The Great Hall was buzzing as owls delivered letters and chocolates. It had been decorated with hearts for the holiday, and the enchanted ceiling was charmed to hold a perpetual pink sunset.
Hermione stabbed at her eggs as though they had personally offended her.
Lavender squealed as a heart-shaped box of chocolates landed neatly beside her plate, complete with a fluttering charm that twisted the ribbon into a bow. "Oh, Won-Won!" She practically threw herself at Ron.
Harry groaned, slipping out of his seat and moving over to Hermione instead. "Honestly, I hate this holiday more every year."
Hermione gave a sharp little nod without looking at him, her fork still viciously attacking the yolk of her egg. "At least you have a date."
Harry snorted. "No, actually — she specifically told me not to even think of it." He leaned in. "She's still cross about getting caught in my bed. Quick thinking, though — telling them you lot were trying to prank Ron."
She smiled tightly. "Yeah. Wish we actually had."
Harry tapped his fingers against the table. "You all right?"
Hermione forced herself to cut into her toast rather than snap back. "Brilliant," she said crisply. "Perfectly thrilled to spend the whole day surrounded by soppy fifth-year Gryffindors writing sonnets in the corner."
"Yeah," Harry said dryly. "Seamus tried to rhyme 'broomstick' with 'lipstick.' It was a disaster."
Hermione huffed something close to a laugh, but her eyes flicked — again — to the Slytherin table. "Did you see they're selling roses around the castle? Little booths everywhere. Honestly, it's a school."
Harry watched her, biting back the observation that she probably wouldn't be saying the same thing if a certain someone had bought her one. "I heard we can hire the choir to serenade people in class."
"Brilliant," she muttered.
"Do you think flowers are overrated?" Ginny asked, suddenly appearing beside them and plopping down with a jam-slathered croissant. "Real question. I got some, and now I don't know what to do with them."
"Yes," Hermione replied. "But I suppose if you've already got them, you may as well appreciate them."
"Roses have thorns," Ginny pointed out. "They poke and prod at you."
"Roses or Dean?" Harry asked.
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Can't it be both? Besides, isn't it rather cliché? Roses. Every girl gets roses on Valentine's Day."
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
Ginny smiled apologetically. "Do you want mine?"
Hermione picked up her mug, bringing it to her lips for a long sip, her gaze drifting to the Slytherin table. They were all there: Blaise, Theo, Pansy, Daphne, and Draco. She couldn't see Astoria, but she was sure the girl couldn't be far.
She set her mug down and narrowed her eyes. "No. Keep them. Thorns and all."
――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
Across the Hall, Daphne was clearly making a point.
"I'm telling you, I've had at least eight letters already," she said to Pansy, tossing her hair over her shoulder and deliberately catching Theo in the face with it.
Theo didn't say anything — didn't have to. His brow was furrowed and he was very pointedly buttering his toast as though it had deeply offended him. Beside him, Blaise observed the entire exchange with the detached amusement of someone who lived for drama he wasn't personally involved in.
"How many of these do you actually like?" Pansy asked, sorting through the growing pile.
Daphne snatched a letter from her hand. "Doesn't matter. It's quantity, not quality."
Theo snorted. "You want quantity? I'll ask the house-elves to start forwarding you the fan mail they keep intercepting for me."
"Do you think I'd get detention for releasing a swarm of Billywigs in here?" Blaise wondered.
Pansy laughed. "I'd help." She glanced at Draco, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout. "Did you get Astoria anything?"
Draco looked up from his plate. "What?"
"Astoria."
"Oh." The entire holiday had slipped his mind after his not-quite-an-argument-but-not-very-friendly conversation with Hermione nearly two weeks ago. "Not really my thing."
"She'll be expecting something," Daphne pointed out.
Draco took a slow bite, chewing carefully. "I'll take her out this weekend. Valentine's Day isn't my thing."
They stared at him as though he'd just announced he was joining the Gobstones Club.
"Not your thing?" Blaise repeated. "Mate, do you even know what this relationship of yours is?"
"It's barely a relationship. In fact, I think I'm going to end it."
Daphne narrowed her eyes. "End it? Has Hermione come round, then?"
"No. She emphasised how much she misses our friendship. I've decided to simply die in a hole." Draco muttered.
Theo finally looked up from his toast, eyebrows raised. "So, to clarify: you're ending things with Astoria because Hermione said she misses being friends?"
"Brilliant deduction, Nott," Draco said flatly. "Would you like a biscuit?"
"I'm just trying to understand the logic," Theo said, his voice dry. "I'm not seeing much of it."
"Here's the logic: I have no intention of marrying Astoria, and your mother has started owling me!" He hissed, glancing at Daphne. "Tell her to stop."
"I told you to declare yourself, even if it wasn't going anywhere," Daphne reminded him.
Draco stood up. "I'm going to class."
"We have an hour," Theo pointed out.
"I'll read while I wait."
Draco stormed off. Pansy rolled her eyes, biting into her bagel. "I hope for all our sakes that Zoe's right."
Blaise sighed. "I've decided to stop thinking about their relationship problems altogether."
"My sister is caught in the middle of it," Daphne said bitterly. "I can't."
Theo hummed. "If it's any comfort, at least you know he isn't shagging her. He's far too obsessed with Hermione."
――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
Hermione's quill snapped.
It wasn't entirely her fault. They were sitting in Ancient Runes when, for the third time that morning, the school choir drifted past the classroom, serenading someone in the corridor.
"Charming," Theo whispered, catching sight of the hearts Hermione had drawn on her parchment — each one stabbed through with tiny knives.
"Festive," Hermione corrected, pulling out a fresh quill.
"You don't like Valentine's Day?"
"You do?"
Theo shrugged. "People acting all awkward around each other? What's not to like?"
A box of chocolates was deposited in front of a Ravenclaw at the next desk, and Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's dreadful."
"I think you're just cross that you're not getting flowers and chocolate."
Hermione snorted. "I think," she began, slipping into her most Hermione-esque tone, "that if I were seeing someone and he only got me flowers because he felt obligated to on Valentine's Day, I wouldn't be terribly pleased about it."
Theo let out a quiet 'ah' and clicked his tongue. "So it's the thought, not the gesture."
"Exactly."
He leaned back, glancing briefly at Draco, who wasn't paying them the slightest attention. "So if, say, someone you weren't seeing gave you chocolate?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Today?"
"Today."
"Completely unrelated to Valentine's Day?"
"Completely."
"Theo, I like Daphne. I'd rather not be on the receiving end of one of her Bat-Bogey Hexes."
Theo laughed. "I'm not giving you chocolate, Granger. Don't worry your pretty little head."
Hermione raised an eyebrow at the remark, unsure whether to be amused or suspicious.
"Right," she said, half-smiling.
"No date, then?"
"All prefects are on duty unless they specifically requested the day off," she explained. "So no. You?"
He shook his head, glancing at the clock — a minute to go. "Nope." He began packing his bag. "Simply, no."
"You could always ask Daphne," Hermione said, just as the clock struck and class ended.
Theo slung his bag over his shoulder and stood, tossing her a lopsided grin.
"I could," he said, drawing the words out as though weighing them. "But then I'd have to admit I like her."
Hermione stood too, gathering her things. "And Merlin forbid you show a genuine emotion."
Draco snorted from his own desk, and she looked over at him.
He wasn't looking at her. He was still facing forward, his quill hovering above his parchment, but his lips had curled ever so slightly — mocking, amused, and unmistakably aware of the entire conversation.
"Something funny?" she asked.
He shook his head, standing up. "Just think you're not the best person to be dispensing romantic advice." He whispered it as he grabbed his bag and headed for the door. "How many failed relationships do you have, Granger? Four? Five?"
Hermione blinked, watching as he stalked out of the classroom — Astoria waiting for him just beyond the doorway.
"He's got to be joking," she whispered.
Astoria said something, and Draco laughed — loudly, too loudly, as though he wanted someone to hear.
Theo groaned. "Come on, we've got Defence." He sighed, grabbing Hermione's arm and pulling her out of the classroom, following a few paces behind Draco, who now had his arm draped around Astoria. She was wearing a showy red dress — for the holiday, naturally.
Hermione tried not to look at them. She really did. But the sight of Astoria Greengrass in that dress — flowy, ruffled, and cinched just so at the waist — was like staring directly into the sun. Unwise, unpleasant, and impossible to avoid.
She turned her attention firmly back to Theo.
For his part, Draco walked with his arm lightly around Astoria, yet couldn't stop thinking about how to peacefully put an end to his own misery.
Astoria was telling him about a study session she'd had with friends. "Are you listening?"
Draco blinked. "Yeah," he said too quickly. "Of course I am."
Astoria gave him a sideways glance but didn't press. "I was saying Carrie is absolutely brilliant in Transfiguration — honestly, if Professor McGonagall ever retires, she'd make a wonderful professor."
His gaze flicked back over his shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to catch Hermione and Theo walking behind them, still talking, still laughing. She wasn't looking at him. Not even after he'd laughed too loudly back there.
"Yeah," he said distractedly. "Wonderful professor."
Draco had always been good at pretending — pretending to care, pretending not to care, pretending to listen. He was accomplished at all of it. But as Astoria went on about Carrie and her alleged Transfiguration brilliance, he kept glancing over his shoulder.
"Her boyfriend is planning a romantic dinner in the common room tonight," Astoria said, looking at him expectantly.
He hummed, eyes scanning the corridor behind them once more.
Her hand curled around his forearm, pulling his attention back. "I said," she repeated, with a sharper edge, "they're doing dinner. Candles, charmwork, floating roses. Very romantic. Not entirely unlike something you could plan."
He blinked, registering her tone. "Yes. Very romantic. I'm sure Carrie will enjoy it enormously."
Astoria slipped out from under his arm and stood in front of him as they reached the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. "Yes. In fact, it's not so different from something you could do. For me."
He looked down at her, brows pulled together. "Something like what?"
The expression that crossed her face reminded him far too much of Daphne to be comfortable. "Dinner. Privacy. Candles. Chocolate, if you're into clichés — which I am."
Draco hesitated. Not because he didn't know the answer, but because he did. The thought of sitting across from Astoria in some quiet corner, pretending to enjoy overpriced Honeydukes truffles while pretending not to think of Hermione, was —
"Half past seven?" he asked, defeated. It didn't matter. Hermione missed their friendship. Nothing more.
Astoria smiled, slipping her hand into his. "That sounds wonderful."
――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
"So did you get flowers?" Blaise asked Ginny as they waited for Professor Snape to open the door to Potions.
Ginny snorted. "Yeah. Six. One for every month we've been together."
Blaise raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a half-smile. "Six? That's very efficient of Thomas."
"Or boring," she muttered. "What about you? Have you got a Valentine?"
He hummed. "Not exactly."
"What does that mean?"
Snape swung the door open, surveyed the corridor with a scowl, and announced, "If the choir enters this classroom during your lesson, you will all be failing for the day." He turned and walked back inside, leaving the door open.
Blaise clicked his tongue. "Duty calls," he whispered, ducking into class.
Ginny huffed, muttering to herself as she headed off to her own lesson.
――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
Hermione Granger had never once, in six years at Hogwarts, agreed with Severus Snape.
That record, it seemed, was finally broken.
Sitting in class and trying to work on her essay on vampires, she found herself wholeheartedly endorsing his position on the choir, as Ron and Lavender replanned their evening for the third time at the adjacent desk.
"Can I sleep on your floor?" Harry whispered.
Hermione looked up from her parchment. "What?"
"I don't want to be in the dormitory if Lavender's there," he explained.
Hermione laughed — caught herself — and quickly pressed a hand over her mouth, glancing about nervously to see if Snape had noticed. He was still occupied at his desk, muttering to himself.
Harry, unbothered, shifted in his seat. "I'm serious. I genuinely don't think I can survive an entire evening of them... you know."
Hermione gave him a sympathetic look, though amusement flickered in her eyes. "Honestly, I think it would be fair payback for you and Pansy the other day."
"We used a Silencing Charm!" Harry argued.
"If you can find a way into my dormitory without the stairs turning into a slide, then yes, you are welcome to crash on my floor."
Harry grinned, the tension momentarily lifting from his face. "Deal," he whispered, stealing another glance at Snape to ensure the professor remained distracted.
――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
During morning break, about two hours before lunch, Draco was in the Slytherin common room attempting to finish his book.
He was sprawled in one of the green leather armchairs near the fire, ankles crossed, the Muggle novel open on his lap. The common room was unusually quiet — most students were in the Great Hall enjoying sweets and owl-delivered cards, or lingering by windows hoping for one of the embarrassingly public singing Valentines Grams.
Draco had little interest in any of it.
He tapped his fingers against the book's edge, eyes skimming the same paragraph for the fourth time.
He sighed, letting his head fall back against the chair, staring up at the stone ceiling. How had he ended up planning a candlelit dinner for a girl he hadn't the faintest desire to be planning for?
"You look constipated," Daphne said, dropping into the adjacent seat.
Draco didn't move, only lolled his head to the side to look at her. "I feel constipated," he muttered. "Emotionally."
Daphne laughed, tucking her legs beneath her as she settled back. "I hear you're planning a romantic dinner for Astoria."
He groaned. "She practically stared me down until I agreed."
"That's how she gets what she wants." She sang it. "Terribly annoying."
He looked over at her, smiling sadly. "She's expecting something meaningful. Romantic. And I can't..."
Daphne raised an eyebrow. "And you can't perform?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "More crude jokes?"
She shrugged. "It was right there."
He huffed a short laugh even as he dragged a hand down his face.
"So don't do it," she said quietly.
"I already agreed."
"Un-agree."
"She'd ask why."
"Then lie."
Draco snorted. "You're a terrible influence."
Daphne smiled. "You knew that when we met."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the fire crackling, the muffled sound of distant Valentine's carolling barely audible through the stone walls.
Blaise strolled through, holding what appeared to be a bouquet of magically floating tulips and a box of Chocolate Frogs.
Draco gave him a long look. "You've caught the Valentine's plague."
"They're for Ginny," Blaise said simply.
Draco blinked. "Weasley's Ginny?"
Blaise raised an eyebrow, as though daring him to continue. "Yes. Weasley's Ginny."
Daphne's mouth twitched. "The plague really has spread."
Blaise ignored her, casually adjusting the ribbon on the Chocolate Frogs. "She mentioned once that she liked tulips. And I heard from Hermione that Ginny wasn't fond of the roses she received — something about the thorns. Tulips don't have thorns."
"You do realise," Draco said dryly, snapping his book shut, "that you're essentially running a long game of strategic interference?"
"I prefer 'patient persistence,'" Blaise replied smoothly. "Besides, it's not as though I'm Petrifying Dean Thomas in his sleep. I'm simply better company." He said it on his way out.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Tulips and Chocolate Frogs. How very nauseating."
Daphne looked at Draco with something that almost resembled pity. Almost.
"Draco," she began, "I'm going to say this once, and you cannot repeat it, because I am actively undermining my own sister." She paused. "Girls like flowers. All girls like flowers. They like to feel special, even when they pretend they don't." She spoke slowly and deliberately, as though she wanted no room for misinterpretation. "If you still fancy Hermione, do something about it."
He rubbed his eyes. "Daphne —"
"Don't 'Daphne' me. I'm being serious."
"Daphne." His tone was firmer this time. "It doesn't matter what I want. She doesn't want it."
Daphne tilted her head. "You can't be certain of that."
He scoffed. "I can. She told me herself."
"That she doesn't fancy you?" She sounded dumbfounded.
"That she misses us being friends," he said quietly, looking back down at his book.
Daphne leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to determine when Draco Malfoy had become quite this spectacularly oblivious.
She opened one eye, squinting at him. "The girl hasn't spoken to you in weeks. Of course she misses the friendship — that doesn't mean she doesn't want to snog you senseless. Missing the friendship doesn't negate anything else. Hermione Granger is constitutionally incapable of not overanalysing every single interaction she has. She approaches everything from at least seventeen different angles with something resembling peer review. It is the law. Get the girl flowers, Malfoy!" She was on her feet now, glaring at him as though she were seriously considering a hex.
Draco sat up, shaking his head. "And what? Present them to her in the middle of the Great Hall? In front of Potter and Weasley and Snape? Hope she doesn't kick me again?"
"Do you need me to select them for you? Shall I choose the ribbon as well?!" she snapped. "Merlin! If she throws them at you, then duck!"
"Brilliant plan. Public humiliation, disinheritance, and a concussion. All in one go."
Daphne raked a hand through her hair. "I can't. I genuinely thought Theo was bad, but you — Salazar, you're impossible!" She stormed off, almost certainly to tell Pansy.
――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
Draco had managed, remarkably, to avoid most of the Valentine's Day nonsense all morning. After all of Daphne's secret admirers, after Blaise's tulips and Theo's enquiry about whether Daphne had a date, after Astoria had cornered him into dinner plans — he had still managed to sidestep the song Grams, the flower stalls, and the enchanted cards.
But now he stood at the edge of the corridor like a man sizing up a battlefield. Arms folded, jaw set, eyes narrowed at the row of Valentine's Day stalls occupying the hallway like an invading force.
He would rather be Cruciated. Maybe something experimental and banned in three countries. Anything but this.
He told himself it didn't matter. He told himself he could simply not do it — go to class, survive the day, and no one would ever know the idea had crossed his mind.
But he was already there, wasn't he? Skulking behind a column like a wanted man, working up the nerve to even look at the flowers.
He pulled at his collar and tugged lazily at his sleeves, wishing he were anyone else, then stepped out from behind the pillar.
This was thoroughly humiliating.
Everything was offensively bright. Glowing pink petals. Heart-shaped arrangements that pulsed. Singing lilies. One bouquet of roses chanted "kiss me, kiss me, kiss me" in a disturbingly high-pitched voice. The whole display was gaudy, glittering, and aggressively saturated.
He didn't buy flowers.
Malfoys didn't buy flowers.
No — Malfoys sent flowers. His father had never stood at a stall and deliberated. Lucius Malfoy had flowers delivered, usually by a house-elf, always perfectly arranged in a crystal vase on the breakfast table — dispatched as an apology or a formality before important guests arrived, more a chore than a gesture.
Draco, however, stood in the corridors of Hogwarts in front of a flimsy stall of flowers, sincerely wishing the floor would swallow him before anyone noticed.
"Happy Valentine's Day!" An aggressively cheerful fifth-year Hufflepuff appeared from nowhere. "Looking for anything in particular?"
He closed his eyes, willing the approaching migraine to dissipate. "Just browsing."
Here he was. A Slytherin with a name, a legacy, and absolutely no idea how to select a bouquet that said: I'm sorry for being a complete arse since New Year's, and perhaps I still think about kissing you when I'm alone, and perhaps you're entirely too pretty when you're hexing me in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and it does very confusing things to me.
Subtle, obviously. She wouldn't want singing flowers.
He scanned the selection. Carnations? Too bland. Peonies? Too bridal. Tulips? Blaise had just given those to Ginny. Geraniums? What even were geraniums?
He tugged his cloak tighter and shoved his hands into his pockets, doing his best to appear entirely uninterested in the Valentine's market clogging up the corridor. If anyone was watching — and several people were — he hoped he looked bored. Or better yet, vaguely disgusted.
He circled the same stall three times.
"Do you have anything that doesn't sing or shimmer as though it's going to blind me?" he asked, coming out rather ruder than intended.
"That's a bit boring, isn't it?"
He looked up at the Hufflepuff. How many points would he lose for hexing her?
He kept scanning. There had to be something tasteful. Elegant. Something that wouldn't get him hexed.
He spotted a modest bouquet near the bottom shelf — soft wildflowers, white and lavender blooms with small blue blossoms interspersed. Simple. Not flashy. Not clamouring for attention. Just... pretty.
He reached for it, then stopped.
Too subtle? What if it failed to communicate anything?
He picked up a different bouquet — deep red roses, thornless, wrapped in silver ribbon. Sophisticated. Dramatic. Romantic.
He stared at it.
Too much?
He set them both down and grabbed a third — yellow roses.
Romantic, sophisticated. But different. Rather like her.
"Yellow means friendship," the Hufflepuff interjected.
He turned to look at her slowly. "What?"
"The flowers. Yellow means friendship. Every colour means something."
His brain was going to explode. He briefly imagined what his gravestone might read: Draco Malfoy — son, idiot, undone by flowers and irrevocably besotted with Hermione Granger.
She grinned, blissfully unaware of the existential crisis she had just triggered.
"What colour says: sorry for being a prat?" he muttered, setting them down.
She thought for a moment. "White means forgiveness. Red means romance. Yellow is friendship. Depending on the shade of pink..." She kept going, but Draco had already tuned her out.
Forgiveness.
Well. Damn.
He cleared his throat and reached for both the red roses and the white wildflowers. "Wrap them together. Neatly. No glitter, no floating hearts, no singing charms. And I swear on Merlin's beard, if anything starts winking at me —"
"Understood." She held her hands up in surrender, smiling.
He pressed a handful of Sickles into her hand and took the bouquet, concealing it under his cloak as discreetly as he could. He turned to leave — and his eyes landed on Potter standing a few feet away.
This had to be some sort of ritual humiliation. He was fairly certain of it. He squared his shoulders and walked past. Perhaps Potter wouldn't say anything.
He was never very lucky.
"Didn't take you for a flowers sort of bloke, Malfoy," Potter said, falling into step beside him.
"I'm not," Draco said simply.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "So the roses are just for... show?"
"They're not for me."
"Well, no. Clearly. Who are they for?"
"Your mum's grave."
"Hilarious. Truly. Hermione?"
Draco narrowed his eyes. "Shouldn't you be worried about your own Valentine?"
"So it is Hermione."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't not say it either." Harry was grinning — the particular grin that made Draco genuinely consider letting the Death Eaters in through the front gates.
He scowled, trying to tuck the bouquet further into his cloak. A rogue petal dropped to the floor as though it had been sent specifically to betray him.
Harry laughed and bent to pick it up. "You dropped one."
Draco made a sound that could only be described as pure, unadulterated suffering — somewhere between a sigh and a groan, with a muttered curse beneath it. "Are you following me?"
"No, actually. On my way to the library. But this is considerably more interesting than the essay I owe McGonagall. Tell me — did you book a table? Candles? Rose petals on the floor?"
Draco stopped walking, raising an eyebrow. "Do you want to be hexed? Is that what this is? You enjoy it? Because that's the only explanation I have for why we're still having this conversation."
"I just never thought I'd see the day Malfoy bought flowers." Harry shrugged. "If you don't want my help, though..." He turned to leave.
Draco hesitated. It was barely a flicker, but Harry caught it.
Of course he did.
"What kind of help?"
"I could tell you when she's alone. Unless you're planning to do this in front of the Great Hall?"
He bit the inside of his cheek. "Fine. When is she alone?"
"There it is! I knew you'd come round. She has Ancient Runes now, then lunch, then a free period before Potions."
Draco nodded. "Ancient Runes, lunch, free period. Right." He turned and headed in the direction of the Runes classroom. The lesson would be letting out soon enough.
"What, no thanks?" Harry called after him.
Draco didn't stop, raising his middle finger as he went.
He didn't say it aloud. He didn't need to. But some small, reluctant, entirely hypothetical part of Draco Malfoy was grateful. Sort of. In a way that required never mentioning it and pretending the interaction had never occurred.
His grip tightened around the bouquet beneath his cloak. He could do this. He could hand her the flowers, say something vaguely coherent — perhaps even charming — and walk away with at least a shred of dignity. Or she could hex him, and he could pretend he'd never tried.
One step. Then another. The corridors were thinning out.
He heard her before he saw her.
The sharp edge of her voice, slightly breathless. He could picture the way her hands would be moving.
She was arguing.
With Weasley.
Of course.
Draco paused, ducking into a side corridor and pressing his back against the wall. Not to eavesdrop — certainly not — but to assess the situation. Strategically. He could hardly hand her flowers in front of Weasley.
"Ron, I really don't want to do this, alright?" she huffed.
"Do what? We're just talking!"
Hermione exhaled sharply. "Every time we talk, you try to make it into something else. You keep asking if there's something going on, and I've told you — nothing is going on."
"Hermione, all I'm saying is you lot were close and now you're suddenly not. It's odd. And you've been in a mood all day —"
"I'm always in a mood on Valentine's Day. It's a pointless holiday."
"I just think you should be careful around them. Harry thinks —"
"Yes, I know what Harry thinks," Hermione cut him off, and Draco peeked around the corner to see her spin to face Ron. "I — Godric, Ron! I don't like Malfoy!"
Draco's fingers tightened around the flower stems, breath held.
Doesn't like — or doesn't like?
"I-I'm just doing what Harry asked of me." Her voice was softer now.
Draco pressed his back against the stone wall. What did that mean?
"You're spying on them?" Weasley asked.
Draco's heart lurched.
There was a pause before Hermione spoke again. "Yes. I'm being strategic. Getting close to them. For Harry."
His stomach dropped. The words sank in before he could stop them.
You're spying on them?
Yes.
"You want to know what they're up to, don't you?" Hermione continued. "I'm figuring it out. Watching. Infiltrating. I'm trying to get close enough that he'll slip up and say something."
Something twisted in his gut.
He looked down at the bouquet in his hand. White wildflowers and red roses. Forgiveness and romance. Stupid, bloody poetic.
She didn't sound hesitant or confused. There was no anger in her voice any longer — just something flat and resolute.
"Ask Harry about the cabinet," Hermione said. "He knows all about it."
Draco closed his eyes, a tight feeling lodged in his throat. Could a person drown without being anywhere near water?
The corridor felt too quiet now, their voices a distant hum beneath the pounding in his chest.
Spying.
Strategic.
Infiltrating.
Words that belonged to war, not to late nights by the fire, or lingering glances across a classroom, or the kiss that still haunted him like a fever. Not to snowball fights or late-night conversations or baking biscuits at two in the morning.
He looked down at the bouquet again.
What a bloody joke.
The flowers felt heavier now. The stems were bending under the grip of his fingers, petals bruising where his knuckles had tightened without him noticing. He didn't move. Couldn't. Not yet.
Trying to get close.
He'll slip up and say something.
Every word echoed, growing louder each time it circled back. He'd known it was reckless — he had known that — but he'd let himself think —
Had let himself believe —
He wanted to be angry. He knew how to be angry. Fury would be easy. This crushing ache settling somewhere between his ribs and his stomach? He didn't know how to manage whatever that was.
He couldn't even be angry, not really. He'd made mistakes too. He should have known. It made a horrible kind of sense. She was simply being Hermione — loyal, principled, strategic.
He had been humiliated before. He had practically grown up with shame as a daily companion. But this was a different kind of humiliation. Quiet and gutting. The sort that made you question whether anything had ever been real at all.
His fingers uncurled slowly. One by one. The bouquet drooped from his hand and fell to the floor as he stepped back from the wall and into the nearest stairwell, heading back to his dormitory.
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Hermione stepped out of Ancient Runes with knots in her shoulders. Though she had always managed to follow the subject well enough, she hadn't been able to concentrate today — and she couldn't even blame the choir for it.
"Hermione!"
Her spine stiffened. Ron.
She didn't dislike him — they had been friends since they were eleven, and some part of her believed that would never truly change. But with each passing day and each new comment about her friendship with the Slytherins, with Draco, it was all becoming too much. Add to that the way he'd taken to embarrassing her for Lavender's amusement, and Lavender's constant presence clinging to him — it was suffocating.
"Ron, I really don't want to do this, alright?" She kept her voice even. Casual. Dismissive. Even as she turned to face him.
Ron jogged to catch up, stopping beside her, his brow furrowed as he studied her face. "Do what? We're just talking."
She pulled her bag higher on her shoulder. "Every time we talk, you try to make it into something else. You keep asking if something's going on, and I've told you — nothing is going on."
That was the truth. And also not the truth. Nothing was happening — yet nothing also wasn't not happening.
"Hermione, all I'm saying is you lot were close and now you're suddenly not. It's odd. And you've been in a mood all day —"
"I'm always in a mood on Valentine's Day." She said it too quickly, too sharply. "It's a pointless holiday."
Ron didn't look convinced. "I just think you should be careful around them. Harry thinks —"
"Yes, I know what Harry thinks." She exhaled sharply.
She felt it then — her composure beginning to crack. The edge of panic threading up her spine, tangled with guilt and irritation and a dozen other things she didn't want to name.
"I —" Her voice faltered, breath catching. "Godric, Ron! I don't like Malfoy!"
The words came out harsher than she intended, sharper than the truth they were trying to conceal. Her heart gave a painful thump. She knew she ought to clarify — didn't like him like that. She ought to say it.
She didn't.
She wasn't sure whether she was trying to convince Ron or herself.
Ron looked slightly taken aback but didn't interrupt, so she pushed on.
"I'm just doing what Harry asked of me." Her voice softened. It was a lie, but a useful one. Ron had been there the first time Harry asked her to spy on Draco. She'd refused then — but as far as Ron knew, she might have since changed her mind. She was confident Harry would back her up if she threatened to mention his arrangement with Pansy.
"You're spying on them?" Ron asked, eyebrows lifting.
She swallowed. "Yes." Her voice was calm and measured. "I'm being strategic. Getting close to them. For Harry."
There it was. Clean. Tidy.
"You want to know what they're up to, don't you?" she continued, fingers knotting tightly over the strap of her bag. "I'm figuring it out. Watching. Infiltrating. I'm trying to get close enough that he'll slip up and say something."
And the thing she hated most — more than the lie itself, more than belittling friendships she had genuinely come to value, more than not recognising her own voice as she said it?
That when she finished, Ron's face softened, and he smiled at her for the first time in months.
"Ask Harry about the cabinet," she muttered. "He knows all about it."
She turned on her heel before Ron could say anything more, before more unearned warmth could unravel her further. As she rounded the corner, she slowed, frowning at the splash of white and red on the stone floor.
She stepped closer, crouching to examine it.
Her fingers hovered above the petals. White wildflowers, delicate and fresh, mixed with deep red roses. The stems were bent, and several of the roses were partially bruised.
She picked them up carefully, glancing around for whoever might have dropped them. They were tragically beautiful — if anything, their imperfections made them more so.
Perhaps someone had been stood up. Perhaps the flowers had been given to someone who hadn't appreciated them.
She sighed softly. Gods, she hated Valentine's Day. Poor flowers, going to waste.