Hermione met Harry’s eyes across the narrow space between the beds.
The note was still warm from her hand.
“Tell that rat bastard,” she said clearly, “that we’re all in.
To win.” Ginny and Lavender exchanged one long, wordless look—the kind only girls who had survived seven years of the same war could share.
Then Ginny gave a single, sharp nod.
Lavender’s mouth curved in a smile that promised trouble.
Harry didn’t hesitate.
He crossed to his desk, pulled out fresh parchment, and began writing with the same focused intensity he usually saved for Quidditch plays.
Ron muttered something under his breath about “bloody mental women,” but he didn’t argue.
Seamus was already grinning like Christmas had come early.
When Harry finished, he folded the letter, addressed it to Malfoy, and sent it off with a school owl from the window.
The bird disappeared into the darkening sky with a soft beat of wings.
Hermione watched it go and felt something settle in her chest.
Not peace.
Something sharper.
Like a blade being drawn.
Two hours later, in the Slytherin boys’ dormitory, another owl tapped at a different window.
Draco Malfoy caught the bird on his wrist, untied the parchment, and felt his pulse kick hard against his throat.
Nott was already leaning forward like a hound on a scent.
Zabini sat at the foot of the bed, perfectly still, dark eyes unreadable.
“Open it already,” Nott growled.
Draco took his time, mostly to annoy Theo and partly because his hands weren’t quite steady.
He broke the seal.
The letter was short, Potter’s handwriting aggressive even on paper.
Malfoy, We’re on.
If you chicken out, we’ll let the whole school know it.
Barring illness or last-minute substitution, our team is: me, R.
Weasley, S.
Finnigan, H.
Granger, L.
Brown, and G.
Weasley.
Be prepared for your arses to be handed to you.
– H.
Potter Draco read it aloud, and the triumphant shout that wanted to tear out of his chest stayed locked behind his teeth.
He smiled instead—slow, satisfied, dangerous.
Nott hooted.
“Gods, I can’t wait to mess with Granger.
That little swot’s been asking for it for years.” Draco kept his face neutral, but the surge of possessive heat in his gut was immediate and vicious.
If you’re lucky enough to draw her, he thought, she’s already mine.
He’d been planning this for longer than he cared to admit.
Years of watching her argue circles around professors, hex him without hesitation, and still somehow remain untouchable.
The idea of anyone else—especially one of his own Housemates—putting their hands on her made something ugly twist behind his ribs.
He wasn’t going to let it happen.
He turned to Blaise instead.
“Bet you can’t wait to give it to the She-Weasel after the last match.” Ginny Weasley had spent two seasons checking Blaise every time their brooms crossed.
Their rivalry had teeth.
Blaise’s mouth curved, slow and dark.
“If I’m lucky enough to draw her name,” he said, echoing Draco’s earlier phrasing.
Their eyes met.
Understanding passed between them without a word.
Slytherins didn’t need speeches.
Blaise knew Draco intended to rig the Partner draw.
In return, he wanted the same favour for Ginny Weasley.
Draco gave one small nod.
Done.
“I have a good feeling about this,” he said lightly, stretching his arms until his knuckles cracked.
“This’ll be a game to remember.” Nott shoved parchment, quill, and ink at him.
“Write back.
I don’t want any crying foul later.” Draco conjured a lap desk and wrote with elegant, vicious strokes.
Potty, Terms accepted, dandelion.
Barring subs, our team: me, Zabini, Nott, Greengrass, Davis, and Parkinson.
Get ready to beg for mercy.
– D.M.
P.S.
Don’t forget to pack your hankies for when the crying starts.
He sent the owl back into the night and leaned against the headboard, already tasting victory.
Thursday morning, Defence Against the Dark Arts was a joke.
Seventh-years had finished every exam the week before.
This week was nothing but wrap-up interviews and gossip.
Most of the class had already mentally graduated.
Professor Moody—still the grizzled, magical-eyed veteran who had somehow survived the war and returned to teach—was half-heartedly interviewing Terry Boot at the front of the room while the rest of them whispered about the farewell Formal next Friday.
Harry sat two rows behind Hermione, bored out of his skull, when a small, tightly wadded ball of parchment bounced off the back of her head.
She stiffened.
Harry’s eyes snapped to Malfoy across the aisle.
The blond git was lounging like he owned the castle, one eyebrow raised in deliberate challenge.
Hermione didn’t turn around.
She bent, retrieved the note, and read it under the desk.
Harry watched the line of her shoulders go rigid.
Whatever it said, it had landed.
She raised her hand.
“Sir,” she said clearly, “I’m feeling a bit dizzy.
Since we’ve already had our review, may I go to the Hospital Wing?” Moody’s magical eye swivelled toward her while his normal one stayed on Terry.
After a beat he nodded.
“Potter, you’re done as well.
Escort your Housemate.
Make sure she gets there safely.” Ron shot Harry a jealous glare that clearly said you lucky bastard.
Harry didn’t argue.
He was already on his feet.
They left the classroom together.
The corridor outside was cool and quiet, the stone still holding the morning chill.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Hermione shoved the crumpled note into Harry’s hand.
He smoothed it out.
Granger, Saturday.
Room of Requirement.
7pm sharp.
Don’t be late, or I’ll assume you lost your nerve.
Looking forward to our little… game.
– D.M.
Harry’s jaw tightened.
“Subtle.” “He’s already trying to get in my head,” Hermione muttered.
“Pathetic.” They walked in silence for a few steps.
Harry glanced sideways at her.
She looked calm—too calm.
The same expression she wore when she was about to do something reckless and brilliant.
“You still sure about this?” he asked quietly.
Hermione stopped.
Turned to face him fully.
Her eyes were bright, sharp, and utterly determined.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” she said.
“We’re going to destroy them, Harry.
On their own terms.” He studied her for a moment, then nodded.
“All right.
Then we plan.
Tonight.
Our cards.
Our strategy.
No mistakes.” “No mistakes,” she agreed.
They started walking again, slower now.
Behind them, the muffled sound of the classroom door opening and closing told them someone else had been sent on an errand.
Harry didn’t need to look to know it was probably Malfoy, already gloating.
Let him.
Saturday was coming.
And for the first time in seven years, Hermione Granger wasn’t walking into a confrontation with Draco Malfoy unarmed.
She was bringing the entire pride of Gryffindor with her—and every filthy, vengeful intention they could fit onto two small cards each.
The game had rules.
They were going to break every single one of them.