Chapter Text
“Malfoy, we need more time apart. I just saw you two nights ago.”
“Granger, really, is this the time?” Malfoy grunted, shifting his weight on the bed. He grimaced.
“Stop moving like that,” she tutted.
“It’s getting tighter.”
It in question being a constrictor curse on his left leg, slowly turning the entire limb purple. Hermione’s eyes flicked over her diagnostic charm matrix, trying to find where the curse had bonded itself to Malfoy’s leg. Her matrix flared red near his hip. Hermione cut through his pants with her wand in a quick, decisive movement.
“Most witches buy me dinner before getting into my pants,” he muttered.
Hermione ignored him as she casted the counter curse. With every pass of her wand, blood returned to his leg. She checked her matrix again to make sure she’d gotten all of it. It glowed green. Satisfied he wasn’t about to lose a limb, Hermione took in all of him for the first time that night. He was dressed in black Auror robes; dirty and torn, her wandwork not withstanding. His standard fare for nights he ended up in front of her. Hermione pushed away the familiar clench of anxiety.
“Anything else for me to patch up?” she asked, almost resigned.
This was the third time in two weeks he’d ended up in her hospital ward. After four years of visits, she knew his body, in a way that would have made her blush as a girl. If she closed her eyes, she could picture the scars mapping his torso, echoes of battles long since past. She knew his left knee bothered him when it got cold, that his nose was a bit crooked after a run in with a fugitive. It suited him.
“No, I think I’m set this time around,” he said.
She didn’t believe him, checking over his body with another diagnostic charm. It revealed two broken ribs. He had the gall to look sheepish under her glare. Hermione mended the broken bones with her wand, and to his credit, he didn’t grunt when the ribs settled back in place. Satisfied he was whole once again, Hermione made notes in his chart.
“Thank you for your immaculate care, Healer Granger.”
“I better not see you in here again this month,” she warned.
“Ah, but what if I see you tonight somewhere else?” Malfoy asked. “Leave your Floo open for me, Hermione .” A command. Hermione stilled.
The sound of her given name on his tongue, conjured the memory of the last time he’d said it when he’d been deep inside of her, rolling his hips and murmuring her name over and over again in her ear.
“We’ll see,” she stammered.
The rest of her shift became a blur of diagnostic charms and potions, illness and injury, focusing on the broken parts of the body and moving on to the next. An outbreak of dragon pox was flaring up and St. Mungo’s received the overflow. Her shift technically ended hours ago. The end of her shift came and went, her replacement healer currently in bed six on the second floor with dragon pox.
It was midnight when she finally returned to her cramped flat. Even at the late hour, the sounds of the city bled into the apartment–the rush of cars, distant sirens, drunk party-goers. Little reminders that the world around her still spun on.
Hermione stared at her closed Floo grate. It was late. He probably wouldn’t come over. She turned away to shower and change out of her hospital robes. It was even later when she was back in her living room, her hair damp and her skin scrubbed clean. She had to be back at the hospital early the next morning.
“Fuck it,” she muttered and opened it.
She stepped back. Almost instantly, Malfoy stepped through. He was dressed in black joggers and a sweater and his hair was slightly damp.
His smile was soft and fond and familiar. “Hi, Granger.”
Once, a defensive, hard part of her would have made a snide comment about his promptness in coming over. Malfoy would have responded in kind, and their bickering would have followed a trail of clothing to her bedroom, resulting in bruises on her hips and marks on her neck. It was different now. Softer. She would have thought familiarity bred contempt, but when it came to Draco Malfoy, sometimes he was the only constant in her life.
“How are you feeling?” She moved away from the Floo and settled on her worn couch, tucking her legs underneath her.
“Sore, but I’ll survive,” he said. He sat next to her on the couch, close enough that their shoulders touched as they faced her broken television.She wanted to melt into the warmth of his body. Draco’s fingers, because he was Draco in her apartment with the night air softening all of their jagged edges, traced patterns up and down her leg. Hermione made a low hum of approval.
“What happened this time?”
Draco sighed. “Goldhorn’s incarcerous rebounded off a cursed shield and hit me.”
“Goldhorn is an idiot,” Hermione snapped. Alden Goldhorn was Malfoy’s current field partner, a senior Auror with shaky aim and frayed nerves. That was Hermione’s professional opinion, after all, she was the one who wrote his prescriptions for a strengthened Calming Draught.
“We get reassignments in two months, Granger,” he said softly.
Hermione bit her tongue. Robards consistently paired Draco with unsuitable partners, desk-jockeys hoping to get one last jaunt in the field, untested new recruits, and the careless and reckless members of the Auror force, all of who were more than content to leave their ex-Death Eater partner high and dry if it meant saving themselves. That was nearly a direct quote from Cormac McLaggen when Draco spent two weeks in her hospital ward after a botched raid.
She wanted to tell him to be careful, to be selfish just once, to quit. But she didn’t. It wasn’t her place. Draco may have taken up space in her heart and life, but she didn’t have the words to describe what that space was. Friend was too shallow for all that they’d endured in the past four years and boyfriend was impossible with his betrothal lingering in the shadows. Hermione was too selfish to ask for clarity. Because clarity meant their lives outside of their midnights would creep in and she refused to acknowledge it.
As if sensing where her thoughts had ventured, the touch on her thigh became exploratory, up to her hip and across her navel. He liked to take his time, savoring every little gasp and short breath she took in. But, Hermione didn’t have the patience tonight.
“Draco,” she said softly, his name a command, a plea. For more.
“Hermione,” he responded in kind. He traced the line of her jaw with slow reverence.
Hermione almost whined with impatience, but she saw the glint in his eyes, matching the spark igniting in her soul. He finally took her face in his hands and kissed her, his lips soft and firm. His tongue stroked against her lips and she opened for him.
Draco pulled her onto him until her legs bracketed either side of his hips. Hermione rocked in his lap, desperate for friction through layers of clothing. He was too far away.
She sat back for a moment to pull his sweater off, revealing the taunt muscles of his abdomen and the soft, fine hair below his belly button. She tried to touch as much of him as she could, her fingers frantic in their path. They were familiar routes, the same ridges and valleys, but they felt new every time.
One of his hands tangled in her hair, near the base of the neck and pulled, the pressure firm. Hermione whimpered. Their eyes met and every one of Hermione’s worries vanished for a moment. All that mattered was the feeling of Draco’s hands on her and the heat growing at her core.
“You’re going to ruin me,” he whispered against her collarbones, the words skating across her skin.
He pulled her shirt off and made a noise of approval when he discovered she was braless. One of his thumbs barely grazed her nipple. He did it again, the touch feather-light and she shuddered.
“Stop teasing,” she muttered and reached down to scrape her teeth down his neck in retaliation.
“Only for you, darling.”
Draco dragged both of his hands down her newly exposed breasts, her nipples sensitive in the cool air. Then, his tongue replaced his hands, swirling around each bud until they were hard points. Hermione’s hands abandoned their quest at his abdomen in favor of grabbing the couch behind his head, pushing her breasts closer to his face.
Everything in Hermione pinched tight at that point of connection. She fumbled with the tie of his joggers, trying to undo it as he nipped and sucked at her nipples.
Before she could finish ridding him of his joggers, he shifted them so her back was on the couch. A flush was creeping up his chest.
Draco’s fingers hooked in the waistband of her sweatpants and he smirked before he pulled them down. He pushed her thighs open. Though she wore utilitarian black seamless panties, his eyes darkened as he took her in. Merlin only knew what was going through his mind. He ran a gentle finger down the seam of her.
“You’re soaked, Granger.”
He yanked her panties off.
And then, his mouth ghosted along her inner thigh. It tickled enough Hermione started to close her legs, but a firm hand on both of her legs kept them wrenched open.
His tongue made a slow, tortious swipe up her cunt. He lightly swirled over her clit, somehow the feeling was too much and not enough.
“Please, please, please ,” Hermione whined.
Draco rewarded her begging with another lick.
She dragged her fingers through his hair, the strands soft. She pulled, urging him on. Hermione could practically feel his smirk against her.
Everything in her hummed with exhilaration, building and building. Draco was nothing if not consistent, and thank Circe for that, because he sealed his upper lip over her swelling clit and kept the pace of his tongue consistent. Hermione rolled her hips, increasing the pressure, trying to push into his face.
“Draco, please don’t stop. It’s perfect…” One of his fingers slid up her and pushed inside. After a few experimental thrusts, he added a second. She felt herself clamp down on the digits. He curled his fingers forward.
“Oh fuck, fuck.”
Hermione writhed, her chest heaving. She was hurtling towards her orgasm, every brush of his tongue and thrust of his fingers shooting her higher and higher.
Their eyes met. Draco’s grey eyes were hazy with lust, but they never left her face.
His teeth made the lightest scrape over her clit and Hermione ignited. She let out a cry as waves of pleasure pounded over her, her cunt pulsing in time with her heart.
Draco kissed the insides of her thighs. “Good girl,” he murmured.
Hermione looked up, dazed. He was kneeling on the couch, his hair disheveled and his mouth red. She could see the outline of his cock through his trousers, straining against the fabric.
“I need you now,” she said, tugging at his trousers. “Please, Draco, now. Now.”
He vanished his trousers wordlessly and wandlessly. He captured her mouth in another searing kiss. She could taste herself on his mouth and it only drove her higher. Hermione moaned when she felt the first brush of his cock against her entrance.
She wrapped her legs around him and dug her heels into his arse to bring him closer.
He dropped his face to her neck and thrusted slowly, filling her and stretching her.
“Hermione.” Her name was a strangled plea.
“Rough,” she begged, arching her back off the couch. “I want you rough.”
It snapped whatever control he had over himself. His first full thrust was brutal, hitting all the spots she craved. Each pump of his hips made heat flare in her core again. He was relentless.
He brought his face back to her neck and sucked, leaving bruising marks behind. “Mine. You are mine," he whispered across her skin.
Yours, yours, yours , Hermione’s heart screamed back in response. He knew her body well. Two years of late night rendezvous, each one an escape away from the world around them.
Draco snaked a hand between them, fondling her clit with his thumb.
It was perfect. Her second orgasm built faster than the first, her body overly sensitive. “Look at you, taking me so well.”
He thrust deeper as she tightened around him. Release seized her. Hermione gasped, wrenching spasms coursing through her body. One hard thrust later, and Draco pulsed inside of her with a low moan.
Everything was still.
Draco pressed gentle kisses to her mouth as her cunt throbbed with quiet aftershocks. He eased out of her and carried her into her bedroom, the movement well practised.
He cast a cleaning spell over both of them, Hermione’s mind hazy with endorphins and exhaustion. She burrowed in her cotton sheets. She heard the fridge door open and close, a glass set on her small countertop.
A moment later, the bed dipped down with Draco’s weight. He brushed a finger down her cheek. It was enough to pull her from the heavy web of sleep. She shifted and sat up a bit. He’d put on his boxers and held a pair of sleep shorts and an oversized Slytherin quidditch t-shirt.
“I don’t believe that’s mine.”
“Well, I found it in your closet so it must be yours.”
She rolled her eyes and accepted the clothes, dressing herself in languid movements, not wanting to lose the heat of her blankets. When she settled back down, Draco smiled at her from his perch on her bed.
“Can you stay tonight?” she asked softly.
“I have to be up early,” he warned, but he was already slipping in beside her on his side of the bed. Or, the side of the bed he slept some nights. Most nights. His arms circled around her waist, drawing her in close.
He pressed a soft kiss to her neck and Hermione fell into a deep sleep.
Three days later, Hermione found Malfoy in her hospital ward once again. Well, technically it wasn’t her ward, it was the overflow room for the Artefacts Accidents Department, sandwiched between the Alchemy lab and the reception area. Hermione happened to be the only healer at St. Mungo’s with an extensive background in curse-breaking and trauma healing, making her the de-facto healer of the DMLE.
All of that education and experience amounted to four hospital beds and one nurse. Hermione was still expected to take shifts in the emergency room and float in whatever department needed her.
“Are you dying?” she asked him as she pulled on her outer healing robes.
“Not yet,” Malfoy said.
She resisted the urge to cast a diagnostic charm over him just to be sure.
“What do you want, then? I have to cover the sick ward on the second floor.”
Malfoy put his hands in his pockets. “DMLE is pulling you from the floor for a bit. I’ve come to bring you straight to Robards.”
Hermione’s nostrils flared. “He can’t just do that! I have patients and responsibilities here that I can’t just leave on his whim.”
“I’m just following orders. Better me than McLaggen, yeah? At least I’m nice to look at.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “You can’t make me go. Robards isn’t my boss and I’ve done nothing illegal to require an Auror escort. If he wants to see me so badly, he can schedule a meeting like a normal human being.”
“I have a summons,” Malfoy said. He pulled a piece of parchment from the pocket of his dress robes. The seal of the Office of the Minister of Magic stared back at her. She scowled.
“I hate your entire department.”
“Well, that’s just factually inaccurate, Granger. I have it on good authority that you happen to like me.” He held out his arm for side-along apparition.
Hermione took it before he could utter any lewd words in her empty ward.
They landed inside Gawain Robards office, Malfoy’s aim just the slightest bit off that she stumbled into him to avoid face planting into Robards’s desk. He held out an arm to steady her. Judging by the smirk on his face, it was intentional. She pinched his arm, but his face revealed nothing.
“What do you want, Robards?” Hermione asked.
“Miss Granger, how are you today? Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? See how these are all polite greetings?”
Gawain Robards had been head of the DMLE for eleven years. The post had not been kind to him. His office was all leather and expensive wood paneling, but the man in the desk before her was very near decrepit. If Hermione was feeling charitable, she would have used words like ‘weathered’ or ‘over the hill.’ His massive leather chair seemed to swallow him, an impressive feat when the man stood well over six foot.
Still, his voice was firm and his eyes clear, so it must’ve been enough for the Ministry to keep him in the DMLE, even if Hermione treated his hand tremors every other week, soothing ancient nerve pathways with magic.
She sat in the chair across from his desk, if only because she’d already been on her feet for five hours so far today. Robards smiled like he’d won something. Malfoy remained standing behind her, near the door.
“What do you want?” she repeated.
“You will need to take a confidentiality oath. Malfoy will administer it.”
Hermione nearly sneered but stood and held her right arm out to Malfoy. They grasped forearms and Malfoy pulled out his wand. “With this vow, Hermione Jean Granger may not discuss the following information in any material matter, whether that be written or oral …” He managed to waggle his eyebrows. Hermione rolled her eyes. “With the exception of Gawain Robards and the lead Auror on Case No. 22845. She must disclose all information known prior to the confidentiality oath, information independently developed, and information given to her from a source other than the disclosing party. I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, bind you with this oath and with my magic to this agreement.”
Gold light erupted from the tip of his wand, twining around their connected forearms. It was warm, like a fire. The light settled into her skin, the magic passing through her body in a rush. She stepped away from Malfoy first and sat back down in her chair, her arm tingling.
She crossed her arms and stared at Robards expectantly.
“We have reason to believe the current outbreak of dragon pox is not what it seems,” Robards began. “Malfoy has found evidence that the strain that is likely affecting patients on the second floor was created and is being spread intentionally.”
“What led you to believe the current outbreak is any different from the normal strain? The cure for dragon pox is decades old and all of the current patients in Magical Bugs are responding well to treatment. It does not present differently than any other case of dragon pox I’ve seen.”
“Please, Miss Granger, save your questions until the end. I do have other meetings to get to today.”
Oh, how Hermione itched to hex off his look of superiority. Malfoy saved Robards from a nasty boil hex by speaking.
“We did a thorough examination of patient records for the past month. Of those who were diagnosed with dragon pox, all of them were customers of or have a connection to Revered Relics. After the initial investigation of the store, we found several dark objects capable of housing such a curse, but none of them resulted in illness.”
“I’m sorry, please do not tell me Aurors were touching cursed objects to see if they would contract dragon pox.”
“I cannot tell you that,” Malfoy said.
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
“No comment at this time, I’m afraid Granger.”
“Moving on,” Robards cut in diplomatically. “We do not know currently how dragon pox is being contracted, but we do believe Revered Relics is the common thread. The object simply could have been removed when our Auror team was investigating. We have the store under constant surveillance and we are keeping track of who enters and leaves.”
Robards produced a sheet of parchment and handed it to her across the desk. It was a list of names, some she recognized and others she didn’t, about forty in total.
“Whenever someone new enters the store, the name will appear here. If any of those individuals are admitted to St. Mungo’s for dragon pox, you must contact us immediately.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
A very heavy look was shared between Malfoy and Robards. It spoke volumes, whatever it was. Robards shook his head.
“No, Miss Granger. Keep an eye out for those patients. Have a good day.”
Hermione scoffed. Keeping her in the dark seemed idiotic, but it wasn’t exactly a surprise for the DMLE. She stood from her chair and left the office. She wasn’t keyed into the wards and lacked apparition clearance. She had to exit the Auror department and make her way to the Ministry of Magic atrium to actually leave the bloody building. Malfoy was on her heels.
“Doesn’t your blood just thrum with anticipation, Granger? A new mystery to puzzle out.”
He was baiting her. Hermione refused to rise. “Maybe for you. I have to return to St. Mungo’s, where my skills can actually be put to good use.”
Malfoy entered the lift with her. She jabbed at the button for the ground floor.
“That button did nothing to you.”
“Why was I dragged all the way here? What’s really going on?”
Alone, she caught a glimpse of the man she knew. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t have all the pieces yet, but something in my gut tells me there’s more going on. I fought Robards to bring you on this early. It just feels off, I can’t explain it. Just, keep an eye out, yeah?”
If it was anyone else, Hermione would have fought. But, it was Draco. It was not so easy to brush him off. She slumped against the back wall of the lift and nodded.
“Keep me out of Robards office as much as you can.”
“I can do that.”
The lift opened to the ministry lobby. Malfoy guided her out of the lift, his hand on her lower back. He walked with her all the way to the Floos.
“Draco,” a feminine voice called across the cavernous room. The hand on her back dropped and he stiffened. Hermione turned and understood why immediately.
Astoria Greengrass walked towards them with quick, efficient steps, her heels clicking against the floor. She was dressed in conservative navy robes, her dark hair shiny and smooth like she’d just spent hours at a salon getting it blown out.
“Astoria,” Malfoy said. He frowned. “Why are you here?”
Hermione hadn’t seen Astoria in nearly two years. Seeing her was a punch to the gut. A stark reminder that what she had with Malfoy had an expiration date. There would come a day when she could no longer refer to him as Draco ; where the only relationship they would have would be that of patient and healer.
Astoria cocked her head. “I have a lunch meeting with Aster Everglade. Mother is hoping to expand our philanthropic arm into a new program she’s trying to get started.”
“You’re getting involved with the Muggle-Born Readiness Program?” Hermione blurted out.
Astoria’s attention flicked to her for the first time and there was a tightness to her mouth. Almost a pursed lip, but not quite. “Yes, Miss Granger. You’re familiar with it?”
“Er, yes. I was one of the early consultants Aster reached out to. I wanted to stay on, but I didn’t have the time.”
“Well, how could you when you’re always caring for this one, hmm?” Astoria gestured towards Malfoy.
Hermione had never heard a silence so loud before. She didn’t dare look at Malfoy. She looked at her wristwatch instead, a delicate gold thing, a gift from her grandmother.
“Right, well, nice to see both of you. I need to get back to work,” she said, stepping towards the Floo.
“It was so nice to see you again , Miss Granger.”
As Hermione threw her handful of Floo powder down, she caught a glimpse of Malfoy talking to Astoria—she touched his forearm briefly. Hermione closed her eyes. It was none of her business. The green flames whisked her back to St. Mungo’s.
Hermione pushed through the crowded pub, careful to not spill her drink. She slipped between a boisterous group of Ministry employees and a bachelorette party before emerging at the table occupied by her friends.
“Hi, Hermione!” Ginny said, waving her over.
“Hello everyone,” Hermione said.
Harry smiled at her, his glasses smudged and his hair unruly as always. There were ink stains on his fingers. Ron was across from Harry, with his arm around Padma Patil-Weasley’s shoulders.
“You made it!” Ron said.
“I’m glad you were able to get out of work on time,” Padma said, a soft but tired smile on her face. She was rubbing her belly, four months into her fourth pregnancy.
“It was a quiet night at the hospital,” Hermione said, settling into a seat between the two couples. She took a sip from her wine, the red earthy and bold on her tongue.
“Hermione, what are you doing in August?” Ginny asked, blinking at her innocently.
Hermione shrugged. “Ginny, I hardly know what I’m doing in six hours, let alone in six months.”
“Be a bit more cryptic, Gin,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “She’s trying to coerce us into going to the Quidditch World Cup with her. I already told you, I’m not leaving my wife with a one month old.”
Ah. It was not Hermione’s ideal vacation idea. Her attendance at the Quidditch World Cup in her fourth year was enough for her.
Padma placed a gentle hand on Ron’s arm. “It might be fun, love,” she said. “You could take the girls on a mini holiday before Hema goes to Hogwarts. Parvati can help me with this one.”
“Coerce,” Ginny repeated, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, Ron, you make it sound like a long weekend in Greece is a trip to Azkaban.”
“Where in Greece?” Hermione asked.
“Athens,” Ginny said.
Hermione perked up at this. The Library of Athens had been on her bucket list for some time now. It housed the largest collection of proto-Hellenic runes and some of the world’s foremost cursebreakers worked there. All that knowledge would be right there in front of her.
Ron finished the rest of his beer and stood. “We’ll talk about it. Harry, help me with the next round.”
When the boys left the table, Ginny turned to Padma. “Okay, spill, why are you okay with him going?”
Padma laughed. “Ah, am I that obvious? I want to take the girls to India over winter hols and I think mentioning my plans to Ron after a weekend in Greece with Quidditch and his best friends might be the way to do it.”
Ginny smirked. “I think you can get Ron to do anything you ask, Padma. You might need to prepare to tell Mum though, that won’t go over well…” Ginny trailed off, squinting at her sister-in-law with suspicion. “You’re playing me as well, aren’t you? You get Ron to go to the World Cup, I help you smooth things over with my mum. I’m impressed.”
Padma sipped her water. “I’ve cut back on work this pregnancy, I have more time to scheme.”
“I’m glad you use your powers for good,” Hermione said. “Can you use them to get Robards off my back?”
Both girls made noises of sympathy. It was no great secret that Robards used the post-war chaos to expand the authority of the DMLE. His actions drove Harry towards teaching, rather than the Auror department. Ron started basic training but dropped out after Padma got pregnant with Hema.
“What has he done this time?” Padma asked.
Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it, the magic of the oath restrictive. “The usual,” she hedged and held up her right arm. Padma’s eyebrows shot up in understanding.
“I’m sorry that happened. You have my number if you ever need it. Solicitor-client privilege supersedes oaths of confidentiality.”
“Thank you, Padma,” Hermione said.
“So it sounds like a vacation in Greece would do you good,” Ginny said.
Hermione laughed. “You are relentless.”
Ginny winked at her. “That’s why the Holyhead Harpies are the World Cup Champions three years running.”
Harry and Ron returned, drinks in tow. Harry placed a gin and tonic in front of Hermione. She frowned at him.
“I do have to work tomorrow,” she reminded him. Gin and tonics were reserved for the few nights a year Hermione allowed herself to let go. The last time she drank them was at Harry’s twenty-eighth birthday.
“I didn’t order it for you. Malfoy did. Said he wanted to apologize for this morning. Bought the whole round, actually.”
Very carefully and casually, Hermione asked, “Malfoy is here?”
She did not look in the direction of the bar, staring at the lime on the rim of the glass.
“Yeah, with a few other Aurors,” Ron said, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of Padma’s head. “Why’s he apologizing to you?”
“There was a meeting with Robards,” Hermione said. But, that wasn’t what the drink was for, was it? It was because of Astoria.
Harry made a face at the mention of Robards. “He sent me another letter a few weeks ago. I didn’t even open it this time.”
“You’re the crown jewel he never got,” Hermione muttered darkly.
“No, but I did,” Ginny sing-songed as a blush spread across Harry’s cheeks. She placed a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek.
“Gross, Gin, we’re in public,” Ron complained.
“Oh, we’re talking about public displays of affection are we?” Harry challenged. “Do I need to bring up what I walked into at my wedding?”
“Honestly, Harry, that one is on you, you should’ve known better than to not knock,” Hermione said, patting his shoulder consolingly.
“My sister is here, can we not—”
“Ron, we are expecting child number four, I think she’s aware—”
“Anyway,” Harry cut in meaningfully, “I’m glad you have Malfoy, Hermione.”
Hermione’s eyes shot up from her drink, panicked. “I don’t have Malfoy.”
“Well obviously, I just meant it’s nice that you have an ally when facing Robards. You two work together a lot, yeah?”
“He’s been my patient a few times,” Hermione said evenly.
It was perhaps the most Hermione had ever discussed Draco Malfoy with her friends since they started sleeping together. He was her secret, something she guarded viciously. She could only imagine the pity and concern they would have for her. The ‘ Hermione he’s betrothed to someone else ’s. Merlin, she knew. She lived with it every day. It didn’t matter that there were no feelings involved between Astoria and Draco, that they barely spoke to each other.
Hermione was the mistress.
The conversation had tipped away from her, Harry sharing an anecdote about one of his students. She finished the rest of her wine quickly. When there was a natural pause in the conversation, she pushed the untouched gin and tonic towards Ginny.
“It’s all yours. I should get going. I’m rather tired. See you all next week, yeah?”
It was perhaps the worst good-bye she’d ever given, but Hermione pushed back from the table before any of her friends could say anything other than a chorus of good-byes.
She had to pass by the bar on her way out. She watched out of the corner of her eye for the flash of white-blond hair, the edge of his smirk. Hermione let out a breath of relief when she passed the bar and exited the pub without running into him.
It was too much sometimes–the depth of her feelings. There were moments when Draco would creep into her thoughts in broad daylight. Little fantasies where it was safe to tell him that he was the only thing that felt like home sometimes, where she could kiss him goodbye in public, where she could be the one to tell him to be careful before he went to work everyday.
She turned the corner of the street, towards the nearest apparition point.
“Headed home, Granger?”
Hermione froze on the sidewalk. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t. Not tonight, Malfoy.”
Not tonight when it’s too hard to keep you in your box where you belong. She had to be happy with their stolen moments. They had to be enough. Because the alternative was that he wasn’t in her life at all and Hermione couldn’t bear it.
He stepped closer to her. His hand ghosted along the line of her jaw. “I am sorry, Hermione,” he said softly. She could smell his cologne, cedar and musk like an Old World library.
“I can handle Robards just fine,” Hermione said, taking a half step away from him. She opened her eyes but refused to look at his face. She focused on his hands instead, where the Malfoy signet ring rested on his left hand, the silver winking at her in the streetlight.
“Are we not talking about it then?”
“There’s nothing to talk about, as far as I’m concerned.”
He sighed, a frustrated sound. “We wouldn’t even be having this conversation if you would just–” He cut off as a pair of wizards passed by them. He lowered his voice. “Can we talk about this at your place, please?”
Hermione had been living with Draco Malfoy’s particular moral code for the past four years. It was contradictory and arbitrary, but it was the same code that kept him on the Auror force, the one that made him seek her out tonight, to fix whatever rift was between them.
“Fine.”
She walked at a brisk clip to the apparition point. Malfoy’s long legs kept up with her despite the fact that she was nearly jogging. Any other night, he would have made a quip about how she was eager to get home with him, but he was silent beside her.
The point was an old telephone box. It was not magically expanded like some of the others, so they were forced in close proximity to both fit, a puzzle of elbows and knees and arms. Hermione gripped his forearm and whisked them into her flat. She stepped away from him the moment they landed.
“I’m going to put a kettle on,” she said, stalking towards her tiny kitchen. He followed behind her with quiet steps and she scowled to herself.
She plugged in her electric kettle and set to work pulling mugs and sugar from the cupboard when Draco came to stand behind her, his arms resting on either side of her, caging her in between the counter and his body.
Her hair was swept up in a bun, secured by her wand, so she felt his breath ghost along the juncture of her shoulder and her neck. There were still a few healthy inches of space between their bodies, which made his voice in her ear almost startling. “I don’t like fighting with you.”
“We’re not fighting.”
“No? I have the distinct feeling I’ve displeased you. Let me make it up to you.”
Draco pressed a chaste kiss to her neck, so light Hermione thought she imagined it. Then, his hands were on her hips and he turned her so she faced him. She hadn’t expected it, and the full force of his attention on her was heavy. He gave her a slow, sad smile as he traced her jaw with his thumb. Her arms hung uselessly at her sides, torn between wanting to push him away and pull him closer.
He made the decision for her, kissing her with tenderness that she did not deserve. Hermione pulled back. She didn’t drink often, and her glass of wine made the words tumble out too easily.
“You are betrothed.”
She’d said something similar, once. Two years ago, during his two week stay in the hospital. He was the only one in her ward and so they talked. Well, they bickered endlessly. Until they ran out of things to bicker about and they talked instead. Hermione found it unsettling how similar they were, how their minds worked. It was like finding the answer to a question she’d been asking her entire life. Somehow, talking became a fierce kiss at midnight, all teeth and force until she pushed him away and said the words.
“Yes, I have been since I was sixteen,” he said, an echo of conversation from years past. “I am sorry that you ran into Astoria today. She likes to play her games and you got caught in the crossfire.”
“I’m not mad about Astoria,” Hermione said, crossing her arms. “I just… I don’t know. It was weird. I didn’t like it.”
Draco’s eyes widened a bit and his eyebrows shot up. Then, he blinked and a look of understanding passed over his face.
“You feel guilty,” he surmised.
Hermione huffed a laugh. “I always feel guilty. I am the other woman, Draco.”
He was quiet for a moment, only the hum of Hermione’s refrigerator making sound. He traced the line of her jaw, again. “Tell me to do it.”
“I will not be the thing that destroys your life.”
“Hermione. One word from you and I will break my betrothal contract as fast as I can write the letter to my solicitor. Let my family, my inheritance burn to the ground. I don’t care anymore. Claim me as yours in the daylight. Please, Hermione. Please .” He dropped his head so their foreheads touched, their breaths intermingled.
“Please,” he murmured, dropping a kiss to her lips. “I want you. In every sense of the word.”
Hermione allowed herself one moment. One moment to luxuriate in the daydreams she never let herself have. Then, with a gentle press of her hand to his chest, she pushed him off. He backed away by a step, a tightness around his eyes, the only hint of hurt he gave off.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Hermione said.
“I’m well aware of what I’m saying,” he said. Before he could say more dangerous, hopeful words, Hermione shook her head.
“I am your distraction. I work far too much, I am taciturn and difficult and you will tire of me. You will tire of my attitude and my ambition and my late nights, especially when I am the reason you don’t speak to your mother anymore and you barely see me. We will hate each other and I cannot bear that. Let this be enough. I beg you.”
“I didn’t realize you were a Seer,” he muttered darkly, moving further away from her. The kettle whistled. Hermione turned it off and the kitchen was deadly silent. A muscle ticked in his jaw. When he spoke again, his voice was low, dangerous. “Do not use my disinheritance as your shield, it is not yours.”
“No, but it is a consequence of all of this, among other things.” She waved her hand between them. “What we have is good, Draco. Why change it?”
“Are you ashamed of me?”
“No, no. I could never be ashamed of you.”
“Then why can’t we—” He cut off and ran a hand through his hair. “Why can’t we be more?”
Two years of unspoken words battered between them. Hermione didn’t think she could weather the storm. For so long, she felt like she was drowning until he entered her life. Did he know that he saved her? That he brought warmth and light back to her, that she was eternally grateful for all the small pieces of him she had?
“I can’t give that to you,” she said softly, the truth dropping like a weight between them. Because I care for you too much. I will not be your ruination.
“I see. Forgive me for taking up so much of your time,” he said, straightening the lapels of his coat and leaving her kitchen. He lingered by the doorway, but didn’t turn back as he spoke again. “I–I think I’m done, Hermione. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
And then, he was gone, leaving Hermione alone in her apartment with two chipped mugs and a gaping hole in her heart.