Chapter Text
Year 5
~~~~~~
The corridors of Hogwarts always had eyes, even in the gentle lull between classes. Hermione Granger knew this, had lived with the whisper of rumor and the snap of turned heads for years. But as she paused next to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, her books clutched to her chest, she felt a new kind of tension in the air, a delicious, dangerous undercurrent that had nothing to do with magic.
Draco Malfoy leaned against the cool stone, a crooked smile playing around his lips. “Granger,” he drawled, his voice lowered just enough that she had to step closer to hear. “If we stay here much longer, people will start to wonder.”
She rolled her eyes, but her heart beat a staccato rhythm.
They’d started innocently enough, or so she told herself. Study sessions in the library, reluctant partners in Advanced Arithmancy. Somewhere between a heated debate over the ethics of Felix Felicis and the clandestine sharing of a chocolate frog, a current had sparked, bright and unexpected. Now, whenever they were together, the world seemed to tilt, a thrill, a risk.
“Let them talk,” Hermione replied, her tone light, but her cheeks warmed.
He quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t mind being the subject of all their gossip?”
She thought of the way Lavender and Parvati whispered behind their hands, the way Ron’s ears pinked every time she so much as mentioned Malfoy in passing. She thought of respectability, of reputations.
Turning, she faced Draco fully, books forgotten by her side. “Maybe I do,” she said, “but maybe it’s worth it.”
He stepped closer, his tall frame casting a shadow over her. In the hush of the corridor, it was as if they were the only two people in the castle. “Why are you really here, Granger?”
Hermione hesitated, searching for the right words. She’d always been so good at answers, at logic, but this was the one subject that defied neat explanations. “I wanted to see you,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Draco’s grey eyes softened, the practiced arrogance falling away. “Funny,” he said, “I was hoping you’d say that.”
From somewhere down the hall, a burst of laughter echoed, students emerging from Transfiguration, the world intruding. Draco took a step back, the mask slipping momentarily into place. But Hermione caught his hand, just for a second, fingers brushing over his.
They broke apart, but her pulse sang with possibility. Something to talk about, indeed.
The rumors started small, like the first drops of rain before a storm. A glance exchanged over cauldrons in Potions, a study session that went on a bit too late, a lingering look in the Great Hall. The castle, always hungry for drama, took the crumbs and spun them into a feast.
“I heard he’s only pretending to like her, for a dare,” whispered one Hufflepuff.
“Nonsense,” Susan Bones replied, “he’s been looking at her like that for ages, hasn’t he?”
Hermione walked the halls with her chin held high, but the words clung to her. She thought of her parents dancing in the kitchen, her mother singing along to Bonnie Raitt, her father twirling her around, Don’t it make you wonder what the rumor’s about? Oh, let’s give them something to talk about.
She found Draco in the Astronomy Tower, the world spread out beneath them, the night air scented with autumn leaves and candle wax.
“They’re getting creative,” he said, smirking as he handed her a folded scrap of parchment, an anonymous poem, rife with speculation and terrible rhyme. “I might be in love, but my reputation will never recover.”
She laughed, and the sound felt dangerous, giddy. “Is that what you want, Draco? For everyone to know?”
He leaned closer, his words brushing her ear. “I want you,” he said simply, “everything else is just noise.”
Her heart thudded. She should have been frightened, of the attention, of the scrutiny, but instead she felt reckless, buoyed by a courage she hadn’t known she possessed.
“Then let them talk,” she murmured, “let them say whatever they like. As long as we know the truth.”
Whenever she saw Draco in the halls, a secret soundtrack to their stolen moments. They met in the Room of Requirement, conjuring up quiet corners and soft candlelight, a world all their own. Hermione pressed her hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath her palm.
“We’re not very good at hiding,” she teased, thinking of the sly looks and not-so-subtle hints dropped by classmates.
Draco shrugged, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her wrist. “Maybe I don’t want to hide anymore.”
She remembered the words of the song, Let’s give them something to talk about, a little mystery to figure out.
“What do you suppose they’ll say when we walk into the Great Hall together?” she asked, half daring, half afraid.
He grinned, a genuine, dazzling smile that made him look younger, lighter. “Whatever it is, I hope it’s good.”
She laughed, and when he kissed her, it tasted of possibility, of defiance, of a future unwritten.
They made their debut, hand in hand, on a golden afternoon. The whispers rose like a tide, shock, confusion, then, gradually, excitement.
Ron stared, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Ginny’s eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and disappointment. Across the Slytherin table, Pansy pursed her lips, but Blaise just smirked, as if he’d known all along.
Hermione felt the weight of a hundred gazes, but beside her, Draco stood tall, shoulders squared. She squeezed his hand, and together they crossed the floor, a pair both improbable and inevitable.
From that day on, the castle hummed with speculation. The rumors changed, some kind, some cruel, but Hermione found she didn’t care. Their love was no longer a secret, but an anthem.
One evening, as they wandered the grounds beneath the lengthening shadows, Hermione began to hum. Draco glanced over, amused.
“What’s that tune?”
She smiled, the chorus slipping easily from her lips. “It’s Muggle music,” she said, “a song my mother used to sing. It’s about people talking, making up stories when they see something unusual.”
“Is that what we are?” Draco asked, “Something unusual?”
Hermione considered this, then shook her head. “No. Just something worth talking about.”
He laughed, the sound as warm as the setting sun. “Then let them talk, Granger. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
She grinned, pulling him close. Overhead, an owl winged silently by, carrying letters, and perhaps a few rumors, into the night.
Hermione realized she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Let’s give them something to talk about. How about love?
Year 6
~~~~~~
The Great Hall buzzed with the chorus of a thousand rumors, voices rising, laughter trilling, secrets slipping between hands like enchanted parchment. Hermione Granger barely heard them, her nose buried in "Advanced Defensive Spells for the Promising Auror," but she felt the weight of their glances. She was meant to be used to it by now.
Across the hall, pale hair like spilled moonlight caught the torchlight. Draco Malfoy, too, was a lightning rod for Hogwarts’ gossip, though for very different reasons. The war had changed much, but his reputation remained, a shadow that trailed him through every corridor.
The rumors, though, had changed shape. No longer whispers of dark deeds, but of curious alliances. Whispers that grew louder each time Hermione and Draco found themselves in the library together, or when their hands brushed while passing a quill at the staff table, or when their laughter, unexpected, bright, sparked and flew like fireworks.
People are talkin', talkin' 'bout people...
It started as a dare. Or perhaps as an accident. Hermione couldn’t recall which. She only remembered the feel of the spring sun on her collarbone, the hush of the library, and Draco’s voice, oddly gentle: “Granger, have you ever wondered what it’s like to not be talked about?”
Hermione looked up from her book, one eyebrow arched. “Are you suggesting we stop giving them something to talk about?”
He smirked, a crooked thing that almost looked real. “On the contrary. I think we ought to give them a real reason.”
She laughed then, couldn’t help herself. “What, Draco? Shall I let you carry my books to class like a proper suitor? Or would you prefer to duel for my honor in the dungeons?”
His eyes, grey as dawn, met hers. “A walk by the lake.
Tomorrow. Just you and me. Let’s see what stories they’ll invent then.”
Hermione bit her lip, amusement flickering in her chest. “Fine. Tomorrow.”
The next morning, the air was crisp with the promise of spring, and the lake shimmered as though charmed. They walked, shoulder to shoulder, a silence blooming between them that felt both awkward and thrilling.
A flock of second years scurried past, eyes wide as galleons. Hermione could almost hear their thoughts, see the headlines forming in their minds.
I hear them whisper, you won't believe it...
Draco sighed. “They’ll say I’ve bewitched you, you know.”
Hermione grinned. “Or that I’m trying to redeem you.”
“Let them,” he said, and for a moment, his voice was softer than she expected.
They wandered past the weeping willow, pausing to toss pebbles into the water. Draco’s hand brushed hers, and she didn’t pull away.
“Thank you,” he murmured, voice low.
“For what?” she asked.
“For treating me like I’m...more than what they say I am.”
Hermione felt warmth bloom in her chest, a blush rising to her cheeks. She looked at him, really looked, and saw the boy beneath the bravado, the wariness, the hope.
“I see you, Draco,” she whispered. “I always have.”
The weeks spun on, stories twisting through the castle’s stones. They studied together, argued over Arithmancy, and shared smirks in Potions. Sometimes, she’d catch him watching her, something unspoken in his gaze.
It was in those moments that Hermione heard Bonnie Raitt’s song echoing in her mind, her mum used to play the CD on lazy Sundays, the house filled with bluesy warmth.
Let’s give them something to talk about, a little mystery to figure out...
She found herself humming it one evening in the empty common room. Draco, head bent over a Transfiguration essay, looked up.
“What is that?”
She flushed. “Just a Muggle song. My mum’s favorite.”
“Sing it for me?”
She hesitated, then, in a quiet voice, sang:
“Let’s give them something to talk about,
How about love?”
Draco’s expression softened, the shield fell away, if only for a moment.
“Do you think anyone would believe it?” he asked.
“That we’re in love?” Hermione’s heart thudded. “Would it matter?”
He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t.”
---
Rumors became certainty in the way only school gossip can. Parvati Patil cornered Hermione in the corridor, eyes gleaming. “So. You and Malfoy?”
Hermione smiled, secret and knowing. “Why, Parvati, whatever do you mean?”
In Charms, Seamus Finnigan nudged Draco. “Didn’t take you for her type, mate.”
Draco just raised an eyebrow. “Who says she’s mine?”
But they walked together, shoulders brushing. They studied late in the library, their laughter a private code. And when, one evening, he reached out, fingertips tracing her cheek, she didn’t stop him.
The Great Hall watched as Draco pressed a gentle kiss to Hermione’s hand. The whispers swelled, a tidal wave of speculation.
Let’s give them something to talk about, something to talk about, how about love?
It wasn’t easy. Old hurts lingered, prejudice a silent specter in the corners.
Ron glared, Ginny frowned, and even McGonagall’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
But Hermione, resolute as ever, stood her ground.
Draco, for his part, learned to laugh at the rumors, to meet the stares head-on.
He wrote her notes in the margins of her books, witty, sharp, sometimes tender.
Spring faded into summer; exams loomed, the castle humming with anticipation.
On the last day, they sat beneath the willow, the lake silver in the twilight.
Draco took her hand, their fingers lacing together.
“They’ll talk for years, you know,” he said.
Hermione smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. “Let them. We’ve given them something real.”
He turned, pressing a kiss to her brow.
“Something to talk about.”
And as the sun dipped below the Forbidden Forest, the song in Hermione’s heart soared, rumor and reality blending into a melody all their own.