The air between them crackled with an intensity that was almost unbearable, a silent war raging in the space between their bodies. Malfoy stood rigid, his arms crossed like a shield, his grey eyes cold and calculating. Granger, seated across the room, looked as though she were carved from stone, her posture deceptively calm, but her eyes burned with fury—a fire he knew all too well.
"They took our limbs and threw them to the wolves. Every ounce of my dignity, shredded. And for what? So you and your kind could pretend the world was better?"
"Cry me a river, Malfoy," she snapped, her voice sharp as broken glass. "Don't you dare talk to me about dignity. You don't even know the meaning of the word."
His lip curled into a sneer, the venom in his voice slicing through the tension like a blade.
"I know exactly what it means. But you—" he jabbed a finger in her direction, his tone dripping with disdain—"you think you've pieced me together from scraps and whispers, don't you? Always the clever little know-it-all, thinking you understand me."
"I don't need to understand you," she retorted, her voice cold and unyielding. "I already know what you did."
Her words hung in the air like a death sentence, and his sneer faltered, replaced by a flicker of something dangerous.
"Oh, really?" he drawled, his tone deceptively casual, though his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "And where, pray tell, did you get this treasure trove of revelations? Potter? Weasley? Someone equally sanctimonious?"
"No," she said, her voice a razor's edge. She tilted her chin, daring him to deny it. "I found out from him."
The silence that followed was suffocating, the air thick with unspoken accusations. For the first time, he looked shaken. His shoulders tensed as if bracing for a blow. "What he told you was a lie."
"Was it?" she shot back, her voice rising, every syllable laced with scorn. "Funny, because every single one of your so-called friends tells the same story. Every one of them, except you. So either you're lying to me, or you've somehow convinced yourself otherwise."
He took a step toward her, his pale face contorted with fury. "I TOLD YOU I'M NOT LYING, YOU—"
The word hovered between them like a curse, unspoken but deafening in its implication.
"Go on," she said, her voice deadly soft. Her eyes were sharp as daggers. "Finish that sentence."
He froze, the tension in his body coiled like a spring. His mouth opened, but no words came.
And then her hand flew. The crack of her palm against his cheek echoed through the room like a gunshot. His head snapped to the side, and for a moment, he stood there, stunned into silence.
"That's what I thought," she said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. Her hand was still poised in the air, her palm stinging from the impact.
He slowly turned his head back to face her, his cheek flaming red, but his expression was unreadable—somewhere between fury and something softer, something raw and unguarded.
But she wasn't finished. She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "You want redemption, Malfoy? You want me to believe you've changed? Then stop lying. Stop hiding. Because right now, all I see is the same coward you've always been."
Her words hit him like a slap, sharper and more painful than the one she'd delivered moments before. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his fists clenching and unclenching as though he were fighting to keep his composure.
Finally, she stood, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "We'll try this again tomorrow. Maybe by then, you'll have something worth saying."
She turned on her heel and strode toward the door, her steps purposeful and unyielding. But as her hand reached the doorknob, she paused, her voice softer this time, almost weary.
She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her with enough force to rattle the walls. She made it halfway down the hallway before the emotions she'd been holding back came crashing down on her.
What was I thinking? she thought bitterly, her hands trembling as she leaned against the cold stone wall. Taking this case pro bono? Believing for even a second that he could be saved?
Draco Malfoy was a lost cause. He wasn't a man looking for redemption—he was a man who thrived on defiance, who wore his arrogance like armor and his bitterness like a crown.
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, willing herself not to cry. She'd dealt with stubborn clients before, even dangerous ones, but this was different. He wasn't just cruel; he was calculated, deliberately pushing her buttons in ways no one else ever had.
And yet, there was something about the way his voice cracked when he said, "It's not a lie," something about the anger in his eyes that seemed to mask something deeper—something fragile, almost desperate.
No, she told herself firmly. He's just playing games. He's always been good at that.
Back in the room, he stood alone, his hand hovering over the cheek she'd slapped. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling with the effort of holding back the torrent of emotions swirling inside him.
He was a sick fuck, because he loved that she slapped him with passion.
Stupid, he thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He'd let her get to him—again.
The word he'd nearly said hung in the air, like poison dripping from his tongue. He hadn't said it, but the mere thought of it had been enough to unleash her fury.
And she was right. She had every right to slap him, to storm out, to write him off as hopeless. But what she didn't know—what she couldn't know—was how deeply it burned, how the weight of his choices pressed down on him every day, every night.
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room like a caged animal. The walls felt too close, the air too thick. He thought of his mother, the only person who'd ever truly understood him, the only person he'd ever truly loved—and how he'd failed her too.
Finally, he sank into the chair Hermione had vacated, his head in his hands. What's the point? he thought bitterly. No matter what I say, she'll never believe me.
But even as the thought crossed his mind, a tiny, stubborn spark of hope flickered inside him.
Because for all her anger, all her frustration, Granger hadn't walked away. Not completely. She'd said, "We'll try this again tomorrow."
And tomorrow, he'd have another chance to prove her wrong—or maybe to prove her right.
•••••••••••••••
The next morning, she stormed through the cold, sterile halls of the Ministry's holding wing, her heels clicking against the polished floor with purposeful sharpness. Her robes billowed behind her, a symbol of her relentless determination. She was tired, she was irritated, and she was in no mood for niceties. Especially not with Malfoy.
Halfway to the serpent's cell, a familiar figure intercepted her—Narcissa Malfoy, the embodiment of regal desperation. Even in her hurried state, Narcissa managed to appear composed, her delicate features touched with worry but her chin held high, as if she could will dignity into the situation.
"Hermione Granger," she called out, her voice smooth but tinged with urgency. "Miss Granger, if I could have a moment."
She stopped abruptly, her lips curling into an impatient scowl. Of course, she thought, the queen of manipulation herself.
"Mrs. Malfoy," she said, her tone clipped, "I'm in the middle of something. What could possibly be so important?"
Narcissa glided closer, her pale blue robes shimmering faintly under the harsh overhead lights. "I wanted to thank you for taking Draco's case," she said, her tone soft and carefully measured. "I know this... situation is far beneath your expertise."
She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms tightly. "Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Malfoy. You're plenty grateful, I'm sure—grateful enough to keep paying me, I hope. My mortgage thanks you."
Narcissa's perfectly composed mask slipped for a moment, her eyes widening slightly at the audacity of Hermione's remark. She quickly recovered, her lips pulling into a thin, forced smile. "Of course," she said, her voice laced with false sweetness. "You'll be generously compensated for your services. Don't think for a moment that I would expect otherwise."
Her gaze was sharp, her voice colder than the dungeon air. "Good. Because if you think I'm doing this out of some misguided sense of morality, let me be clear: I'm not. Your son is a lost cause."
Narcissa's gasp was barely audible, but the offense was clear in her wide, stunned eyes. For a moment, she looked like a porcelain doll—fragile, shocked, and brittle. She wasn't used to hearing such blunt words, especially not from a so-called Mudblood.
"Miss Granger," Narcissa began, her voice trembling slightly as she tried to regain her composure. "Please... I'm begging you. Draco—he's not beyond saving."
Her laugh was cold, cruel even. "Oh, spare me the theatrics," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "He's not worth saving. And frankly, you're delusional if you think he is."
Narcissa's eyes flashed with indignation, her pale cheeks flushing pink. For a moment, the regal mask cracked, and she let slip a muttered curse in French, barely loud enough to hear.
"Stupide fille, perchée sur son grand cheval," Narcissa spat under her breath.
Hermione's smile turned sharp, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "Merci Merlin que vous n'ayez pas supposé que je parle français," she said smoothly, her words flowing in flawless Parisian French. "Je transmettrai mes salutations à votre mari—oh, attendez. Il est en prison."
Narcissa's face froze in horror, her lips parting as if to respond, but no words came. The humiliation in her expression was almost palpable, her carefully curated poise crumbling before Hermione's unrelenting ferocity.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," she continued in English, brushing past Narcissa with an air of finality. "I have a meeting with your lost cause of a son."
Narcissa stood frozen in the hallway, her hands trembling as she watched Hermione disappear down the corridor. For the first time in a long time, the powerful matriarch of the Malfoy family felt utterly powerless.
•••••••••••••••
The tension in the room was palpable, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Hermione didn't bother knocking as she pushed the heavy door open, stepping into the space like a storm brewing on the horizon.
He was lounging on the edge of his bed, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest an air of indifference. His icy gray eyes flicked up to meet hers, his expression a mask of irritation.
"Have you ever heard of knocking? What if I'd been doing something private?"
"Private? What could you possibly have to hide? Unless you've somehow smuggled a mirror in here to wank off to your own reflection, I think I'm safe."
His mouth twitched at the corner, a mix of amusement and annoyance. "Very clever, Granger. Is this wit a side effect of your insufferable Gryffindor righteousness?"
She ignored the barb, stepping further into the room. "Your mother is almost as unpleasant as you are. But, thankfully, her desperation to keep you out of Azkaban means my mortgage will be covered if I keep this circus going long enough."
"Your mortgage? Isn't this pro bono? Just for me?" His tone was dripping with mockery, his smirk deepening.
"I wouldn't spit on you for free, Malfoy. It's free for the Ministry—not my personal life. But don't worry, your mother's generosity will ensure I don't lose sleep over this pathetic excuse for a case."
He stood abruptly, his tall frame now looming over her as he took a step closer.
"What personal life? What could someone like you possibly have outside of this self-righteous crusade? What is it, Granger? A quick shag with Weasley in missionary once a month to keep things interesting?"
She tilted her head, her lips curling into a slow, wicked smile.
"If I wanted to settle for scraps, I'd shag your father. But alas, Lucius is… unavailable for the foreseeable future."
His smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp, venomous glare.
"Don't you dare bring my father into this."
"Or what?" She took a step closer, her eyes blazing with fire. "Your mother comes barging in here again, telling me to get off my high horse? Please, Malfoy, try harder."
His fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white. "This is pointless. You're insufferable."
"Just like your father, then—pointless."
The air snapped as his voice rose, his anger boiling over. "Listen here, you stupid—"
Before he could finish, her palm connected with his cheek in a sharp slap that echoed through the room. His head whipped to the side, and for a moment, he stood stunned, the red mark on his face blooming against his pale skin.
She smiled, sharp and unforgiving.
"I love this game for us, Malfoy. Let's try this again tomorrow. And for the record," she leaned in, her voice dropping into a dangerous whisper, "your father is rather handsome. So yes, I'd let him raw dog me."
Her words were a dagger, twisting cruelly as she spun on her heel and stalked out of the room. The door slammed behind her, leaving him seething in her wake.
He stood there, his chest rising and falling with barely controlled fury. She was a storm he couldn't escape, and he hated that a part of him didn't want to.
••••••••••••••
For an entire week, the storm between them raged on. Their exchanges were venomous, cutting deeper than any spell. They threw insults like daggers, each one meant to wound, and yet neither seemed ready to walk away from the battlefield they had created.
By the second week, however, she found herself growing bored. At first, it had been entertaining to spar with him, watching his face twist in irritation, but now it was just… predictable. His insults lacked creativity, his comebacks were tired. He was too easy to rile up, and there was no challenge left in it.
When she entered his room that day, she didn't bother with pleasantries. She slammed the door shut and crossed her arms, staring him down as he lounged on the bed with an air of disinterest.
"Listen here, you little bitch," she began, her voice low and sharp. "Tell me how you managed to hide a time-turner, and I'll consider letting you go."
He rolled his eyes, sitting up and leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
"I've already told you, Granger. I didn't do shit."
"Ah, yes. The infamous Malfoy defense. Deny, deny, deny." She paced the room, her tone mocking. "Why is it that all men do is lie? Don't you get bored of it? Aren't you tired of being so… predictable?"
His jaw clenched, but he didn't respond, his silence only fueling her fire.
"The whorehouses must be sending you love letters by now. Why not confess and save us both the trouble of pretending this is anything other than a waste of time?" she said, her face utterly unmoved.
"It wasn't me!" His voice rose, frustration cracking through his usual composure. "I destroyed everything after the war! I didn't want to live in that bloody manor, surrounded by its cursed dark magic. I wanted to be free of it. Of everything."
His confession hung in the air, raw and unguarded. For a moment, she faltered, surprised by the depth of his words. But she recovered quickly, masking any hint of sympathy with a smirk.
"Hmm." She tapped her chin, pretending to think deeply. "I'll let you go… if you apologize."
He blinked, his brows furrowing in genuine confusion. "Apologize?" He scoffed, incredulous. "You can't be serious."
"Oh, I'm completely serious." She leaned in closer, her lips curling into a wicked smile. "Excuse-toi, comme un bon garçon, et je te libérerai."
His eyes widened slightly before narrowing into a glare. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?" he snapped.
Her smirk only deepened. "Never better."
"Well, then allow me to clarify something for you," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Je ne m'excuserai jamais auprès de quelqu'un comme toi."
"She tilted her head, her expression unbothered. "Very well, Malfoy. We'll try begging next month."
She spun on her heel and strode to the door, pausing just long enough to glance back over her shoulder. "Enjoy your solitude. And do try to come up with better insults. You're becoming dreadfully dull."
The door slammed shut behind her, leaving him alone in the suffocating silence of the room. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he stared at the space she'd just vacated.
He didn't know what infuriated him more: her audacity or the fact that, deep down, he was already planning his next retort.