The Serpent's Redemption // DRAMIONE

She left him alone for three days. She told herself it was for his sake—that anyone would need time to recover after baring their deepest secrets, their most intimate and shameful moments, to a team of investigators and, more painfully, to her. But the truth was more complicated. The truth was that she needed time, too.

She had seen so much more than she anticipated during the memory examination. She expected lies, evasions, and maybe a glimmer of guilt hidden beneath his sharp tongue. What she didn't expect was the raw vulnerability, the complicated layers of a man she thought she had all figured out. She especially didn't expect to find herself stuck on one particular revelation—one that gnawed at her incessantly.

Malfoy had been researching her. No, scratch that. He'd been obsessively following her life through the papers, clipping articles, saving photographs, tracking her every accomplishment, every speech, every public appearance. It wasn't just admiration, though there was a flicker of that in the memories—it was deeper, more unsettling.

Stalking. That's what it felt like, didn't it? Hermione's logical mind labeled it as such, but another part of her—the part she didn't often listen to—wasn't so sure.

She paced her flat, arms crossed tightly as she tried to make sense of it. The memories of him sitting by the fire with the Daily Prophet spread across his lap, his eyes lingering on her photograph, replayed in her head like a haunting melody. She couldn't shake the look on his face, that strange mix of resentment, fascination, and something she dared not name.

"Bloody ridiculous," she muttered aloud, tossing herself onto her worn couch. "He's a self-absorbed prat who probably just hated that I was doing better than him."

But even as she said it, she knew it wasn't entirely true. There was something about the way he looked at her photo—not with hatred, not even with jealousy. It was... complicated. And it made her feel uncomfortably exposed.

She tried to busy herself with work, diving into files and reports to push him from her mind, but he crept back in at the worst times. Her tea went cold as she replayed the memory of him burning dark artifacts at Malfoy Manor, his face grim with determination. Her quill hovered uselessly over a document as she remembered him sitting stiffly in an anger management class, trying so hard to fit into a world he clearly didn't belong to. And then, of course, there was the wine night, his smirk, his stupid, maddening charm.

Why did it bother her so much? she thought, chewing on her lip. People admired her all the time; she'd grown used to it. But this wasn't admiration. It wasn't simple. It was Malfoy, of all people—her old school nemesis—spending years quietly... watching her.

And she couldn't decide if it infuriated her, flattered her, or made her feel something else entirely.

By the second day, her frustration had only grown. She found herself snapping at colleagues, her normally sharp wit tinged with an uncharacteristic edge. She blamed her restlessness on everything but the real reason—on the weather, on the volume of paperwork piling up, on the new coffee blend in the office kitchen that was just wrong. But deep down, she knew exactly what was eating at her.

On the third day, she gave up pretending. She spent the evening curled up in her armchair with a glass of wine, staring out the window at the London rain. Her mind raced through everything she'd learned about him in the past few weeks—how he'd burned bridges with his former allies, how he'd taken to reading and writing as if his life depended on it, how he'd turned his back on the person he used to be.

And how he'd followed her.

She told herself it was unhealthy. That it was crossing a line. That it was... obsessive. But then she'd remember how his expression softened when he thought no one was watching, how he'd opened that bottle of wine with a flourish just to make her laugh, and she felt the tiniest crack in her resolve.

"Why do you even care?" she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rain. "Why does it matter?"

She didn't have an answer. All she knew was that the idea of seeing him again, of confronting him with what she'd seen in his memories, filled her with a strange mix of dread and anticipation.

Three days is enough, she decided, draining the last of her wine. She set the glass down with a decisive clink and stood. Tomorrow, she would go back to that flat. She would face him, question him, force him to explain himself if she had to. Because this unsettled feeling in her chest—this maddening curiosity, this strange warmth—wasn't going to go away on its own.

And, if she was being honest with herself, she wasn't sure she wanted it to.

•••••••••••••••

Granger was nothing if not relentless. The moment she stepped into his flat, she made her presence known, her energy filling the space like an impending storm. She didn't knock—of course, she didn't. Hermione Granger was above trivial things like manners, especially when she was on a mission.

"Malfoy!" she barked, slamming the door behind her.

He groaned audibly from the couch, where he was sprawled in an impressive display of laziness. He barely turned his head to acknowledge her. "What do you want now? Can't I wallow in my humiliation in peace for just a moment?"

She dropped her bag onto the nearest surface, crossing her arms as she glared at him. "No, absolutely not. What you need is company."

He finally rolled his head to look at her, his smirk as sharp as ever. "Not yours, obviously."

She raised a brow, unimpressed. "Should I call one of your whores, then?"

His lips twitched into a grin. "She's already here."

She tilted her head, pretending to consider his words. "Your favorite one, then? The one you've been stalking for ages?"

At that, he sat up, his lazy demeanor shifting into something more defensive. His sharp gray eyes narrowed on her. "What the hell are you on about?"

"Don't play dumb, Malfoy," she snapped, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Why are you clipping my pictures from the Daily Prophet? Hmm? Why did I see entire articles about me in your little collection of secrets?"

He blinked at her, the faintest flush creeping up his neck. "To wank, obviously," he said flatly, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"To my face?" she shot back, her tone incredulous but unflinching.

He shrugged, leaning back into the couch like this was the most normal conversation in the world. "I'm really more aroused by 'Century Gothic Bold, font size 12.' The way the letters curve just gets me."

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting a grin. "Oh, very funny. Let me guess, the actual truth is far more pathetic. You're jealous of me, aren't you?"

He laughed, short and humorless. "What if I was? What if I am?"

That caught her off guard. She hadn't expected him to admit it so easily, and she certainly hadn't expected the sudden vulnerability that crept into his voice. She hesitated, searching his face for answers, but he had already masked whatever fleeting emotion had surfaced. He was back to his usual smirking self.

"Why, Malfoy? Why spend so much time following my life? Was it just so you could laugh at my successes? Or does seeing me in print help you feel like less of a failure?"

He scowled at that, his smirk vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. "You don't get it, do you?" he muttered, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "It wasn't about you—well, not entirely. It was about..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Never mind."

She wasn't about to let it go. "About what? Spit it out, Malfoy. Merlin forbid you leave a mystery unsolved in my presence."

He sighed, long and dramatic, as if this was the greatest inconvenience of his life. "Fine. If you must know, Granger, I was jealous, alright? Not because of your stupid little accomplishments—"

"Excuse me?!" she interrupted, clearly offended.

He ignored her, plowing ahead. "—but because you had... everything. Purpose. A place in this bloody new world we've been dumped into. And me? I had nothing. My life was rubble, and you were there, shining like some... some bloody beacon."

She blinked, caught off guard by his honesty. She opened her mouth to respond, but he wasn't finished.

"And yes," he added, "maybe I also liked reading about you because... well, it reminded me of something good. Something untainted by all the shit we went through. Even if that something was you."

Silence hung heavy between them. Hermione didn't know what to say. She wasn't used to seeing him like this—unguarded, honest, almost... human.

Finally, she broke the tension with a dry, "Well, I suppose I should be flattered."

He rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth quirked into a small smile. "Don't let it go to your head, Granger."

She smirked, a sharp glint in her eye. "Oh, don't worry. It already has. Now, if you're done with your little confessional, I'll be taking my leave."

"Running away so soon?" he called after her as she grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

She paused in the doorway, her hand on the frame as she turned back to look at Draco. Her brow arched, sharp as ever. "Just giving you space to properly wallow. Don't forget to write about me in your diary tonight."

He smirked lazily, though his voice was calm, almost too honest. "I do. Always."

Her eyes narrowed, clearly not expecting the admission. "Are you serious? You have a diary?"

"It's called a journal, you stupid cunt," he replied, his tone infuriatingly nonchalant.

Hermione's jaw dropped, though not out of shock—more out of sheer indignation. "Malfoy, I'm going to slap you again."

He grinned, leaning back against the wall like he was daring her. "Do it! It's your favorite pastime, isn't it? How many times have you slapped me so far?"

"Not nearly enough," she fired back, crossing her arms and taking a step closer.

He tilted his head, the smirk never leaving his face. "And I just stand there and take it. I do nothing but endure your abuse."

She snorted. "Why? What are you planning to do, Malfoy? Slap me back? Please."

He leaned forward slightly, his gray eyes darkening as a flicker of something dangerous flashed across his face. "I don't know your kinks yet, Granger. But I'd be happy to find out."

Her lips curled into a wry smile. "Come here, then. Let me slap you, and we'll see if you can retort for once in your life."

His grin widened into something wolfish, and he began to close the distance between them, his steps slow and deliberate. There was a predatory glint in his eye, one that made Hermione's heart quicken—not with fear, but with a surge of defiance. She watched him approach, her chin lifting as if to meet his challenge head-on.

"Come on," she goaded, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. "Humor me."

He was only a foot away now, and with one swift motion, she swung her hand across his face. The sharp crack of her palm meeting his cheek echoed in the room, but before she could pull back, he caught her wrist in an iron grip.

"Granger," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, "you really should've thought that through."

Before she could respond, he twisted her arm gently but firmly behind her back, stepping closer until their bodies were almost flush. Her free hand flew up instinctively to push him away, but he was quicker, capturing her other wrist and pinning it behind her as well.

"Now, now, kitten," he whispered, his voice low and smooth, his breath ghosting against the delicate shell of Hermione's ear. She stiffened, every nerve on edge, but refused to give him the satisfaction of looking away. Their eyes locked, hers blazing with defiance, his glinting with dark amusement. It was a battle of wills, one she refused to lose.

He leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming, a calculated invasion of her personal space. His voice dropped to a husky murmur, laced with a dangerous sort of intimacy that made her skin prickle. "I've been dreaming about the smell of your hair, you know. Ever since we were teenagers."

Her breath hitched slightly, but she kept her expression carefully neutral, willing herself not to react. She wouldn't give him the power he so clearly craved. Not now, not ever.

He continued, his words a slow, deliberate drawl as he tilted his head, inhaling softly as though to prove his point. "I always wanted to touch it," he confessed, his tone equal parts teasing and genuine. "To twist it between my fingers, feel its softness. Merlin, Granger, you have no idea how many nights I imagined wrapping your hair around my hand."

She opened her mouth, ready to unleash a scathing retort, but he wasn't finished. His lips hovered perilously close to her ear now, the warmth of his breath sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. "And now…" he murmured, his voice dipping even lower, carrying an edge of wicked intent that made her blood simmer, "now I imagine holding it back. Keeping it from falling into your face while I fuck your mouth—finally, something that shuts you up."

The audacity of his words hung in the air, heavy and electric, like the calm before a storm. Her jaw tightened, her fists clenching at her sides. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered or embarrassed. Instead, she tilted her chin upward, meeting his gaze with a steady, unyielding glare.

"Is that what you fantasize about, Malfoy?" she asked, her voice like ice, each word a dagger aimed straight at his ego. "Degrading yourself by thinking about me? How pathetic."

His smirk faltered for the briefest moment, but he recovered quickly, his grin turning sharper, almost predatory. "Oh, Granger," he purred, stepping even closer until there was barely a breath of space between them, "if pathetic is dreaming of you, then I'm guilty as charged. But don't kid yourself—you've thought about it too. Haven't you?"

Her eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. "The only thing I've thought about is how much I enjoy slapping that smug look off your face."

His hand shot out suddenly, catching her wrist before she could act on her words. He pulled her closer, his grip firm but not painful, his other hand ghosting just over the curve of her waist. She inhaled sharply, her heart pounding against her ribs, but she kept her expression composed, refusing to let him see how much he unsettled her.

"Careful, kitten," he murmured, his voice a velvet warning. "You might enjoy it too much this time."

She wrenched her wrist free with a sharp tug, stepping back just enough to put space between them. She straightened her shoulders, her glare as fiery as ever. "You're insufferable, Malfoy."

"And you're irresistible, Granger," he shot back without missing a beat. His smirk widened as he leaned casually against the wall, crossing his arms like he'd already won this little game of theirs. "Why fight it?"

"Fight what?" she retorted, grabbing her bag and throwing it over her shoulder with a sharp motion. "The overwhelming urge to hex you into next week? Trust me, Malfoy, I'm not fighting anything. In fact, I'm leaving."

She turned on her heel, striding toward the door, but not before casting one final glare over her shoulder. "You can fantasize all you want. Just don't mistake your delusions for reality."

Her breath hitched, but she wasn't about to let him win. She stared at him, her expression cold, unflinching. "Are you finished?" she asked, her voice as sharp as a blade.

He smirked again, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he released her wrists and took a step back. He waited, half-expecting her to slap him again, but instead, Hermione adjusted her sleeves with an air of detached calm.

"Tomorrow," she said, her voice crisp and matter-of-fact, "I'll send over Mindy, and a priest."

Draco blinked. "A priest?"

She gave him a pointed look. "Clearly, you need an exorcism. There's something very wrong with you."

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out the door, leaving he standing there, stunned into silence. After a beat, a slow, amused chuckle escaped his lips.

"Bloody hell," he muttered to himself. "She'll be the death of me."

•••••••••••••••

He woke to the unsettling crackle of the fireplace springing to life. Disoriented, he rubbed his eyes and froze when his gaze landed on the figure standing in the middle of his sitting room.

A blonde woman—if you could call her that—stood there in platform heels, a skintight mini-dress that barely qualified as fabric, and enough fake tan to match the Malfoy Manor's golden wallpaper. Her lips were glossy, her lashes impossibly long, and her proportions… well, fake would have been putting it generously. Everything about her screamed "professional company," and Draco's stomach churned.

She tilted her head, giving him a once-over that made him feel utterly violated without her even laying a finger on him.

"Oh, young Malfoy," she drawled, her voice thick with an accent he vaguely recognized from late-night Muggle soap operas. "You look so much better in real life than in them pictures."

His brows knit together, a sense of dread creeping over him. "Who the fuck are you?"

She giggled, the sound high-pitched and grating, like nails on a chalkboard. "I'm Mindy, babes. Yer company for the day."

He blinked, utterly dumbfounded. He stepped closer, his mind racing with a mixture of confusion, anger, and disgust. "My what?" he asked, his voice laced with venom.

She mistook his approach as an invitation, her smile widening as she began to shimmy out of her dress. His jaw dropped as the flimsy fabric hit the floor, leaving her standing there stark naked, her spray tan uneven in places he didn't want to notice.

"What in Merlin's name—?!" he choked out, immediately averting his eyes and turning away. "Put your fucking clothes back on!"

Mindy didn't seem fazed in the slightest. "Don't be shy now, love," she purred, sauntering toward him with a sway of her hips that Draco assumed was supposed to be seductive. "Been a long time, yeah? You must be desperate by now."

"No. Absolutely not," he snapped, holding up a hand to keep her at bay. "Who sent you? What is this madness?"

She pouted, her fake lashes fluttering like butterfly wings. "Oh, don't be like that. I'm here to satisfy all your needs, darling. Hermione said you needed company, and here I am. Ain't I a sight?"

His blood ran cold at the mention of Granger. Of course, she was behind this. "Granger sent you?" he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That insufferable—no, no, this isn't happening."

"Aw, come on," Mindy crooned, now dangerously close to him. She reached out to trail a fingernail down his arm, and Draco recoiled like he'd been burned. "Don't fight it, sweet'eart. Let's 'ave some fun."

"No!" he barked, his voice louder than he intended. He stepped back, putting as much distance between them as possible. "Get dressed. Now. And get out of my flat before I—"

"Before you what?" she interrupted, arching a brow and planting a hand on her hip. "Yer clearly uptight. I've been sent to help you relax, innit?"

He stared at Mindy, utterly appalled, as she pressed her hands against his chest. His patience, already stretched to its limit, snapped.

"Relax?!" he hissed, shoving her hands away with more force than necessary. "I'll relax the moment you're gone. So why don't you do us both a favor and leave? Now!"

Mindy pouted dramatically, clearly not used to being rejected so firmly. "Oh, don't be like that, love," she cooed, stepping closer again. "Yer just shy. Let's loosen you up, yeah?"

He took a step back, his nostrils flaring. He threw his head back and shouted through the house, his voice echoing off the walls, "GRANGER! GET IN HERE! RIGHT NOW!"

It was barely a few seconds before she stormed into the room, heels clicking against the floor. She was dressed in a pale yellow sundress that hugged her figure perfectly, the soft fabric swaying with her movements. For a brief, unguarded moment, he thought she looked like she had walked out of a Renaissance painting, all glowing skin and effortless elegance.

She stopped in the doorway, her brows knitting together in irritation. "What in Merlin's name is wrong with you now?" she snapped, looking ready to kill him.

He pointed dramatically toward the bedroom, where Mindy had made herself quite at home, her dress discarded on the floor once more. "What the fuck is this?" he demanded, his voice cracking slightly. "What in all the seven hells is she doing here?"

She followed his outstretched finger and raised a single brow when her gaze landed on the naked blonde lounging against his bedframe. Her lips quirked in a barely concealed smirk. "Looks to me," she said, her tone light and mocking, "like you're having a very good time. I mean, you were yelling for me—what's wrong? Need some tips to improve your stamina? Two minutes is such a generous improvement for you."

He turned beet red. "YOU HIRED A WHORE?" he bellowed, his voice so loud that even Mindy flinched.

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. "First of all, she's an escort. Watch your mouth, Malfoy. Respect the profession." She then waved cheerily at the blonde. "Hello, Mindy, love."

Mindy, utterly unfazed, gave Hermione a wide grin. "Oh, hello babes! You look proper fit, don't ya? Look at you, like some posh little doll."

She beamed. "Thank you, darling. That's the vibe I was going for today." She gestured toward Draco, her smirk widening. "Did the walking catastrophe over there hurt you? I wouldn't put it past him."

"Nah," Mindy said with a wink. "He's just playing hard to get. Blokes like him, you gotta work for it, ya know?"

She laughed, loud and bright, as he looked between them in abject horror. "Oh, no, darling," she said, her voice dripping with condescension. "Malfoy's the furthest thing from hard to get. He's practically a community broom, if you know what I mean. You'll be fine."

"I am right here!" he shouted, throwing his arms in the air. "Don't talk about me like I'm some… some object!" He jabbed a finger at Hermione. "And don't act like you didn't set this up! You did this! You sent her here!"

She shrugged, her expression entirely too innocent. "I was trying to help. I thought maybe some… professional company would do you some good. Clearly, I overestimated you." She leaned in closer, tilting her head mockingly. "Do you even want an orgasm, Malfoy? Or do you just like wallowing in your misery?"

He narrowed his eyes, his jaw clenching. "Of course I do," he growled. "But not from her."

Mindy raised her hands in surrender, clearly deciding she'd had enough. "Got it, love. Message received. No need to shout, yeah?" She leaned down to grab her dress, shimmying into it with practiced ease. "Anyway, I'll let you two get on with… whatever this is." She threw Hermione a playful wink. "Bye, babes. You're a stunner, by the way. If I was him, I wouldn't look anywhere else."

"Aw, thank you, Mindy," Hermione said sweetly. "I'll make sure to call you if he changes his mind."

Mindy turned to Draco, blowing him a kiss. "Cheer up, Malfoy. You're cute when you're angry."

He scowled as Mindy disappeared into the fireplace in a swirl of green flames, leaving behind an awkward silence and the faint scent of her perfume. 

The crackling hearth seemed louder than it had any right to be. He turned toward Hermione, who was calmly inspecting her nails as though this entire debacle was a perfectly normal part of her day.

"Are you mental, Granger?" he snapped, his voice brimming with exasperation.

"Occasionally, yes." She didn't even look up. "But after your little performance yesterday, it's clear you're in desperate need of a shag."

His jaw dropped. "I do not need a shag," he shot back, his voice rising in pitch. "And certainly not from her."

She shrugged, finally lifting her gaze to meet his. "Fine. Then we'll find you a pureblood whore—if that's still what you prefer."

His entire body went rigid. His face turned scarlet, his nostrils flaring as he struggled to form words. Finally, he shouted, "I DO NOT PREFER ANYTHING THAT IS NOT YOU!"

The room fell deathly silent. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and raw. He immediately regretted speaking. His cheeks burned as he realized what he'd just admitted. Hermione, for her part, raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking ever so slightly.

"I see," she said after a beat, her voice maddeningly composed. "Well, it seems you're fine, so I'll just go about my day."

He stared at her, his brain short-circuiting. "Where are you going?" he blurted, his tone sharper than intended. His eyes raked over her sundress, his irritation spiking. "And what are you doing in a dress like that?"

She turned to him with a mocking smile. "That, Malfoy, is none of your business."

"Oh, isn't it? Whose son are you dressed up for, hmm? Were you planning to get your tight little hole fucked tonight?" His words were venomous, but the heat in his voice betrayed something else entirely.

She didn't miss a beat. "Actually, yes." She tilted her head, her tone sweet and infuriating. "Not that it's any of your concern. But at least you finally got something right about me, Malfoy. Congratulations."

She turned on her heel, prepared to leave, but he wasn't done. Not by a long shot.

He surged forward, grabbing her forearm and spinning her back toward him. Before she could protest, he pushed her firmly against the wall, caging her in with his arms. His breathing was heavy, his eyes wild with frustration and something darker.

"You hired a whore for me?" His voice was low and rough, his face inches from hers. His hand moved to her throat—not as a threat, but as a display of dominance, his fingers lightly grazing her skin.

She met his fiery gaze with a smug expression, utterly unphased. Her lips curved into a dangerous smile as she acted with a speed that left him stunned. In one swift movement, she reversed their positions, slamming him against the wall instead. Her hand found his throat, gripping it with surprising strength. His eyes widened in shock as he realized the tables had turned.

She leaned in close, her nose brushing against his as her lips hovered just a breath away from his ear. Her voice was a low, dangerous whisper.

"After your little performance last night, and after watching you act like a desperate, horny little boy, I did you a favor. I organized you an outlet." 

Her grip on his throat tightened slightly, making his pulse race. "But from now on, it'll be you and your hand, Malfoy. You don't get the privilege of ruining my off days. And if you try again—" she paused, her voice as cold as ice, "—I'll kill you."

Before he could even form a response, she released him abruptly, leaving him gasping for breath as she stepped back. Her wand was in her hand in an instant, and with a sharp crack, she disapparated.

He was left standing there, his chest heaving as he tried to process what had just happened. His hand instinctively went to his throat, feeling the ghost of her touch still lingering on his skin. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion, frustration, and—much to his horror—arousal. He glanced down, swearing under his breath when he realized just how much his body had reacted to her.

"That woman," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "That bloody woman."

She was playing with him. Not just with his body, but with his very soul. And worst of all? He couldn't bring himself to hate it.