the light.
Not brown.
Gold. Like honey dipped in warm sunlight.
Draco frowned. “I told you—we’re not exchanging gifts. You need to take them back.”
She rolled her eyes. “And I told you I’m not accepting a return. They’re a gift.”
“Stubborn witch,” he muttered, looking away.
He’d have to find another way to repay her. Why did she insist on interfering? First the Weasel, now this.
“Where is your Weasel friend, anyway?” He asked.
“Ronald is not my friend,” she snapped. “Hasn’t been since the end of last year.”
Draco blinked.
Interesting.
“Did he finally reveal himself to be the insufferable idiot he is?”
“Something like that.”
She crossed her arms, clearly unwilling to elaborate.
“Harry and I are better off without him,” she added, chin lifting defiantly.
“I won’t argue with you there.”
Their eyes met.
And for a moment, something shifted.
This was the same witch he’d mocked for years. The same one who had responded with letters. Kindness. A birthday card. A Christmas gift.
Something in his chest tightened.
Uncomfortable.
He looked away just as Krum approached, asking her to dance.
She left without another word.
Draco watched her go, unease settling in his chest.
How, exactly, had he ended up in her debt?
And how was he meant to repay it?
***
January 21st, 1995
“Potter!”
Draco couldn’t believe what he was doing as he hustled down the corridor.
“Hey—Potter! Wait up!”
The Boy Who Never Used a Comb turned, clearly surprised. “Yes?”
Draco adjusted his bag, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this looked. “I was wondering,” he muttered, glancing around, “if you’ve figured out the second task yet.”
“Er… no,” Potter said slowly.
Draco gestured toward the wall for a bit of privacy, lowering his voice as students passed by.
“I heard you’re supposed to put the egg in water,” he said. “There’s a message—but you can’t hear it unless you’re underwater.”
Potter stared. Then he narrowed his eyes. “You’re messing with me.”
Draco scoffed. “Try it and see. I’ve got to get to class.”
He brushed past him before Potter could question him further.
As he headed toward Charms, doubt crept in.
Technically, he owed Granger, not Potter. But helping Potter helped her too—and Pansy had mentioned how stressed she was over the second task. When he’d overheard Diggory in the library discussing the egg, Draco seized the opportunity. Telling Potter directly was simpler than explaining to Granger why he suddenly cared. He wasn’t ready for that conversation.
Still, he wasn’t sure it was enough.
Not nearly enough.
***
February 22nd, 1995
“I miss quidditch,” Potter groaned, dropping his head onto the table with a heavy thud. “I’d take the challenge of finding the snitch in the sky over seeking a prize under water any day.”
“At least it’ll be over in an hour,” Theo said.
“Assuming I don’t drown,” Potter muttered.
Granger smacked the back of his head. “Don’t say that!”
Draco turned another page, scanning.
Nothing.
They’d been at it for nearly an hour—six of them crammed around a table, searching for anything that might help Potter survive underwater.
“Are you sure you can’t do a bubble head charm?” Theo asked, closing the book he’d been scanning and exchanging it for another. “I mean if you can cast a spell as complex as a Patronus, surely you can master a bubble head charm?”
“I’ve tried,” Potter said. “It took months to learn a Patronus—I don’t have months. The task is in two days.”
“There has to be something simpler,” Blaise said, not looking up from his book. “A potion, maybe?”
“I’ve checked everything,” Granger said, flipping pages frantically. “Even the restricted section. There’s nothing.”
Her voice climbed, sharp with stress.
Draco winced. The witch got screechy when she was stressed out.
“We’ll figure it out,” Pansy said gently, rubbing her back.
Silence fell again.
Draco glanced across the table at Potter and Granger, still marveling at the absurdity of their situation. Three months ago, he would have hexed anyone who suggested he’d willingly share a table with Gryffindors.
Yet here they were—meeting in the library, working together to find a solution on a seemingly impossible task.
The tournament was clearly designed for fully trained wizards, not fourth years. He’d seen the Hungarian Horntail up close—the fact that Potter had survived with only singed robes seemed nothing short of miraculous. He truly was the Boy Who Refused to Die.
With this unexpected personal perspective of the wizard, Draco had come to (horror of horrors) respect the wizard. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that they were friends now, but rather, reluctant allies.
Of course, he knew it was all thanks to Granger for forming this unlikely alliance between their Houses. Draco turned another page, pretending to read while watching her from the corner of his eye. Her hair was escaping its braid as she frantically flipped through her own book, teeth worrying her bottom lip.
She glanced up suddenly, catching him watching, and the corners of her mouth lifted in a small, grateful smile. Draco’s gaze snapped back to his book; the words swimming before him as something fluttered in his chest—a sensation he immediately tried to squash.
Potter’s snowy owl swooped in, dropping a note on the table.
Draco ran two fingers over the bird’s head as it hooted softly.
Potter unfolded his letter, and Draco glimpsed the scrawled signature of someone named Padfoot.
“Are you so ashamed of your secret lover’s hideous face that she needs to have a code name when you swap love letters?” Draco teased.
Potter backhanded him lightly in the chest. “Shove off, Malfoy,” he muttered, glancing up and exchanging a look with Granger.
Draco smirked. They may have been allies now, but he couldn’t resist teasing Potter now and again. Someone had to keep the wizard humble, after all.
***
February 23rd, 1995
“Are you sure this will work?”
“Of course, I’m sure,” Draco lied. He handed Potter the Gillyweed. “The book said it gives you fish-like qualities.”
“What book?”
“Don’t remember,” Draco said, loosening his tie. “Found it last night.”
That part, at least, was true.
After exhausting the library’s conventional resources, he’d expanded his search to books on magical creatures, plants, and even cookbooks. His persistence paid off when he found Gillyweed mentioned. Acquiring it was simple—his Godfather never questioned when Draco accessed his supply cabinet for “school projects.” This morning, he’d slipped in after Potions and found the labeled bag waiting.
“If this kills me,” Potter said, “I’m coming back to haunt you.”
“Sure, you will,” Draco smirked, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good luck tomorrow."