A/N: WHY HELLO THERE, HOW ARE YOU ALL. AND ALL THE OTHER STUFF. I'M FELLING LAZY, ENJOY!!!
"Everything all right?" Hermione asked, flipping through her book as she waited for his reply.
His reply came after a long pause.
"Everything is all right," Draco said.
"Good." Her reply appeared on his ring at once.
As she said it, the girl was smiling at the moonlight outside the window.
"I miss you, Hermione," the boy whispered to the ring.
He frowned at the mirror above the bathroom sink and plucked a stray tea leaf from his hair.
"What happened?" the magic mirror said, with a mixture of surprise and disdain. "Tsk. Truly indecent."
"Shut up," Draco said irritably.
Hermione said cheerfully, "I miss you, Draco."
Accompanied by the leisurely chirping of summer insects outside the window, she finally settled into bed, at ease.
Then, quite suddenly, she grew curious.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Nothing. Thinking about you," Draco said.
He was, in fact, thinking about her — though while he did so, he casually washed the tea stains from his face.
Bathed in the soft glow of the bone china lamp overhead, Hermione gazed thoughtfully at the inscription on the small ring on her finger.
He had taken so long to reply to her first message. What had he been busy with? Had he been with his parents — had they argued?
He seemed particularly wary of his parents' opinions.
His attitude toward "meeting his parents" was layered — he was both quietly looking forward to it and quietly resistant to it.
Hermione was mildly worried.
And yet he spoke so casually, as though nothing unusual had happened.
She sighed and changed the subject.
"My parents really like you," she said warmly.
Her parents really did like him.
On the way home, her mother's mouth had barely stopped moving in her excitement — praising his hairstyle, commenting on his appearance, and even discussing his physique, which was simply outrageous. Strangely, even her father, who had been focused on driving, had offered an offhand compliment: that he was "quite the gentleman, very perceptive — knew to lend a hand with the luggage without being asked."
Draco was quite good at charming people when he wanted to be — nothing like the lazy, languid boy at school who could barely be bothered to carry his own bag. And yet he always carried hers without a word. He was indeed quite a gentleman. Hermione smiled to herself, recalling the reply that had gradually appeared on the ring: "Pleasure."
She could already picture the expression on his face when he'd said it — that lazy, faintly smug look that refused to show too much satisfaction.
Just as she was wondering what to say next, there came a soft knock at the door.
"Come in!" she called — and was surprised to see her mother slip in, eyes gleaming, wearing an expression that bore a striking resemblance to Ginny Weasley's whenever gossip was imminent. She clasped her hands and pleaded, "Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me—"
"Mum, have you turned into some kind of repeating charm?" Hermione said, caught between amusement and exasperation.
Mrs. Granger raised an eyebrow and smiled, set a small package on her daughter's desk, then stealthily climbed onto the bed and quickly found herself a perfect vantage point from which to study her daughter's expression.
She said enthusiastically, "Please — I really want to know! Tell me everything!"
"Mum, what was I telling you?" Hermione asked, puzzled, her fingers secretly tracing the silver ring on her middle finger.
It had cooled, nestled securely around her finger.
"Everything! My little peanut, every time you write home, it's nothing but studies!" Mrs. Granger said indignantly. "Whenever I ask about your love life in a letter, you change the subject!"
"Mum, we've been over this. It isn't wise to discuss personal matters in letters — letters can go astray," Hermione said firmly.
Some might call Hermione Granger's caution excessive.
Hermione did not. She had been using the Hogwarts owls to send letters home — not her own personal owl. They were efficient and reliable, certainly, but their loyalty was harder to guarantee. If someone with ill intentions chose to tamper with them, she would have no way of knowing.
After spending the previous school year on constant guard against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, she had learned that one could never be too careful about "information security." She could not risk anyone learning anything about Draco — especially now that she understood the danger he was in. The last thing she wanted was for something carelessly written to land him in trouble.
"Now, then — face to face, nothing between us!" Mrs. Granger settled on her side next to Hermione, propped her elbow on the bed, rested her chin on her hand, and studied her daughter's expression with great interest. "I can practically smell the romance in the air — you and him—"
She gave a meaningful smile, as though she had already seen through everything.
"Mum — how did you know?" Hermione finally couldn't stare at the ceiling any longer.
She turned to look at her mother, genuinely surprised.
Were they that obvious?
A kiss on the cheek, a hug — friends did that sort of thing all the time, didn't they?
"My goodness, it's written all over his face. The way he looks at you is so gentle, and the way he stays close to you so protective," Mrs. Granger said enthusiastically. "There's a kind of resolve about him — as though he's ready to throw himself between you and anything dangerous at any moment." She clicked her tongue, turning it over in her mind. "That's not an expression you often see on a boy his age."
She thought back to the glimpse she'd caught in the rearview mirror — the boy, elegant and impeccable, yet unmistakably alert. His seemingly relaxed posture had Hermione completely encircled within his orbit.
If someone had pulled out something dangerous on that street, she would have bet anything that the boy named Draco would have shielded her daughter before the thought had fully formed.
Her little peanut, on the other hand, simply couldn't take her eyes off him.
This was no small thing. Hermione wasn't a social butterfly; she was cautious around people she cared about, often hesitant, slow to make the first move.
For her to so openly and publicly kiss a boy's cheek — that spoke of something very strong. Whatever she felt for him ran deep indeed.
Based on their conversation about relationships the year before, Mrs. Granger was quite certain her daughter's feelings for that boy were anything but simple friendship.
Mrs. Granger's knowing gaze brought a flush to Hermione's cheeks.
She turned her face back to the ceiling, affecting great interest in the bone china lamp overhead.
Round pieces of bone china fitted together in overlapping layers, like feathers. Delicate light filtered through the pale, translucent material, swaying gently in the breeze — hazy and rather lovely.
"Yes. I'll admit we're close," Hermione said, yawning. "Mum, may I go to sleep now?"
"Absolutely not — this is time for a proper chat!" Mrs. Granger's eyes were wide with anticipation. "I want to hear details!"
"Mum, a mother isn't the same as a best friend! And besides, my best friend would never badger me into sharing every unspeakable detail of a relationship!" Hermione said vehemently.
"Oh — so there are unspeakable details, are there?" Mrs. Granger smiled mysteriously.
"No—" Hermione hesitated, realising she had walked straight into her mother's trap.
"Your face says otherwise — you're blushing!" Mrs. Granger's eyes were sharp.
She adopted the knowing air of someone who had been there herself, her expression softening into something almost wistful.
"First love is always wonderful — and he is such a handsome, charming boy. I'm hardly surprised you'd want to be close to him. It's only human nature."
"Mum, is that really what you think?" Hermione finally dared to look at her.
"Of course. Do you think I'm some sort of impossibly strict parent?" Mrs. Granger said frankly. "Long before you started school, we read some books about the human body together — don't you remember? After you started your cycle, we talked about reproduction as well—"
"Of course I remember! Mum, why are you bringing all this up?" Hermione cut her off hastily, looking pained.
"I don't mean anything by it — I only wanted to share my perspective. Young love is sweet, but it also comes with impulses that can catch you off guard. And at your age, you may not yet be ready for the consequences of certain impulses..." A more serious expression finally settled on Mrs. Granger's face.
"Mum, what are you imagining? Is it really necessary to leap to such extremes?" Hermione said, cheeks blazing.
"I have to think about it, given that your boyfriend looks like a walking hormone."
"Mum, isn't that a bit much? He's — he's not the sort of boy who's forward like that. He's very reserved!"
"Reserved boys have just as many hormones as the obvious sort," Mrs. Granger said with a smile. "To be honest, while the boys who make a show of everything are popular at this age, I've always found their appeal rather limited. Their thinking tends to be... surface-level."
"Mum, that's not entirely fair," Hermione countered. "You can't assume a boy who's physical is automatically shallow — that's just prejudice."
"Perhaps. But people tend to show off whatever they value most, don't they?" Mrs. Granger said calmly. "When a boy spends most of his energy showing off his body, it's difficult to believe he has much time left over for his mind."
"That's... not entirely wrong," Hermione muttered.
Mrs. Granger smiled and continued, "So I think boys who keep their collar buttoned, who hide their strength beneath a composed exterior — they hold a different kind of appeal. Particularly for girls who care about intelligence."
She didn't miss the faint smile that crossed her daughter's face at that — nor did she overlook the fact that the boy was, by no means, the delicate type. He simply concealed his strength well.
"And look at that face!" Mrs. Granger added, steering the conversation back on track with a grin.
"Do you know how many girls turned round to look at him in the two or three minutes you were saying goodbye? And for just a moment after he hugged you, you looked — well — rather smitten. Can you deny his effect on you?"
Hermione covered her face with her hands.
Her voice drifted out from between her fingers: "I admit — he's very easy to like..."
"Which is exactly why I'm thinking about this — you might be powerless against him. Occasionally even irrational," Mrs. Granger said meaningfully. "Don't be embarrassed. I understand the feeling completely."
Good heavens, this was unbearably unfair. Hermione peeked at her smiling mother through her fingers.
Her mother had absolutely no idea what this seemingly innocent boy had whispered to her — that the next time they met, he would kiss her properly... deeply... she thought, vaguely.
"Little Peanut, I'm curious — what stage are the two of you at?"
"Mum... can we change the subject?" Hermione couldn't bear to look at her again.
She was thoroughly embarrassed and didn't know how to answer. She didn't want to tell anyone the details of the kissing and the touching. Those were precious memories belonging only to the two of them.
"Don't be shy — there's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm not asking for every detail. I only want to remind you: if you ever do anything more intimate than hugging and kissing, please make sure to use protection..." Mrs. Granger's tone was gentle and matter-of-fact. "I've left some books, some protective supplies, and some medicine on your desk. Take a look whenever you like..."
Hermione couldn't listen anymore, and she couldn't face her mother.
"Oh my God, Mum, please stop—" She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. "I — I'm still a virgin!"
"Hearing that actually gives me a better impression of your young boyfriend..." Mrs. Granger smiled softly. "It seems he really is quite the gentleman. Well — it's certainly your choice. Before adulthood, keeping things within the bounds of propriety is a wise decision. Either way, I trust you've thought it through."
Hermione sighed and gave a vague reply, hoping the conversation would wind down.
But her mother showed no signs of stopping. Instead, she stroked Hermione's hair and continued carefully, "If in the future — if you're ever being intimate and suddenly feel scared, or uncomfortable, or you simply want to stop — you must tell him. Don't be shy about it."
She chose her words with care, and her tone was earnest: "Intimacy between two people should be something you both enjoy. If you don't enjoy it, stop. It is your right. A good boy will respect that. If he doesn't — he isn't worth your affection."
"He — he's good about that, actually," Hermione said quietly, her voice still muffled by the pillow. "He respects me a great deal."
Though his passion sometimes flustered her, he was always willing to stop the moment she asked.
He was the most complicated sort of boy.
In certain private moments, she could sense what lay just beneath the surface — something that strained against his composure. An insatiable urge to claim, an intense need to control, and a fierce, overwhelming possessiveness.
The dark glint in his eyes, the unspoken language of his touch, and certain unguarded gestures — all of it suggested he constantly wanted to do something to her that he could never quite bring himself to name.
But the moment she became flustered — at the first hint that she was uneasy — he would pull himself back and handle her with the utmost care, as though afraid of breaking her.
He would stop, look at her with a devoted, half-dazed expression, and murmur, "Hermione... what am I going to do with you..."
His manner was both deeply bewildering and unbearably sweet.
"Then I'm relieved," Mrs. Granger laughed, and at last she moved on from the embarrassing topic.
"I actually came to hear about the Yule Ball, among other things. I'm very curious — how do wizard balls differ from our traditions?" she said with genuine interest. "Oh, and the Black Lake — you mentioned staying underwater for a full hour. Do wizards use diving equipment of some kind?"
"Well..." Hermione blinked, unsure how to begin.
Would it be wise to simply tell Mum the truth — that she had spent a full hour beneath the surface with no protection whatsoever—?
Under the same soft moonlight, at Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, another mother was occupied with rather different thoughts — she and Draco's father were quietly contemplating how best to put an end to their son's relationship.
"He's utterly hopeless!" Lucius's face was ashen as he spoke of his son.
He set his glass — still half-full of Firewhisky — on the table with a dull thud. The ice within it swayed violently in a vaguely disgruntled manner, bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the word "elegance."
"I'm heartbroken too, a little." Narcissa, dressed in a blue French lace nightgown, walked silently to his side, embraced him from behind, and rested her hand against his chest.
Lucius took her hand and turned to look at her, his anger ebbing slightly. "Cici — I truly didn't expect this. How could our son have turned out this way?"
Narcissa looked at her husband.
That arrogant, indifferent mask of his had slipped. Behind it were confusion, wounded pride, and something very like regret.
"I know. I'm struggling to adjust as well. He used to be so good — so obedient. He never gave us grief like this." Narcissa unconsciously traced the back of his hand with her long fingers, an indescribable sense of loss settling over her face.
"He's not the little boy he was! He's nearly as tall as me now, and still as foolish as ever — perhaps even more so!" Lucius looked at his quietly sorrowful wife, his chest heavy.
The child they had always been so proud of had changed — drastically and without warning.
What a disaster, Lucius thought bitterly.
Look what this brat has done to Cici.
"He will always be our son, however far astray he's gone," Narcissa said softly, stroking his cheek and suppressing her own turmoil. "Perhaps all teenagers go through a period like this. That said — throwing tea was not well done. Little Dragon has a very strong sense of pride. And we've never advocated violence in this house."
"I'm sorry. I thought I could control myself," Lucius said quietly, unable to quite meet her eyes.
"I feel guilty about it." His expression was deeply frustrated. "But when it hit him — I felt it too, in my chest. I couldn't help myself. I simply cannot understand where this child gets such absurd, outrageous ideas. He has no respect at all for the bloodline he ought to be proud of."
For months, Lucius had been suppressing his anger, waiting until the holidays to have a proper conversation with his son.
Instead, Draco's state of mind had been a profound disappointment.
And what was worse — he had spoken to him with such insolence. Completely disregarding him as his father.
"I cannot accept it! He's siding with pure-blood traitors!" Lucius said, his voice rising. "If Arthur Weasley ever learned what our son was thinking, he'd celebrate in that hovel of his and spend the next eight hundred years using it to humiliate me!"
"I was surprised by Little Dragon's ideas as well," Narcissa said, her brow furrowed. "But we have to speak to him calmly. Not with force. Force will only damage his self-esteem."
"Do you think I don't want to be calm?" Lucius looked at her with a long-suffering expression. "He lost his temper and raised his voice at me without warning — showed me not a shred of respect. Does he still see me as his father at all?"
"He was quite measured, before you called that girl a Mudblood," Narcissa reminded him gently, smoothing his hair. "His feelings for her are at their most intense right now. A forceful approach will only push him away."
"Cici, I know what you're saying. I was too sharp in the moment — I spoke too harshly. But as his father, how could I not be anxious when I watch my son going astray like this?" He muttered, drawing comfort from her nearness. "So many pure-blood families are simply waiting for us to stumble... We've barely been back in England a few days and we're already drowning in invitations — balls, parties, salons..."
"They're all fishing for information. Waiting to see which way we'll turn," Narcissa said.
"A pack of meddlers," Lucius said with disgust.
Narcissa lifted her chin and said coolly, "Let them wait. A few impoverished pure-blood families, and they dare to jump about like this."
Lucius gave a snort of agreement.
"As for Little Dragon — darling, you have to understand that he responds to gentle persuasion, not force," Narcissa said carefully. "Over the next few days, we must be patient. No anger, no irritability. We need to speak to him calmly, find out the real reason he's so attached to this girl. I don't believe for a moment it's as simple as he claims — he isn't telling us everything."
"Boys this age—" Lucius said, with a cold scoff, "—are only just beginning to shave, and their heads are full of nonsense."
"Precisely," Narcissa said thoughtfully, her blue eyes gleaming. "He's in the middle of it all — the changes, the confusion. He doesn't really know what he wants yet. We need to guide him carefully, and we cannot afford to be careless."
Narcissa had not given up hope for her son.
In her eyes, he was still the finest child in the world. His thinking had simply... gone astray. Temporarily. And it was her duty as his mother to correct that — to lead him gently back onto the gleaming pure-blood path they had always planned for him. A path reserved solely for Draco Malfoy.
"You're right, Cici," Lucius sighed, sounding weary. "The trouble is, I find it harder and harder to reach him. He used to look up to me — believed everything I said without question. If I'd told him mud tasted like chocolate at three years old, the foolish child would actually have tried it—"
"Lucius!" Narcissa said sharply. "I still hold a grudge about that! He was three years old — how could you be so careless?"
"I know, I know. I didn't understand fatherhood back then. I only thought it was funny." Lucius retreated slightly. "I've long since stopped, as you know."
Narcissa scoffed. "That's more like it."
"But I still don't know how to be a good father. His admiration for me has been fading — he doesn't speak of me the way he once did. Since he started at Hogwarts, he's still respectful, but he's started questioning me. That change... it always unsettles me."
"You're reminding me of your own father," Narcissa said quietly. "He used to complain in exactly the same way."
"Don't compare me to him! My mother died young, and he never gave me a second thought — he spent every waking moment scheming for power and influence. Every time we met, he issued demands, nothing more," Lucius said, a bitter edge to his voice. "I like to think I've done somewhat better than that."
"You have. You've always been a devoted father, and you've always cared about our son. If you simply paid a little more attention to how you speak to him, it would be perfect," Narcissa said, her voice gentle. "Little Dragon is an intelligent child. He's simply stuck, at the moment. As his parents, we need to help him — and we need to do it in a way he can actually hear."
Lucius was silent for a moment, then gave a reluctant nod.
Narcissa added, "And it would be unwise to damage the relationship before we've truly understood what he's thinking. Driving him away now would only move us further from our goal."
"Yes. I understand." Lucius closed his eyes and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "I'll try to be the kind of father who can speak to him without losing his head. Cici — you are a far better parent than I am. Thank you for reminding me."