Chapter Text
Room 317- March 2000
The streets of London were damp with the kind of cold that settled into your bones and stayed there. A fine mist clung to the air like a second skin, and every breath Hermione took felt like breathing through a wet cloth. The war hadn’t touched this part of the world -at least not visibly- but it felt it anyway. Grey. Empty. Hollowed out like everything else.
She kept her head down, curls tucked beneath the hood of her coat, fingers shoved deep in her pockets. Muggle London was quieter now. People had learned to look away. Keep walking. Don’t ask questions. Don’t notice the girl who moved like she was always halfway through a battle.
She crossed two streets, stepped over a crumpled newspaper with a grinning Muggle politician on the cover, and finally reached the hotel. A faded sign above the door read “The Ravenmoor.” The R flickered like it was trying to disappear.
Inside, the lobby was warmer, but not by much. The radiator clanked loudly behind the front desk, fighting a losing battle against the chill. The hotel reeked of cigarette smoke and mildew, the wallpaper peeling in corners like old scabs.
The girl behind the counter couldn’t have been older than nineteen. Blonde roots, half-lidded eyes, a heavy smear of eyeliner. She didn’t even blink when Hermione stepped up.
“I’m here for a room,” Hermione said, soft but steady. “It’s under… Minerva Page.”
The girl looked down at the ledger, flipped a page, found the name without asking for ID. Of course she didn’t.
“Third floor,” she said, sliding a key across the counter. “Room 317.”
Hermione took it without a thank you. Their fingers didn’t touch.
She didn’t wait for the lift. She didn’t like the idea of being trapped in a metal box if something went wrong. The stairs creaked under her boots as she climbed, the key clutched tight in her palm. Her heartbeat wasn’t racing, but it wasn’t calm either.
Room 317 was at the end of the hall. The door was pale green, the paint chipped near the handle like it had been forced open once -or maybe often.
The key turned with a quiet click. The door shut behind her with a weighty thud.
She didn’t turn on the light.
“I don’t have much time,” she said, her voice a low murmur that settled into the room like smoke. She pulled her coat off; let it fall to the floor. “You’re lucky I came at all.”
Her jumper came next, tossed carelessly over the back of a stained armchair. “Your stupid move on the eastern flank almost got us both killed. Not to mention we lost three people because you couldn’t-”
She toed off her boots, unbuttoned her trousers and let them hit the floor. She didn’t bother folding anything. “Couldn’t wait three seconds to let them apparate out? Three seconds.”
Her voice was sharp now, edged with something she wouldn’t name. Grief. Anger. Shame.
She turned around, fully naked in the dark as she said-
“We wouldn’t have lost anyone.”
And there he was.
The figure emerging from the shadows. His fingers were at his collar, unfastening the high neck of a Death Eater uniform.
“You couldn’t have waited?” she snapped, eyes flashing. “You saw them. You saw them running. But you went for the spell anyway.”
He met her eyes, something unreadable flickering across his face.
His voice was cold and sharp enough to cut her open. “This is war, Granger.”
She didn’t flinch when he stepped in. When he reached for her jaw and dragged her mouth to his, and his punishing kiss. Desperation dressed in fury.
He broke just enough distance to speak against her lips. “And war doesn’t wait.”
His voice was low, flat, final. Like he was reminding her what they were.
His hand tightened on her jaw, and his mouth was bruising hers again.
It was angry. Desperate. Her teeth knocked against his as he pressed her back, fingers digging into her hips like he wanted to leave marks. She kissed him back just as hard. Bit down on his bottom lip until he hissed.
She wanted to hurt him. Wanted to drag the guilt out of him with her mouth.
They crashed into the bed.
There was no care in it. No rhythm, no grace. Just mouths and skin and breath and frustration -hot and seething and tangled between sheets that smelled like smoke.
~
The room was quiet again, except for the faint hum of the radiator.
Hermione lay on her back, one arm thrown over her eyes, the other pressed against her chest like she was trying to hold something in.
She didn’t speak. Not right away.
The sheets were rough. The air still cold. Her skin hadn’t stopped tingling since he touched her. And not in the way she hated. That was the worst part.
She hated herself more for that.
Across the room, Draco leaned against the windowsill, still half-dressed smoking. His profile was harsh in the low light -cheekbones like blades, mouth still swollen from how roughly they’d kissed. Bitten, really. Bitten and bruised and desperate.
They never said goodbye. That was their unspoken rule.
But she was always the last to leave.
Her fingers curled tighter against her chest.
This wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t information gathering or reckless rebellion. Not anymore. It never really was.
It was something uglier. And maybe softer. She couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
He didn’t look at her. But she knew he could feel her watching him.
Every time they did this, she told herself it would be the last.
Every time, she believed it less.
Hermione didn’t look when she heard the shuffle of fabric, the soft metallic scrape of his belt sliding through loops. She kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling like it held an answer she hadn’t figured out yet.
He didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t.
The door clicked shut a moment later, and she was alone.
That was the thing about Draco Malfoy.
He always left before it got quiet enough for her to ask why she was still there.
She exhaled slowly, forcing air through her lungs like it was a chore. Her mouth still stung. Her thighs were sore. Her heart… she didn’t want to think about it. So she didn’t.
Instead, she sat up and reached for her wand, casting a weak cleaning charm that didn’t get everything. She deserved that. A reminder.
The room looked worse in the half-light. The crumpled sheets. Her clothes in a heap. The faint outline of his body where he'd leaned against the window, smoke curling in the air like memory.
She pressed her palms against her eyes until stars bloomed.
What are you doing?
That voice -her voice, the logical one- had been louder once. It was barely a whisper now.
She knew what the others would say. Ron would lose his mind. Harry wouldn’t look at her. Ginny might slap her. The whole bloody Order would assume she’d been Imperiused.
But she hadn’t. She hadn’t been tricked or cursed or coerced.
That was the worst part.
It had started with a single mission. One night, months ago. Tension, hatred, and survival had blurred into something physical. And then again. And again. And somewhere along the way, she stopped thinking it would stop.
Now she wasn’t sure she could make it stop even if she tried.
Because when he touched her, when he kissed her like he needed it to survive, it was the only time she didn’t feel like she was drowning in this war.
And she hated herself for that.
It’s just sex. It’s just sex. It’s just sex.
She repeated it like a spell, like a shield. But it cracked every time she thought about the way his jaw clenched when she sometimes lied and said she might not come next time. The way he lingered just long enough to make her think he might say something. The way his eyes would search hers in the dark, as if there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t -wouldn’t.
She wasn’t in love with him.
Of course she wasn’t.
But her hands trembled when she reached for her jumper, and her throat burned with something dangerously close to grief.
She was in too deep. She’d crossed some invisible line, and now she didn’t know where the edge was anymore.
And he’d never say her name like it meant something. Not outside this room.
That was the truth. That was the line.
So why did it feel like a lie?
Room 101 - November 1999
The rain hadn’t stopped in days. London was soaked to the bone, and so was she.
She hated how clean the room was.
Too sterile. Too quiet. The white walls and muted carpet made everything feel staged -like this was a scene in a play, not a war meeting between two people who should want each other dead.
Hermione’s coat dripped onto the carpet as she paced the room. She’d written the note in her cleanest cursive. Left it with a contact she knew had ties to the Malfoy family. No names. No symbols. Just an address, a time, and a desperate plea.
She didn’t think he’d come.
But then the door opened.
Draco stepped inside, wet from the rain, his pale hair darker at the roots, jacket buttoned to the throat. His eyes scanned the room once, landing on her like a challenge.
“Was wondering if this was a trap,” he said casually, shutting the door. “Didn’t know you’d gotten so dramatic.”
She folded her arms. “This isn’t a joke.”
“No,” he said, peeling off his gloves. “It’s worse. You called me here like this is some kind of deal. What the hell do you want?”
She swallowed hard. “There’s a safe house in Cornwall. Thirty-two Muggleborn children. Some of them barely old enough to hold a wand. We think the snatchers are onto it. If they’re raided, they’ll be slaughtered.”
His expression didn’t change. Not even a twitch.
She stepped closer. “You could reroute the patrols. Pull rank. Feed them a false lead, something. You’re a Malfoy, they’ll listen to you.”
He laughed, sharp and humorless. “You think I’m going to put my neck on the line for a bunch of brats who shouldn’t have been born with magic in the first place?”
The slap never landed. But she wanted to hit him.
“You don’t believe that,” she snapped.
“I always have,” he said coldly. “You think you know me, Granger? You don’t know anything.”
“Don’t give me that coward’s excuse,” she hissed. “You’re not doing this because you believe in it. You’re doing it because you’re afraid.”
He stepped into her space, fast.
“Afraid of what?” he snarled. “Of you? Of your pathetic little rebellion? I’ve killed for less than this meeting.”
“And I’ve watched children die because of people like you!” she spat, trembling with fury. “Do you even know what it’s like to hold someone’s hand as they bleed out from a curse you could’ve stopped?”
His breath hitched, just slightly. Then his jaw tightened.
“We’re on opposite sides,” he said low. “You chose your cause. I chose mine.”
“You chose wrong!”
They were chest to chest now, breath crashing, eyes locked in open hatred. Her nails dug into her palms. His nostrils flared. The air between them burned.
And then, like a snapped wand, everything broke.
His hands were on her jaw, her shoulders, everywhere, and his mouth crushed hers without warning. It wasn’t a kiss; it wasn’t even a threat. A punishment? A surrender?
Hermione gasped against his lips, shoving at his chest, but she didn’t pull away.
She bit him instead.
He growled, fingers digging into her waist, slamming her back into the wall. Her head thudded lightly, but she didn’t care. She arched into him, desperate and furious and aching in ways she didn’t have names for.
Her hands tangled in his coat, dragging him closer. She wanted to bruise him. She wanted to feel every inch of how wrong this was. And he gave it to her.
He kissed like he was at war (because he was). And she kissed him back like she’d already lost (because she had).
When they finally broke apart, breathless and disoriented, he looked at her like he’d made a mistake.
“Don’t ask me for help again,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Not unless you’re ready to live with disappointment.”
He turned and walked out.
Hermione slid to the floor, chest heaving, hands shaking, lips stinging.
She’d come to save children.
Instead, she’d started something in her she couldn’t even name.
Was she that desperate to allow Malfoy to do that to her?
Granted he made it impossible to pull away from, but she also didn’t fight him on it either…
What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.
She could still feel him. The heat of his hands, the sharpness of his kiss, the press of his body against hers. It was as if the world had tilted on its axis the moment his lips had met hers, and now, nothing felt right.
Her head throbbed with the intensity of it. She couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t think straight. She was trembling, but it wasn’t from the cold.
No, she told herself. No. You’re not doing this.
Her pulse was still racing, but her brain refused to catch up. She forced herself to sit, wrapping her arms around her knees, pressing her head to her legs like if she buried herself deep enough, maybe she could bury the memory of him too.
But it was there. It would always be there. The taste of him. The feel of him. The need that had surged in her the moment his hands had touched her.
“Get it together, Hermione,” she whispered fiercely, her breath shaky. You’re better than this. You’ve always been better than this. You're better than this.
Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. He was a Death Eater. A bloody Death Eater. The very enemy. She should want to be sick just thinking about him. She should be disgusted.
But I’m not.
A cold shiver ran down her spine as the reality of that hit her. She wasn’t disgusted. She wasn’t recoiling in horror at the memory of what he had done. No, it was something else entirely.
Desire? That wasn’t right. No. It couldn’t be.
But why had she kissed him back? Why had she let him touch her like that? He was a killer. A traitor. A monster who stood against everything she believed in.
He’s fighting for Voldemort. He's still a Death Eater, still willing to do horrible things. He’s not changed.
And yet, God, she couldn’t shake the memory. She couldn’t shake the way her body had responded, the way he’d held her with such certainty, as if he already knew what she would do. As if he knew that in that moment, she would give in.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she shoved herself to her feet, her legs unsteady, like the earth beneath her was still shifting. She tried to steady her breath, but it came out in sharp bursts.
Stop it, Hermione.
She forced her gaze on the closed door, the place where he had walked out, leaving her standing there, breathless, heart aching in a way she couldn't explain. That kiss hadn’t been about passion. It hadn’t been about any kind of tenderness. It had been about power. Control. A statement. A way for him to claim her, to prove that he could, even in the middle of everything, war, violence, the constant bloodshed.
You should hate him, she reminded herself. You should hate him more than anything.
He was a Death Eater. He was the enemy. He had killed people, hurt people, and betrayed his own blood. He’d betrayed her.
And yet, a small, terrifying voice inside her asked, What if I don’t?
She gritted her teeth, dragging her fingers through her hair. No. No, I don’t want this. I can’t want this.
But there it was again. That feeling. That twisting in her gut, the one she couldn’t explain, the one that pulled at her as she thought about him. And it hurt. God, it hurt.
She pressed her palms to her eyes, hoping to will the images of him away, the taste of his kiss. It wasn’t real.
But deep down, a quiet voice whispered that it had been real.
A quiet, dangerous whisper that only made her feel more lost.