Marked Twice, Part 1
[Draco’s POV]
I know something is wrong the moment the badge touches my palm.
Cold. Heavy. Like it doesn’t want me either.
Head Boy. The words stare back at me, polished and smug, like they’ve made a mistake and decided not to apologize.
Mother says it’s an honor.
Father doesn’t say anything. Which is worse.
By the time the Hogwarts Express hisses to life, the badge is hidden inside my pocket, burning like it knows exactly how temporary this illusion of respect is going to be.
I don’t go looking for anyone. That would imply confidence. Instead, I take the empty compartment nearest the front and sit with my back to the window, watching the platform blur into something I can’t undo.
Then the door slides open.
Of course it’s her.
Granger stops short, eyes flicking from my face to the empty seats, clearly calculating whether the universe hates her enough to make this necessary.
It does.
She doesn’t apologize. She never does. No, Granger just steps in, sets her bag down, and sits opposite me like this is a perfectly acceptable way to start a school year.
Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.
The train jerks forward.
Neither of us speaks.
She pulls out a book—because of course she does—but she isn’t reading. I can tell. Her attention keeps drifting, subtle but sharp, like she’s mapping every breath I take.
Finally, she glances up. Her eyes drop. To my chest. Then lower. Then back up, slower this time.
I don’t move.
I let her see it.
Her breath catches—not dramatic, not loud. Just enough.
The badge is pinned neatly to my robes now, the silver catching the light as the train rattles onward.
Head Boy.
Hermione Granger stares at it like it’s personally offended her.
“You,” she says finally.
I arch a brow. “Me.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t aware we were joking.”
Her gaze sharpens. “This has to be a mistake.”
I lean back, folding my arms. “You wound me.”
“No, I mean it,” she says. “You—” She stops herself, lips pressing thin. “You’re not exactly known for… responsibility.”
Ah.
There it is.
I smile. It feels wrong on my face. “And yet, here I am. Try not to faint.”
She doesn’t smile back. Instead, she studies me properly now. Not the badge. Not the posture.
Me.
Like she’s looking for cracks.
“You don’t look pleased,” she says.
I scoff. “Do I ever?”
“Yes,” she says without hesitation. “When you think you’ve won.”
That lands closer than I’d like.
I look out the window, jaw tightening. “Congratulations, Granger. You’ve deduced that the role of Head Boy does not spark joy.”
She hesitates. Just a fraction.
Then, quieter: “Why you?”
The question isn’t curious.
It’s suspicious.
I stand, reaching for my bag. “Enjoy the rest of the ride.”
She doesn’t move to stop me—but as I pass, she speaks again.
“Be careful.”
I pause.
Slowly, I turn back.
“With what?” I ask.
Her eyes flick to my pocket. To the place where the badge burned before I dared pin it on.
“Everything,” she says.
For a moment, the train seems to hold its breath.
Then I laugh—soft, sharp, practiced. “Always so dramatic.”
I leave before she can respond.
But as I walk down the corridor, badge gleaming like a lie, I can feel it—
Granger watching.
And worse—
understanding.
