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It started with tea.
Not metaphorical tea—actual, honest-to-Merlin tea. Chamomile with a touch of honey. Hermione didn’t expect it to come from Draco Malfoy, of all people, but then again, she hadn’t expected him to offer her the chair by the fireplace in the newly renovated Hogwarts common room either.
The war had changed everyone, but it had carved something quieter into Malfoy. He was still pale, still sharp-featured and elegant in that maddening way that made half the girls in their Eighth Year class trip over their words, but he was… softer. Not kind. Not warm. But less cruel. Like a blizzard reduced to falling snow.
Hermione had been curled up in a chair by the fire most evenings lately, nursing a stack of Arithmancy papers and a headache. When Malfoy sat in the matching chair across from her one rainy Thursday, she almost told him off.
But then he set a cup down on the side table next to her.
“I noticed you never stop long enough to drink anything hot,” he said simply, before sitting in his own chair, opening a leather-bound book, and saying nothing else.
She stared at the cup. She stared at him.
And then she sipped.
It became a routine.
Every Thursday, without fail, he’d appear just after dinner with two cups of tea—never asking what she wanted, but always getting it right. Peppermint when her sinuses flared. Lavender when her eyes were red. Always honey. Never lemon.
They didn’t talk about it. Not at first.
It was easier to pretend they weren’t sitting together on purpose. That the fire just happened to be warmest there. That she just happened to prefer the chair with a view of the rain against the windows.
And then, one night in late October, he made her laugh.
She didn’t remember the joke. Something dry and ridiculous and so unlike the haughty boy who used to sneer at her in Potions. She laughed, unexpectedly loud, and covered her mouth in surprise. He looked shocked, too. And then pleased.
After that, it became harder not to talk.
They argued gently over books. They debated the best charms for warming cold feet. They passed notes in class, which drove McGonagall to distraction. She tried not to smile when he sent her doodles of cats with glasses or dramatic drawings of her threatening him with a quill.
She told herself it was just… comfortable. An unlikely truce.
Until one Thursday evening in November, when she arrived to find him already curled in her chair, two cups of tea on the little table, and a blanket draped over his lap.
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve claimed my spot?”
He looked smug, but in a lazy, tea-warmed way. “I thought we might mix things up. You always look like you’re preparing for battle in that chair. Try mine. It’s a touch softer.”
She huffed—but sat anyway.
It was softer. And it smelled like cedar and parchment and something else that made her stomach flutter unexpectedly.
When she looked up, he was watching her.
“What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he murmured, sipping his tea. “You look tired. Thought you deserved the better chair.”
That was the first night she fell asleep while he was still beside her.
Hermione woke to the rustle of parchment and the unmistakable scent of bergamot.
The common room was dim, the fire down to embers. A heavy blanket had been draped over her shoulders, and someone had tucked a pillow beneath her head.
Someone being Draco Malfoy, who was now sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the hearth, scribbling in a notebook with his sleeves pushed up and a furrow in his brow.
He hadn’t noticed she was awake.
Hermione watched for a moment, unsure why her chest felt too full. This wasn't the boy who used to mock her in corridors. That boy had never made her tea. Never let her sleep. Never looked like he carried the weight of his entire family on his too-thin shoulders.
“You’re still here,” she said sleepily.
He looked up, blinking. “You drool in your sleep.”
She glared. “Do not.”
A smirk tugged at his lips. “Not much.”
Hermione sat up and clutched the blanket closer, heart thudding in that irritating, fluttery way it had started doing more and more often around him. “You could’ve left.”
He shrugged and closed his notebook. “Didn’t feel like it.”
The fire crackled.
She cleared her throat. “What were you working on?”
“Potions theory,” he said, eyes flicking to hers. “I’ve been rewriting Snape’s Wolfsbane notes. Most of them are legible only if you’ve spent years deciphering the handwriting of a furious bat.”
Hermione let out a soft laugh and scooted forward, blanket and all. “Can I see?”
He hesitated, then handed over the notebook. She flipped through pages of clean, carefully inked notes with margin annotations in neat, slanted writing. It was brilliant. More than brilliant.
“Draco,” she said softly, the name tasting strange but not unwelcome on her tongue, “this is incredible.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “You’re the first person I’ve shown it to.”
Her fingers stilled. “Why?”
He leaned back on his hands. “Because you're the only one who might understand why I’m doing it.”
Hermione looked at him. Really looked.
Draco Malfoy, who had once stood beside the Dark Lord, now rewriting a potion to help people he had been taught to hate.
“I understand,” she whispered.
His gaze met hers, and for a breathless moment, it felt like the world narrowed down to two cups of tea, one dying fire, and everything that had passed between them since September. All the silence. All the quiet understanding. All the not-so-accidental brushes of fingertips when handing over mugs.
“Why do you bring me tea every Thursday?” she asked, voice barely more than a murmur.
He hesitated, then gave her the smallest, softest smile she had ever seen on him.
“Because you never ask for anything. And I wanted to give you something.”
Her heart did a stupid, fluttery flip.
“I like peppermint,” she said, nudging his knee with hers.
“I know,” he replied, his voice a little huskier now. “You also like books with sad endings, rainy days, and biscuits that crumble too easily.”
She blinked. “Are you… paying attention to me?”
His lips curved. “Terribly. It’s a problem.”
Hermione laughed, a quiet, startled sound.
And then he did something very stupid.
Or maybe it was brave.
He reached over, fingers brushing a loose curl behind her ear, and let his hand linger just a second longer than necessary.
Hermione froze, breath catching—but didn’t pull away.
The fireplace crackled. The clock ticked. Neither of them moved.
Not until she whispered, “You’re better at this than I thought you’d be.”
“At what?”
“Not being awful.”
Draco smirked. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
By mid-December, Hogwarts was buried under a thick, powdery blanket of snow. The lake had frozen over, the trees in the Forbidden Forest sparkled with frost, and the castle grounds looked like something out of a storybook. Hermione had never found winter particularly romantic, but she was starting to change her mind.
Especially now that Malfoy had taken to waiting for her after classes.
Not obviously, of course. Never obviously. He’d just happen to be leaning against a pillar outside the Transfiguration classroom, flipping through a book he clearly wasn’t reading. Or walking “coincidentally” in the exact direction she was headed, even if he had no reason to be anywhere near the Herbology greenhouses.
“Stalker,” she accused playfully one afternoon as he fell into step beside her, his scarf trailing down the front of his winter cloak.
“Observer,” he corrected, tone amused. “Very different connotation.”
“You’re terrible at being subtle.”
“I was hoping you’d find it endearing.”
Hermione tried not to smile. She failed.
Snow had begun to fall again—gentle, feathery flakes that dusted Draco’s hair and clung to his lashes. He didn’t seem to notice. He never seemed to notice how he looked, and it was getting increasingly unfair.
“Want to go down to the lake?” he asked suddenly.
Hermione blinked. “Now?”
“It’s practically empty,” he said, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Everyone’s inside. Warm. Comfortable.”
“And you want to be cold and miserable?”
He smirked. “I want to throw a snowball at you.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “If you throw a snowball at me, Draco Malfoy, I swear I’ll hex your eyebrows off.”
“I’m willing to risk it.”
Ten minutes later, she was covered in snow.
She was laughing so hard her sides hurt, breath puffing in white clouds as she crouched behind a low hedge. Draco, somewhere to her left, was muttering a very dramatic countdown.
“Three… two… one—accio Hermione!”
She yelped as the snowball flew straight at her chest, knocking her backward into a snowbank.
“Cheater!” she shouted, flailing like an angry snow angel. “You Summoned me!”
Draco appeared above her a second later, panting, cheeks flushed, grinning like a boy who hadn’t laughed in years.
“Are you dead?” he asked mildly.
“I will be,” she said, spitting snow from her lips, “if I catch pneumonia because of your stupid revenge fantasy.”
He held out a gloved hand. She took it—and promptly yanked him down into the snow beside her.
“Merlin’s frozen—Hermione!”
She cackled as he landed with a thud, both of them sprawled on their backs in the fresh powder. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The world was still. Snowflakes floated lazily from the sky. The castle loomed above them, windows glowing golden in the early dusk.
“You’ve got snow on your nose,” she murmured.
“You’ve got snow everywhere,” he replied.
She turned her head toward him. He was already looking at her.
There was something new in his eyes now. Something she didn’t think had anything to do with tea or truce or quiet comfort.
Her breath caught.
“Can I—?” he started, and then stopped.
Hermione’s fingers found his, snow-cold and trembling.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He kissed her slowly, gently, like she was something fragile and rare. And she kissed him back like she’d been waiting for this without even realizing it.
The snow kept falling, soft and endless, and the space between them melted like it had never been there at all.
Christmas at Hogwarts had always been magical, but this year, it was something else entirely.
Hermione had stayed behind over the holidays, as had Draco—though neither of them admitted it had anything to do with the other. She claimed she wanted the library to herself. He muttered something about avoiding family drama.
But on Christmas Eve, she found him waiting by the fire again, two mugs of tea and a wrapped box on the table between them.
“You got me a present?” she asked, touched and startled.
He gave a lopsided shrug. “Just something small. Don’t expect fireworks.”
Hermione took the box and unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a worn, first-edition copy of Wandlore Through the Ages—one she’d searched for years ago but had never managed to find.
She stared at it. “Draco, this is…”
“I remembered you mentioned it. Last month. You said you tried to find it when you were fourteen but Flourish and Blotts had sold the last copy.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. “I, er… I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
Hermione blinked rapidly, blinking away the sting in her eyes. “It’s not weird. It’s… thoughtful.”
He smiled softly. “You’re welcome.”
She set the book down and leaned over to kiss his cheek. He stilled completely, then turned just enough to catch her lips with his.
It was different this time. No snow, no adrenaline—just warmth. Slow and careful and real.
When she pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers.
“You’re dangerous, Granger.”
She smiled. “Why?”
“Because I think I could get used to this.”
So could I, she thought, but didn’t say it. Not yet.
On Christmas morning, she found a note tucked into her favorite book in the common room:
Meet me by the Astronomy Tower. Midnight. Dress warm. —D.
She went.
He was already there, standing beside the frosted railing in a deep green jumper and a Slytherin scarf. His cheeks were red from the cold, and snow dotted his lashes again. She would never get over the unfairness of his face.
“You’re late,” he teased.
“You’re dramatic,” she replied.
He handed her a tin of gingerbread biscuits—perfectly crumbly ones. “Don’t say I never listen.”
She laughed and took one, letting her fingers brush his a little longer than necessary. “You brought me all the way up here for biscuits?”
“I brought you up here for this.” He pointed upward.
Hermione looked.
Above them, hung from a floating charm, was a sprig of mistletoe, twinkling faintly with frost.
She gave him a look. “How very subtle of you.”
“I’ve stopped pretending I don’t want to kiss you,” he said simply.
Her heart stuttered. Then soared.
“Then don’t pretend.”
He didn’t.
They kissed under the stars, mistletoe swinging gently above them, snowflakes gathering in their hair.
Draco held her like she was the only warm thing in the world, and Hermione—who once thought she’d never trust him, never forgive him, never feel anything for him—realized with perfect, ridiculous clarity that she was falling for him.
Hopelessly. Stupidly. Entirely.
The snow didn’t melt for weeks, but something about the world felt warmer anyway.
When students returned after the break, Hermione and Draco didn’t make a formal announcement. There was no hand-holding in hallways, no grand reveal in the Great Hall. But people noticed. They noticed when Draco waited a little longer outside classrooms. When Hermione laughed more easily. When the two of them sat just a little too close by the fire every Thursday night.
Even Harry noticed.
He cornered her one afternoon after Defense Against the Dark Arts, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.
“I’m not judging,” he said, and she could tell by the way he said it that he absolutely was judging. “But Malfoy?”
Hermione leveled him with a look. “He makes me tea.”
Harry blinked. “That’s… honestly not the reason I thought you’d give.”
“He listens. He remembers things I don’t realize I’ve said. He makes me laugh.”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Okay. Just—promise me he’s not hexing you in your sleep.”
Hermione smiled. “He’s not. He’s just… not who he used to be.”
Harry studied her for a long moment, then finally sighed. “Fine. But if he hurts you—”
“He won’t,” she said softly.
And she believed it.
By February, Thursdays had become sacred.
No matter how much homework they had or how tired they were, there were always two mugs of tea by the fire. Always the soft shuffle of pages. Always the warmth of a hand brushing hers under a shared blanket.
And on one particular Thursday, Hermione arrived to find Draco already in her chair again—except this time, he looked nervous.
More nervous than she’d ever seen him.
“Did I forget something?” she asked, setting her book bag down and settling beside him.
“No,” he said, clearing his throat. “But I didn’t want to wait anymore.”
She tilted her head. “Wait for what?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet pouch.
Hermione’s stomach flipped.
“It’s not a ring,” he added quickly, noticing her wide eyes. “Merlin, no. I mean—not no forever, just not—oh, bloody hell.”
She laughed, startled. “Draco Malfoy. Flustered. This is going in my diary.”
“Don’t you dare,” he grumbled. Then, quietly: “It’s a pendant. A Time-Turner charm. Not a real one, obviously—just a token. A reminder.”
He placed it in her palm. It was small and gold, delicate but detailed, with a tiny glass hourglass in the center. Her breath caught.
“A reminder of what?” she whispered.
He looked at her, something bright and open and terrifying in his eyes.
“That I would go back and change everything if I could. That I wish I’d been better to you from the start. That I don’t want to waste another second pretending I’m not completely in love with you.”
The fire crackled between them.
Hermione stared at the pendant. Then at him.
And she smiled.
“Good,” she said. “Because I love you too.”
He blinked. “Really?”
She leaned in, kissed him once—slow and certain.
“Really.”
They stayed like that, curled in their chair, tangled up in each other and their terrible, beautiful, unexpected little love story.
The tea grew cold on the table.
Neither of them noticed.