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There were many things that Draco Malfoy had expected to happen after the war.
Certain death, for example, or, at the very least, a lifetime imprisonment in Azkaban.
If you’d told him that he would in fact be returning to Hogwarts to finish his education, he’d have laughed in your face.
And then, if you’d had the gall to even suggest he’d bury the hatchet with two-thirds of the Golden Trio, you might have found a quick hex being directed your way.
Yet here he is, sitting beside none other than Harry Potter in an eighth year Transfiguration class, staring at the back of Hermione Granger’s head.
She’s sat next to Theo Nott, and, though he and Theo have been best friends since first year, Draco has a sudden desire to kick his friend’s chair out from beneath him.
Because, while he’s loath to admit it, Draco has had a crush on Hermione for… well, let’s just say it’s been a while—and seeing Theo sitting so close to her, the two of them chatting so easily, he’s filled with enough ire to overflow his father’s prized gold cauldron.
Draco watches their conversation closely, his eye twitching every time Granger chuckles, his jaw clenching with each obscene flick of Theo’s fringe.
He’s wound up so tightly that it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to figure out why he can’t quite understand what they’re saying, and another twenty seconds of careful listening to register they’re speaking French.
This realisation irks Draco even further—how dare his best friend and his… his, er—Granger, speak in code during lessons?
Pulse thrumming, he watches as Theo pouts and tilts his head down, batting his eyelashes. “Il veut juste que tu lui dises à quel point il est beau.”
“What did he—” Draco whips around to face Harry. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
Draco shakes his head frustratedly. “‘Beau’, he said ‘beau’, doesn’t that mean beautiful?”
“Malfoy, what are you—”
“Them,” he hisses, jerking his arm in the direction of Theo and Hermione. “They’re speaking in French, and he just—”
“He called her beautiful?” Harry mutters, finally looking more intrigued.
“Yes.” Draco exhales. “Well, I think so.”
He’s tense as both he and Harry turn back to face them, and Draco listens keenly for the sound of any other word he might possibly recognise.
“Tu as l'air ridicule.”
“‘Ridicule’,” Harry repeats, elbowing Draco’s side. “That must mean ‘ridiculous’, right?”
“Obviously.” Draco rolls his eyes, as though he has any better grip on the language himself.
“Then why is she smiling? Why is he smiling?” Harry grabs the edge of the table. “Are they flirting?”
For the first time in his life, Draco wishes he’d paid more attention during his French lessons. “It certainly sounds like it, Potter.”
“But why are they—I don’t understand…”
“Shh,” Draco whispers, “Theo’s saying something else.”
“Demande-lui juste d'aller à Hogsmeade avec toi ce week-end!”
Harry grimaces. “Hogsmeade? Why are they talking about Hogsmeade?”
“Do you think—is he… asking her out?” Draco suddenly feels a bit sick, his heart pounds and his stomach churns. He decides to change the subject. “Why are you so invested in their conversation anyway, Potter?”
“What—why am I—I’m not…”
This jarred response does not fill Draco with hope.
If both Potter and Theo have an interest in dating Hermione, he stands absolutely no chance—why would Hermione ever choose him over them?
“You’re clearly bothered by seeing Hermione with someone else, so I can only imagine you wish you were in Theo’s position.”
“Theo? You think I’m jealous of Theo?”
“Er… yes?” Draco frowns, weren’t all signs pointing to this conclusion?
“I’m not—that isn’t—” Harry covers his face with his hands. “Fuck, you can’t tell anyone, alright?”
Draco barely has time to acknowledge the bizarre position he’s found himself in, one in which Harry fucking Potter is entrusting him with a secret. “Yeah, sure,” he agrees quickly. “What is it?”
“It’s Hermione I’m jealous of.”
“What do you mean—”
Harry interrupts. “I mean… it’s Theo, I want Theo.”
“Really?” Draco asks, incredulous, though peers forward a little to look at Theo and see what all the fuss is about. He does have a good nose, Draco acknowledges, and a strong jawline…
He turns back to Harry, who’s glaring at him, and Draco shrugs, unabashed.
“Why didn’t you say anything before?” he asks.
“Why would I?”
Draco widens his eyes in faux horror. “I’m trying my best not to be offended, Potter, but I literally bared my soul to you about Hermione a few weeks ago, and, instead of sharing your own torrid, unrequited love story, you chose to leave me basking in insecurity—” Harry opens his mouth to respond, but Draco continues, “An insecurity which, I might add, led me to fretting that you were suddenly harbouring hidden feelings for your best friend.”
Harry barely stifles a laugh. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Don’t be absurd?! She is—”
“Excuse me.” McGonagall’s voice abruptly shifts Draco’s attention and he finds her staring directly at him. “What is so important that you just couldn’t wait to discuss it? Perhaps you’d like to share it with the rest of us, Mr Malfoy?”
He squirms awkwardly in his seat. “No, Professor.”
“I thought not.” She gives a curt nod and refocuses back on the rest of the class. “So, that will be a minimum three-foot-long composition due on Thursday, I will see you all next week.”
The room immediately erupts with the sounds of chatter and gossip as everyone prepares to leave.
“Should we say something to them?” Harry asks quietly, slowly packing away his quill and parchment.
Draco freezes. “About what?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” He does know, obviously, but he hates this, he’s never been so unsure of himself in his life.
In the end, Draco has the decision taken away from him.
“Malfoy!”
“Granger?”
Be cool, he thinks, and starts to lean backwards in an attempt to posture elegantly against his desk.
He misses, and almost falls flat on his face.
Luckily, Draco feels he manages to salvage the situation with an unusual shuffle and Hermione appears none the wiser. Good save, he thinks, congratulating himself before turning his attention back to Hermione.
“I… Uh—” Her cheeks are highlighted by a flush of pink and Draco wants to kiss the freckles underneath. He’s so distracted again that he almost misses her question: “Are you doing anything this weekend?”
“No!” Draco says a little too quickly, his voice a little too high-pitched. “I mean, maybe going to Hogsmeade, but nothing set in stone, you know—just playing it by ear, going with the flow.”
He wishes he had actually fallen, and, ideally, lost consciousness.
“Oh, good, maybe we could go together then? To Hogsmeade, that is.” She tucks a loose curl behind her ear.
“Together?” Draco repeats, afraid he might have misheard. He replays the last hour in his mind, desperately trying to ascertain how in Merlin’s name Theo and Granger whispering in French to one another has somehow led to this moment.
Hermione’s voice jolts him back to the present. “Yes,” she says, her breath catching slightly at the end. “That is… if you want to? If not, don’t worry—”
“Of course I want to!” Draco blurts out.
Her responding smile makes the anxiety and absurdity worth it. “You do?”
“Absolutely, yes, I really—” Draco abruptly closes his mouth. “I mean, yeah, that would be cool.” He swipes at some imaginary dust on his shoulder.
Hermione grins. “Cool.”
“Cool,” Draco murmurs back, watching as she skips down the corridor and disappears out of view.
******
“So,” Harry starts, punching Draco’s arm the next day with a too wide grin on his face, “I heard you’re going to Hogsmeade with Hermione on Saturday.”
“Yeah.” Draco gives a small shrug, hoping he appears at least a little nonchalant.
“And Theo asked me out this morning!”
Draco gapes, and then narrows his eyes as the pieces come together. “It was us they were talking about, wasn’t it?”
Potter somehow manages to grin even wider. “Looks like it.” He starts walking off—presumably towards the Great Hall—and Draco chases after him.
“And you’re okay with that?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “The two of them, plotting about us—right under our noses?”
“Er, yes?... Maybe?” Potter tilts his head to the side. “Why, what are you thinking?”
Draco smirks as an idea forms. “What would you say about us taking some revenge?”