Chapter 2: The Morning After
The frost Hermione had conjured on her window melted with the first weak rays of dawn, revealing a sky the colour of a pale bruise. She’d slept fitfully, her mind churning with statutes and the phantom feeling of being watched. When she padded into the main room of her flat, wrapping a silk robe over her pyjamas, her eyes went immediately to the window.
He was already there.
Draco Moth was leaning against his windowsill, shirtless again, a large mug of steaming coffee in his hand. The morning light cut across his shoulders, highlighting the definition there. He wasn’t smirking this time. His expression was one of simple, focused observation, as if she were a fascinating puzzle laid out before him. He took a slow sip, his grey eyes tracking her from across the alley.
A fresh jolt of irritation, hot and caffeinated in its own right, shot through her. This was deliberate. A campaign.
Without breaking his gaze, she turned and walked to her kitchenette. She filled her kettle, clattering it onto the hob more forcefully than necessary. She could feel the weight of his attention like a physical pressure between her shoulder blades. It was infuriating. It was also, undeniably, a spark in the quiet monotony of a Wednesday morning.
She made her tea with deliberate, slow movements, then carried it to her bookshelf. She selected a heavy tome on Wizarding property law—ironic, she knew—and settled into the armchair by the window, angling herself so she could see him without appearing to look. She opened the book.
A minute passed. She turned a page she hadn’t read.
He hadn’t moved.
This was absurd. She was a war heroine, a Ministry professional, and she was being psychologically cornered by a man in his windowsill. Hermione set her tea down with a sharp click. She stood, marched to the window, and drew her wand from her robe pocket.
His eyebrow arched. A flicker of anticipation.
She didn’t aim at him. She aimed at his window frame, and with a precise, silent flick, cast a Permanent Sticking Charm along the entire seal.
The effect was immediate. A faint, oily shimmer raced around the perimeter of his large window. Draco’s casual posture stiffened. He set his mug down, placed both hands on the glass, and pushed. Nothing happened. He pushed harder, his shoulders flexing. The window refused to budge, sealed shut as effectively as if it had been welded.
He shot a look at her, his expression now one of genuine surprise, quickly morphing into something appreciative.
Hermione gave him a small, cool smile, then returned to her armchair and her book. The victory was short-lived but sweet.
Ten minutes later, a soft tapping sound came from her own window. A small, folded square of expensive, heavy parchment was hovering outside, held aloft by a subtle charm. It bobbed gently against the glass.
She ignored it.
The tapping grew more insistent. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
With a sigh, she stood and opened the window. The note zipped inside and unfolded itself in mid-air. The handwriting was sharp, aristocratic, and unmistakable.
Good morning, Granger. Miss me?
P.S. Charm was clever. A bit petty. I’m impressed.
P.P.S. My windows are spelled for climate control. I don’t actually need to open them. You’ve just trapped a particularly handsome fly.
A laugh, unexpected and unbidden, burst from her lips. She stifled it immediately, but it was too late. Across the way, she saw his shoulders shake with silent mirth. He’d been watching for her reaction.
Fine. Two could play.
She Summoned a sheet of her own parchment and a quill. She wrote a single line, then cast a Sonorus Charm on the paper, magnifying her words a hundredfold. She sent it floating back across the alley. It hung in the space between them, her handwriting large and clear for the entire street to see, the magic amplifying her voice into a calm, projected statement.
“CHAPTER FOUR, SUB-SECTION B OF THE MAGICAL NUISANCE ORDINANCE. UNAUTHORIZED AMPLIFIED PROJECTION ACROSS A PROPERTY LINE. FIVE HUNDRED GALLEON FINE. HAVE A NICE DAY.”
The note then promptly burst into a small shower of harmless, glittering sparks.
This time, his laugh wasn’t silent. It echoed down the alley, rich and surprised. He gave her a round of slow, sarcastic applause.
The spectacle had drawn an audience. In the window directly below Draco’s, a lanky figure with dark, messy hair appeared. Theodore Nott leaned on his sill, a cup of coffee in hand, looking up at Draco with an expression of profound exhaustion. “Must you?” his voice floated up, dry and flat. “Some of us are trying to review export ledgers before noon.”
“Entertainment value, Nott,” Draco called down, not taking his eyes off Hermione. “It’s a public service.”
At the same time, the front door of Draco’s building opened on the street level and Pansy Parkinson stepped out, resplendent in a sleek, black robe that looked like liquid shadow. She was examining her flawless nails, but her gaze drifted upward, following the line of the sparkling ash from Hermione’s note. Her eyes found Hermione in the window, then flicked to Draco, shirtless and grinning in his.
“Draco, darling!” Pansy’s voice, sharp and carrying, sliced through the morning air. “Is this the mysterious project you’ve been neglecting our meetings for? It looks less like potions research and more like a particularly sad mating dance.”
Theo snorted into his coffee.
Draco finally looked away from Hermione, scowling down at his friend. “Parkinson, your commentary is neither requested nor required.”
“It’s always required,” Pansy said breezily, now looking directly at Hermione. She offered a small, assessing smile that wasn’t entirely unfriendly. It was more like she was evaluating a new and interesting specimen. “Granger. I see he’s bothering you. Do feel free to hex him something brutal. He could use the humility.”
Hermione found herself at a loss. This was surreal. She gave a slight, awkward nod.
Pansy’s smile widened. “Excellent. Ta.” And with a swirl of her robes, she Disapparated with a soft crack.
Theo sighed, a long-suffering sound. “She’s not wrong. We have a meeting with the Norwegian distributors at eleven. Your ‘inspiration’ can wait.” He gave Hermione a polite, somewhat apologetic nod before retreating from his window.
Silence settled again, but it was charged now, complicated by witnesses. Draco looked back at her. The easy amusement was still there, but it was layered with something more pointed, more specific. The game had escalated, and it was no longer contained to just the two of them.
He raised a hand, made a show of checking an imaginary watch on his wrist, then mimed a yawn. He gave her one last, lingering look—a look that promised this wasn’t over—then turned and walked away from the window, leaving his empty coffee mug on the sill.
Hermione stood there, the law book forgotten in her hand. The sun was fully up now, painting her flat in warm gold. She could still see the faint, shimmering residue of her Sticking Charm on his window frame. She could hear the echo of his laugh.
A strange, restless energy thrummed under her skin. It wasn’t just annoyance. It was the thrill of a challenge, the prickling awareness of a worthy opponent. He was trying to get under her skin. And, infuriatingly, it was working.
She closed her window, but she didn’t cast the obscuring charm this time. She left the view clear. Let him look. She had research to do, and not just on wizarding law. She needed to know everything about Malfoy’s current business, his building ownership, his recent history. Knowledge was power, and if this was war, she intended to be thoroughly armed.
She glanced once more at the empty window across the alley. A small, determined smile touched her lips. Game on.