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846 pages
First published June 18, 2021
"Slytherin was the murky fog of not having every answer innately. Slytherin was the long conflict before the resolution. Slytherin was Draco himself, and every day he decided what that meant."
"To everything she did, he’d react: if she brushed her hand against his waist, he’d mirror it, tracing his thumb over her hip; if she smiled into a kiss, he’d cup the back of her neck and pull her closer. He noticed everything, he was studious, he was both attentive and intuitive to a degree that made Hermione feel like she’d stepped into a spotlight for the first time in her life."
꒰🪡꒱ the disappearances of draco malfoy by speechwriter
"She was misremembering the order of events. He hadn’t Stunned Dolohov to save her, for Merlin’s sake—he’d done it because the man had reached for his Mark. He hadn’t even known that was her, since she’d been Polyjuiced at the time. So it wasn’t as if he’d thrown her a lifeline.
He shut the door to the bedroom a bit too hard. Later, on the edge of sleep, he would think of her hand thrust out to him and his family in the dingy light of the kitchen, and he would think, vaguely, feeling unsettled, that that was what a lifeline looked like."
He’d never told Pansy these things. And it wasn’t as if Pansy hadn’t asked. But he’d wanted Pansy to keep looking at him the way she always had, like he was something precious she aspired to cradle in her hands. Granger looked at him like she could lay him open with her eyes, like she wanted to. Even now, unsettled, there was flint in her gaze.
“You flinch sometimes,” she said. “When people go for their wands. Is that because …”
Pansy wouldn’t have said these things.
“Only twice,” Draco said, and then he stood and went to bed.

Granger swallowed hard. She looked deeply disturbed. As she pushed a straggly lock of hair out of her face, she whispered, “I’m sorry”—not to him, but to herself.
Hearing that whisper, Draco felt a new, cold feeling. Not alarm, not unease, but real fear. What was it doing to her? What was it telling her?.
People were screaming, trying to get to the exit. Draco fought against the current. He shoved past people in fine dress robes, spilling expensive drinks everywhere, and then he was breaking into the small open area around Hermione and dropping to his knees beside her, in front of the hearth where the Dark Lord had ground him down into nothing—but she was safe. Wasn’t she?
"But that will do you no good, Potter. That means we duel on skill alone."
"You're forgetting something," said Harry, stopping in his tracks beside Draco; he had come full circle.
"Am I?" said Voldemort. "What might that be?"
"Me," said Draco.
"Kill me, then, if that's what you're planning to do," he said, as cold and scathing as ever he had been at Hogwarts speaking to somebody he considered beneath him. "But don't make me stand here and listen to you talk."
"Potter," said Draco stiffly, "I know how to be polite."
"Oh, so you just chose not to be for six years, then."
"Yes. Obviously."
Draco just looked at Potter, feeling a mixture of resignation and amusement. Trust him to come out with this mere seconds after Draco had explicitly said the phrase "martyr complex."
He noticed everything, he was studious, he was both attentive and intuitive to a degree that made Hermione feel like she'd stepped into a spotlight for the first time in her life.