Chapter Text
Hate was too strong a word to describe the way Draco Malfoy felt about Hermione Granger, but it was close. It felt wrong to say he hated her, after everything that had happened. Still, though, an unpleasant sort of irritation never failed to rise up in his chest whenever she drew near. Each word that fell from her mouth made the muscles along his neck tingle uncomfortably. Every glare she cut his way rippled loathing straight through him, and Merlin, if he didn’t kind of love it.
Returning to Hogwarts for an eighth and final year had not been his choice. It had been a decree, made by the Wizengamot, pending his sentencing. A mixture of Malfoy money and influence, along with the shocking testimony made by Harry Potter himself had spared Draco from the clutches of Azkaban, but only by the skin of his teeth.
He only had to complete his studies and stay out of trouble for the next five years, and then, as his barrister had promised grandiosely, all of this “Dark Lord nonsense” would be behind him.
He’d scoffed at the idiocy of the statement, as though it had all just been a misunderstanding–his servitude and forced compliance in a murderous regime.
It hadn’t been nonsense, not to Draco. It had been horrifying.
He’d been stripped of his will, his dignity, and his innocence, all at the behest of a charlatan sorcerer whose evil aims served no one. The more he’d thought about it, and he’d thought about it plenty, it had all been so stupid. So pointless. Muggleborns? Purebloods? Who cared?
And so, as he sat in NEWT level Potions, simmering over his disdain for Hermione Granger, it had nothing to do with her blood status. It had nothing to do with wars or choosing sides, or even good versus evil. It was about rage, and the sickening sort of thrill it gave him to distill it all down–his anger and his self loathing, and direct it at her.
Maybe it was so thrilling because it was her–a simple enough explanation, but Draco knew deep down that the fun of it wasn’t the delivery of his cutting remarks, or in catching her alone, hissing foul taunts at her in darkened corridors.
It was in the way that she gave it right back, her own unmitigated fury oozing through the cracks as she jabbed a pointed elbow into him, snarling clever lines for only him to hear as she passed, dripping with mutual disdain.
Nothing spiked his heartbeat quite like it, the sight of her in range, coming at him with that telltale glint in her eye, and the promise of a war of the wits that only they could wage against each other. He’d come to live for it.
He could feel the muscles in his jaw working as he peered up from his brew, watching her stirring her cauldron, counting each turn carefully.
His mind went to work, coming up with his next verbal assault as she poured her finished potion into a vial, sauntering to the front of class to turn it in next to his.
Anticipation tingled in his veins as they gathered their bookbags, waiting for Slughorn to dismiss them from the classroom.
The dungeons were their favorite place for sparring matches. The muted lighting, the coldness of the stone. Something about it made them sharper, more barbed, and more deliciously alive.
She sped up ahead of him slightly and his heart twinged.
This wasn’t the script.
She usually hung back, letting him crowd her space as he commented prattishly on the color of her potion, or took the piss at her curls, frizzy and wild from the steam of the cauldron.
“What’s the rush, Granger?” he asked, lengthening his gait to keep up. “Is the Weasel in town for your monthly mating ritual?”
She smirked, ignoring him as she gripped her Potions book close to her chest.
“Aw, you’re not going to play with me? I waited all of class.” He pretended to pout as they began to ascend the stairs leading up to the main floor of the castle.
“I noticed. You’ve had that stupid look on your face for the last half hour–the one you get when you’re desperately trying to come up with something clever.” She turned towards him with a sneer, looking him pointedly up and down. “It's unbecoming.”
“I doubt that I’ve ever looked unbecoming, Granger.” he scoffed haughtily, reveling in the slight blushing of her cheeks.
“Well, did you come up with anything? Or do you intend to continue invading my space with the grating sound of your voice?”
“I was half-way there, but then I got distracted.” He was copping out, hoping she’d take his bait so that he could veer into their latest brand of twisted fun: spiteful flirting.
“Was there a mirror in your midst?”
A smirk pulled at the corners of his lips. “Close, but no. It was a very short skirt.”
“Oh?”
“Yours, in fact. Tell me, Granger, what did the Weasel do to deserve it?”
She snorted. “You are so obsessed with him.”
“Oh, no. I don’t think that's what I’m obsessed with.”
She glared sideways at him as they reached the landing where they parted ways.
“Well, whatever it is, why don’t you bugger off and go sort it out on your own.” She gave him a cold smile. “I’ve had enough of you for one day.”
He smiled back, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Always a pleasure, Granger.”
Hermione chuckled to herself as she walked away, turning down the Transfiguration corridor. She and Ron had broken up ages ago, but she didn’t feel like Malfoy needed an update on her relationship status.
She had returned to Hogwarts for Eighth Year, filled with a tangled mixture of anxiety and bad feelings. After the war had ended, and the memorial services and court hearings had died down, she’d found herself in a moment of silence as she assessed the strangeness of the world around her.
She’d gone to Australia, to reverse the Obliviation spell she’d placed on her parents, returning their memories of her. In the year that had passed between the Battle of Hogwarts and the beginning of Eighth Year, she'd stayed with them, taking the time to sit with everything that had happened, and process.
She’d come out of her year away with a sense of relief that it was finally over; and that she, Harry and Ron had all made it out alive. But she couldn’t deny that she’d been left with an unyielding feeling of resentment, too.
She was angry at Dumbledore–that anger had been simmering since he had died, but she realized, as she sat on the beach in Perth festering, that she was also mad at every single adult who had relied on her, Harry and Ron to fight their battles.
She was even more furious at every witch and wizard who had sent her letters, or written op-eds to the Prophet since the war had ended, gushing over her and the details from the Horcrux hunt that had been shared with the public, showering her with praise.
Where had they been a year ago, when she’d been on the run, scared and hungry while they’d plastered Diagon Alley with Wanted signs with her face on them? Or even before that, when she’d been dragged over the coals in the Prophet by Rita Skeeter all throughout her tender teenage years?
They’d sent her hate mail and tried to hurt her back in her Fourth Year, some of them even literally, sending bubotuber pus-filled envelopes and howlers that screamed horrid things at her. Now they were claiming her as their hero? She hated them for it.
She hated so many people and so many things, it was practically eating away at her.
The first night of Eighth Year, when she’d locked eyes with Malfoy across the Great Hall at the Welcoming Feast, her chest had tightened at the mere sight of him. She couldn’t stomach it if he, of all people, had also joined the sycophant parade. She couldn’t sit through him trying to change their history, glossing over all of his past wrongdoings or treating her any differently after everything that had happened between them.
He’d been there, watching as she’d lain on his drawing room floor, screaming and kicking her feet against the parquet in excruciating pain as his aunt straddled her body, laughing triumphantly and spraying her face with rank spittle as she carved into her arm.
She knew he couldn’t have stopped Bellatrix even if he'd wanted to, but she’d be damned if he did anything now to try and atone or apologize to her. She didn’t want his apology. She wanted his compliance. She wanted him to let her rage, and to hate him just like she hated everyone else. She wanted to sneer at him, and to spit out biting insults, and be insulted back just as cruelly.
So, when his grey eyes met hers, one table away, she was pleased to see the same fury reflected back at her. When he sidled up next to her on their way out of the feast, she was thrilled when he’d leaned down and hissed into her ear, “What the fuck are you looking at, Granger?”
She’d been tempted to launch into a self-righteous rant, just for the fun of it, berating him for having the audacity to speak to her like that after everything that he had done, but instead she bit her tongue, letting a malicious smile spread across her face.
“I was looking at you, Malfoy,” she replied, turning to face him. “It's just such a beautiful thing to see you this way: slouching in defeat, with no friends or your little goons around to protect you.”
He’d let out derisive huff at her taunting, and the rich smell of citrus and cedarwood had washed over her, mixing with the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins.
“Yes, I’m sure it is,” he rolled his eyes, “enjoy it while it lasts, Golden Girl. You’re looking a bit tarnished yourself.”
He was gone before she could retort, but it had been enough. A tiny fire had lit within her, and she'd known, just as well as he had, that these were only their opening shots. There’d be plenty more barbs to throw at each other over the year ahead, like bursts of oxygen in a stifling room, feeding the flame until it was ablaze.
Now, as she settled into her Transfiguration lesson, watching placidly as McGonagall stood before the class at the front of the room, Hermione couldn’t help but revel in the tingle of excitement that was simmering in her belly as she replayed her earlier conversation with Malfoy over in her head, laughing internally at the part where he’d suggested that he was obsessed with her. He was such a wanker, always trying to get a rise out of her.
She sighed, leaning over to reach into her bag, pulling out a biro pen to begin copying the diagrams McGonagall had charmed onto the board. As she took notes, she twisted in her seat, using her other hand to unroll the band of her skirt, pulling the hem back down to the acceptable length, now that Malfoy was nowhere in sight.