The Serpent's Redemption // DRAMIONE

What had her life become? Kissing filth? Merlin, the thought made her stomach churn.

Hermione stormed out of Malfoy's flat, her fingers trembling as they adjusted her coat. The cold night air bit at her cheeks, but it wasn't enough to cool the raging inferno of emotions inside her. Kissing Malfoy. What kind of desperate, delusional lapse in judgment had that been?

As if.

She could almost hear her mother's voice, clear as day, scolding her from beyond the grave. Hermione Jean Granger, kissing that Death Eater trash? Do you have any self-respect left?

Her mother would roll over in her grave if she knew. And rightly so. What would the brilliant, proud woman who raised her say if she saw her daughter tangled up—literally tangled up—with Draco bloody Malfoy? A man who once sneered at her bloodline as if it were a contagious disease.

No, not a man—a boy, because that's what he truly was. Malfoy hadn't grown up. He was still the spoiled, self-absorbed brat who had spent his teenage years tormenting anyone he deemed beneath him. And the mark on his arm? A permanent reminder that he wasn't just cruel; he was cowardly, too.

Yet here she was, standing outside his flat with his taste still lingering on her lips.

Absolute perfect kisses, she thought bitterly, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. And oh, how she hated him for that. She hated him for the way he'd kissed her, hard and desperate and like she was the only thing keeping him alive. She hated him for the way he'd looked at her afterward, his silver eyes wide and vulnerable, like she held the power to break him.

She hated him because, for one brief, heart-stopping moment, she'd kissed him back.

And not just kissed him back—wanted to kiss him back. Needed it, even, in a way that felt primal and maddening and utterly self-destructive.

Hermione let out a harsh laugh that startled a nearby cat, its glowing eyes narrowing at her from the shadows. A perfect metaphor, she thought. She was the cat hissing at her own reflection, furious and confused.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered under her breath. "I am not doing this. Not with him."

Malfoy, of all people. A terrible Edric Klauser lookalike—pale, sharp, aristocratic features that were all angles and no warmth. That stupid, arrogant face of his, the one that could've been sculpted by Michelangelo himself if Michelangelo had been a colossal prick.

And then there was the way he looked at her. As if she were some rare, delicate flower he couldn't believe had bloomed in his reach. As if he wanted to protect her and ruin her all at once.

"Malfoy," she hissed into the empty street, as if saying his name aloud might exorcise him from her mind.

I hate you, Malfoy, she thought. But the words felt hollow, even in the privacy of her own head. Did she hate him? Did she truly? Or did she just hate the way he made her feel? The way he made her lose control, made her forget herself for one stupid, fleeting moment?

And what about him? Did he even deserve her hatred anymore? She wanted to say yes. She wanted to cling to the memory of the boy who had stood by while she screamed in that manor, who had done nothing as she bled and cried and begged.

But then she remembered the look on his face tonight. The way his voice had trembled when he'd called her my love. The way he'd kissed her, as if he were terrified it might be the only chance he'd ever get.

"Ugh!" she groaned, running her hands through her hair in frustration. "Why am I even thinking about him? He's nothing. He's—"

Her words died in her throat. Because the truth was, she didn't know what he was anymore.

She had spent years hating him. Years convincing herself that he was irredeemable, that the Draco Malfoy she knew was incapable of change. But tonight, he had cracked that certainty, just a little. And she despised him for it.

Because if he wasn't the monster she'd built him up to be, then what did that make her? What did that make her hatred, her anger, her refusal to forgive?

She shook her head violently, as if the motion could dislodge the tangled mess of thoughts in her mind.

"No," she said firmly, her voice echoing in the stillness of the night. "He's still Malfoy. He's still a Death Eater. He's still filth."

And yet…

And yet.

As she turned the corner toward her flat, she felt the ghost of his lips on hers, warm and lingering. She tasted the faint trace of desperation, of regret, of something she wasn't ready to name.

I hate him, she told herself again. But her resolve was already crumbling.

Because deep down, in a place she refused to acknowledge, Hermione knew this wasn't over. Not yet. Not even close.

•••••••••••••

Thanks to that horrific kiss, all she could think about was him. Malfoy. Draco bloody Malfoy. The man who had ruined not only her teenage years but apparently also her adult brain. It was unbearable.

Her fingers tapped restlessly on the arm of her chair as she scowled at the ceiling of her flat. She had paperwork to finish, a dinner party to plan, and a potion in the works that required her attention in ten minutes. Yet here she was, obsessing over a kiss that she hadn't even wanted.

Except you did want it, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of her mind.

"Shut up," she snapped aloud, startling Crookshanks, who glared at her from his perch by the window.

It wasn't like she'd enjoyed it. It was… functional. A means to an end. What end, she had no bloody idea, but it definitely wasn't about feelings. Or desire. Or anything that could explain why she kept replaying the moment in her head like a broken record.

The way his hands had gripped her as if she might disappear. The way his lips had moved against hers, desperate and punishing, like he was pouring every ounce of his miserable existence into that one moment.

"No, no, no," she muttered, jumping up from her chair. She needed to scrub her brain clean. Maybe with a cactus.

She marched into the kitchen, yanked open the cupboard, and grabbed a glass. Water. Hydration would help. Or wine. Wine might be better.

As she poured herself a glass, her mind wandered to her favorite distraction: Andrew Hozier-Byrne. Now there was a man who knew how to handle emotions. The soulful lyrics, the raw vulnerability, the poetic heartache—it was everything Draco Malfoy wasn't.

And yet, somehow, Malfoy had managed to infect her mind like a stubborn curse. The audacity.

"Some horny Hozier wannabe," she muttered, taking a sip of her wine. That's all Malfoy was. A pale, entitled version of a man who had no business invading her thoughts. Good gods, Andrew would never. Andrew would serenade her under the stars, not kiss her like a man drowning in his own regrets.

She set the glass down with a loud clink, her frustration bubbling over. What had that kiss even meant? Was it desperation? Guilt? Some warped sense of attraction he'd convinced himself of? Or was he just playing games with her, as he always had?

The more she thought about it, the angrier she became.

Who the hell did he think he was? Waltzing back into her life, all tortured and brooding, acting like one kiss would erase years of pain and betrayal. As if she'd fall at his feet because he had pretty eyes and a tragic backstory.

She snorted. "He wishes."

But the truth was, it wasn't just the kiss that bothered her. It was the way he had looked at her afterward, like she was his salvation and his punishment all at once. It was the way he had said, "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," with that raw, aching honesty that made her chest tighten against her will.

It was the way he'd meant it

"No," she said firmly, grabbing her wand and pointing it at the empty space in front of her. "I refuse to let Malfoy derail my life."

Crookshanks meowed in agreement, but his unimpressed glare told her he wasn't buying it.

Hermione sighed, leaning against the counter. She needed a plan. A way to get him out of her head and back into the irrelevant corner of her past where he belonged.

Step one: Ignore him. Completely. No eye contact, no conversation, no acknowledgment of his existence. If he wanted to grovel, he could do it to her shadow.

Step two: Focus on herself. Work. Hobbies. Reading. Anything that didn't involve brooding, silver-eyed Slytherins.

Step three: Listen to Hozier on repeat until her brain was full of soulful lyrics instead of Draco Malfoy's voice.

She smirked to herself. "That'll do."

But as she turned back toward the living room, the memory of his lips against hers crept back in, unbidden and unwelcome.

And for the first time in her life, Hermione Granger wondered if there were some things even she couldn't outsmart.

Unfortunately, not even Andrew could save her this time. She'd blasted his music at full volume for an hour straight, but instead of banishing thoughts of him, it only seemed to make the problem worse. Every lyric, every aching note seemed to morph into a narrative about Draco Malfoy and that fucking kiss.

Take me to church? More like take me to a mental hospital, because clearly, her brain was beyond saving.

Frustrated, she slammed her laptop shut and turned her attention to Crookshanks, who had been lounging on the sofa like a tiny king. He immediately narrowed his amber eyes at her, sensing trouble.

"You're all I have left, Crooks," she said dramatically, flopping down next to him. He let out a long, grumpy meow and flicked his tail, clearly unamused.

She scratched behind his ears, but he squirmed away, leaping onto the coffee table and glaring at her from his new perch. "Oh, come on," she huffed. "Don't act like this is a personal attack."

Another annoyed flick of his tail.

"Fine," she muttered. "Be that way. At least you don't talk back. Unlike certain blond morons who think one kiss is going to make me forget how insufferable they are."

Crookshanks yawned, as if to say, Leave me out of your drama, woman.

But she wasn't about to let him off the hook. "Do you know what he said to me? After the kiss? He told me ' I'll take anything if it's from you.'

Can you believe that? Me. The woman he used to call a Mudblood in front of his little Slytherin fan club."

Crookshanks tilted his head slightly, as if he was considering giving her attention, but ultimately decided against it.

"I don't even know why I'm upset," she continued, pacing now as if her cat were a licensed therapist. "It's not like I want him to like me. In fact, I'd prefer if he stayed as far away from me as possible. But no, he has to go and say things like that and look at me like I'm the only person in the bloody world who matters. It's infuriating!"

Crookshanks let out a loud, annoyed chirp, his tail flicking dangerously close to her half-empty wine glass.

"Oh, don't start," she snapped. "You're supposed to be on my side. Instead, you're sitting there like you're the one who's had your entire life turned upside down by a single kiss!"

Crookshanks hopped off the table with an air of feline indignation, sauntering toward the kitchen with his nose in the air.

"Fine! Walk away!" Hermione called after him. "I don't need you, either!"

She slumped back onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands. This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. Why was she letting him get under her skin like this?

It wasn't like she hadn't been kissed before. She'd dated Ron, for Merlin's sake. She'd had plenty of kisses. Perfectly fine kisses. Kisses that didn't leave her feeling like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if she'd fall or be pulled back to safety.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? This kiss had been different. It wasn't fine or polite or safe. It was chaos. Fire. A desperate, messy thing that had left her reeling.

And she hated it. Hated him. Hated herself for letting it happen.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Crookshanks' food dish clattering in the kitchen. Apparently, he'd decided to take his revenge by loudly pawing at his bowl until she came to refill it.

"Unbelievable," she muttered, dragging herself off the sofa.

As she filled his dish, she glanced down at him and sighed. "You know, Crooks, you're lucky you don't have to deal with men. They're the worst."

He let out a smug little chirp and dug into his food, clearly satisfied with her servitude.

"Of course you agree," she said, rolling her eyes. "You're a cat. You think you're better than everyone."

Crookshanks didn't bother acknowledging her.

She leaned against the counter, watching him eat and trying to push Malfoy out of her mind. But the harder she tried, the more his words echoed in her head.

"I'll take anything if it's from you."

She groaned, grabbing her wine glass and downing the rest in one go. Maybe if she drank enough, she'd forget how his voice had sounded when he said it—raw and unguarded, like he actually meant it.

But no amount of wine or Hozier playlists was going to fix this.

Because no matter how much she wanted to deny it, the truth was painfully clear: Malfoy was under her skin. And she had no idea how to get him out.

••••••••••••••

The guilt arrived in waves, each one stronger than the last, crashing into her and leaving her emotionally winded. She was miserable, but not in the pathetic, wallowing sense. No, Hermione Granger did not wallow. She seethed. She brooded. And, more than anything, she plotted.

This wasn't just guilt; it was rage disguised as remorse. She hated herself for kissing him, hated him for kissing her back, and hated the universe for setting the entire series of events into motion. It felt like a cruel joke—a cosmic prank at her expense.

She couldn't get him out of her head. Draco bloody Malfoy, the arrogant twat who once sneered at her in classrooms and called her the worst name imaginable, now had the audacity to invade her thoughts. And worse, she had the gall to let him.

It wasn't just the kiss. It was the way he looked at her afterward, like she was the only thing that mattered. The way he whispered her name like it was sacred. The way he saw her, really saw her, in a way that made her feel exposed and vulnerable and so, so angry.

The anger burned hot and bright, a welcome distraction from the guilt. She wasn't sure what she hated more—the fact that she'd let it happen or the fact that she wanted it to happen again.

She flopped back on her sofa, staring at the ceiling as if the cracked paint might hold the answers she needed. "This is stupid," she muttered to herself. "He's stupid. I'm stupid."

Crookshanks let out a low, judgmental meow from his perch on the armrest.

"Don't look at me like that," she snapped. "I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong."

Crookshanks blinked slowly, utterly unimpressed.

Hermione groaned, covering her face with her hands. "This is all his fault. Malfoy and his stupid hair and his stupid face and his stupid lips. And me, apparently, for being stupid enough to kiss him."

The guilt surged again, but this time it was joined by something darker, something she didn't want to name. She hated him for doing this to her. Hated him for making her feel like this.

But the truth was, she didn't just want to punish him for the kiss. She wanted to destroy him. She wanted to see him crumble under the weight of his own emotions, to make him suffer the way she was suffering. And maybe, just maybe, she wanted to enjoy it.

A wicked thought crossed her mind, and she couldn't help the sly smile that tugged at her lips. If he wanted her so badly, fine. She'd give him exactly what he wanted—but on her terms. She'd make him pay for every insult, every sneer, every cruel word he'd ever thrown her way.

She sat up, the beginnings of a plan forming in her mind. Oh, she wouldn't make it easy for him. No, Malfoy was going to earn every second of her attention. And when she was done with him, he wouldn't know whether to worship her or beg for mercy.

"Peg him," she muttered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. The idea hit her like a lightning bolt—ridiculous and absurd and absolutely perfect.

She couldn't help but laugh, the sound sharp and almost maniacal. "Oh, wouldn't that just be the ultimate punishment? Make him kneel. Make him beg."

Crookshanks let out another disgruntled chirp, clearly disapproving of her spiraling thoughts.

"Oh, hush," she said, waving him off. "It's not like I'd actually do it. Probably. Maybe."

But the idea stuck, burrowing into her brain like an unwanted guest. The thought of Malfoy, so confident and self-assured, brought low by her… it was tempting. Too tempting.

She shook her head, trying to banish the image, but it was no use. The damage was done.

"This is madness," she muttered, standing up and pacing the room. "I need to get a grip. He's just a man. A stupid, irritating, infuriating man who—ugh!"

She grabbed a throw pillow and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud before flopping to the floor in defeat.

But the outburst did little to calm her. If anything, it only added fuel to the fire. She couldn't let him win. She wouldn't let him win.

Hermione Granger didn't lose, not to anyone, and certainly not to Draco Malfoy.

With a renewed sense of determination, she squared her shoulders and marched to her desk. If she was going to deal with this, she needed a plan. Something methodical and foolproof.

Because one way or another, she was going to take control of this situation.

And if that meant making Malfoy regret every decision he'd ever made, well, so be it.

••••••••••••

The next morning, Hermione arrived at his flat, her wand tucked into the waistband of her most daring outfit—a sleek black dress with a slit high enough to make even her question her judgment. She looked like a bombshell, and she knew it. The outfit was a calculated move, meant to keep her in control, to remind him—and herself—of her power.

She stepped through the fireplace as if she owned the place, brushing soot off her dress with a flourish. Her heels clicked against the floor, echoing her confidence.

"Malfoy! Are you awake?" she called out, her tone sharp.

No response.

Her brow furrowed as she glanced around. The flat was eerily quiet. The kitchen was empty, and the bathroom door was wide open. Her stomach twisted in unease.

"Draco?" she called again, louder this time. Still nothing.

A knot of dread formed in her chest as she made her way to the bedroom, her steps quick and purposeful. She pushed the door open without hesitation.

And there he was.

He lay sprawled on the bed, pale and drenched in sweat, his body trembling uncontrollably. His hair clung to his forehead, and his lips were tinged with an unsettling blue.

Her heart stopped.

"Draco! Gods, please wake up!" she cried, rushing to his side.

She dropped to her knees by the bed, her hands cupping his clammy face. His skin was cold to the touch, and for a terrifying moment, she thought he wouldn't respond.

But then his eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.

"Darling…" His voice was barely a whisper, weak and broken.

Her gaze darted to the nightstand, where an empty pill bottle lay discarded. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Draco… no. Gods, don't do this to me. Don't you dare do this to me!" she whispered fiercely, her voice cracking.

Hermione grabbed his shoulders, dragging his limp body to the edge of the bed with strength she didn't know she had. She levitated a bucket from the bathroom, her wand movements frantic as she muttered an incantation under her breath.

"Stay with me," she begged, her hands trembling as she worked.

The spell took hold, and he began to retch violently, his body convulsing as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the bucket. Hermione knelt beside him, her hands steady as she held him upright, her free hand stroking his sweat-soaked hair.

"That's it," she murmured softly, her voice a mix of desperation and encouragement. "Get it all out. You're okay. You're going to be okay."

Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away, focusing entirely on him.

The retching slowed, and his breathing became shallow and labored. She set the bucket aside with a flick of her wand, vanishing its contents before summoning fresh towels and a glass of water.

Hermione wiped his face gently, her fingers trembling as she cleaned away the sweat and tears. His eyes drifted closed, but she shook him lightly, forcing him to stay awake.

"Don't you dare fall asleep on me, Malfoy," she warned, her voice laced with both fear and fury.

He let out a low groan, his head lolling weakly against her hand.

"Drink this," she ordered, pressing the glass of water to his lips. "Small sips. Now."

He obeyed, barely managing to swallow a few gulps before his head fell back against the pillow.

When she finally set the glass aside, she collapsed onto the floor beside the bed, her knees giving out beneath her. She rested her forehead against the edge of the mattress, her breaths coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

Her hands were still shaking.

She looked up at him, her eyes blazing with a mix of anger, relief, and something far more complicated.