Chapter Text
In Hermione’s defense, some ingredients simply had to be gathered by moonlight.
She should not have been blamed for this being the case, just as she should not have been blamed for the fact that mother and father still refused to permit her out of the castle at night, even knowing that Hermione had under-moonlight ingredients to collect. They had been very strict about her curfew ever since she had nearly suffocated while trying to find hinkypunk eggs (“the quicksand incident”, as it soon became known). The presence of Royal Guards down on the paths below Hermione’s bedroom attested to as much.
Luckily for Hermione, the guards mostly focused on the door, leaving the gardens below her windows less surveilled.
Every night for three weeks, Hermione had been clambering out of said window and down a rope she made of bedsheets knotted together. From there it was a brisk, brief walk to the neighboring river, where she would trudge through a bit of mud to procure a fresh snippet of Devil’s Snare blossom under the light of the midnight moon. One snippet was needed a day for the twenty-four days of the potion’s brew cycle, and the snippet had to be freshly picked—gathering a bunch at once wouldn’t do.
For weeks this process had been going seamlessly and Hermione had no reason to anticipate that this night would be any different. Which is why it was most startling when she made it all the way down the side of the castle wall only to turn in the normally empty garden and find a member of the Royal Guard watching her.
“Oh, bugger,” Hermione said.
“Your highness.”
He had the nerve to sound amused.
Hermione looked up at him, irritated. The guard was quite tall, but other than that it was too dark for her to see his features.
“I have a quick errand to attend to,” Hermione said, trying to walk past him.
“My apologies,” he said, stepping into her path. “All members of the Royal Guard are under strict orders to prevent you from leaving the castle after dark.”
“I’m—I’m permitted to go out tonight,” lied Hermione.
The guard looked at her for a moment before turning his gaze up the castle wall to the rope of bedsheets hanging out of Hermione’s window. He did not say anything.
“Oh, alright,” she huffed. “I’m not allowed out. But I’m making this potion—an improved recipe on Pepperup Potion, to be precise—and I need Devil’s Snare blossom. Picked under moonlight, you see. And I know it’s against the rules but I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Devil’s Snare blossom?” he repeated. Then, a short pause. “Is that to offset the nausea in the original recipe?”
Hermione’s eyes widened. Finally, someone who understood!
“Yes, that’s exactly right!”
“Interesting. Wouldn’t you need to add the blossom multiple days in a row for it to make a meaningful difference?”
“I have been! I’ve been going out every night for the last twenty-one days,” Hermione said, pleased. “And I only need to do so for three more days before this phase of brewing is complete. So now that you understand—”
“Hold on. You’ve been sneaking out of the castle every night for twenty-one days?”
“Um...”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to escort you back inside,” he said, his words suddenly clipped. “You should also know that we added a new station point here as of yesterday morning, so this particular blind spot is no more. ”
He bowed at Hermione and gestured politely in the direction of the castle door as if he had not just both ruined her evening plans and given her some very unfortunate news all in one fell swoop.
“Now hang on just a moment,” Hermione said, irritatedly planting her hands on her hips. “This potion is very important to me. And I’m nearly at the finish line! Can’t you just let me go tonight? And… and turn a blind eye for the next two days?”
“A blind eye to the rope made of bedsheets coming out of your window, you mean?”
The surprise that Hermione felt at being spoken to so impertinently by a member of the Royal Guard was quickly overshadowed by defensiveness. She had been doing this for three weeks without being caught, if you please, and didn’t much care for the guard’s tone.
“I—I’ll have you know that I usually Disillusion the bedsheets!” Hermione hissed.
He was silent for a long moment.
“My deepest apologies, your highness,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “I was not aware that you usually… Disillusion the bedsheets.”
“Oh, sod off,” Hermione snapped, feeling like a petulant child but too upset to care. “No, don’t you dare try to escort me to the door. I’ll just climb back up through the window.”
She did so, glowering the whole way. It was not easy and the door probably would have made more sense, but it felt like a matter of pride somehow. Towards the top she turned to see if the guard was still there. Perhaps he’d gone elsewhere and she could quickly run to the riverbank and get her potions ingredient after all?
But there he remained, watching to make sure she climbed all the way up. He spotted her looking and gave an insolent little wave. Hermione made a much ruder hand gesture in return before tumbling over the ledge of her window back into her room.
She spent all night angrily scribbling notes on how to salvage her potion, which was the only reason she was awake to hear the small clink of something against her window around sunrise. Hermione pulled the curtain back and frowned.
It appeared to be a small flower pot, hovering lazily right outside her bedroom. The container was full of wet soil and a few living green shoots of Devil’s Snare, dotted with white blossoms. Hermione’s eyes went wide and she promptly stuck her head out the window to look down into the garden. The guard from the night before was still on duty. He was facing away from her, back straight and arms at his sides—the picture of a polished soldier. Even his hair, which, now that it was no longer dark outside, Hermione could see was a sort of white blond, was carefully swept to the side without a strand out of place. But on his black boots Hermione could see the telltale grey splatter of river mud.
Hermione looked back at the flower pot quizzically. It was only then that she found the small note, no more than a scrap of parchment, attached to the side.
Feels rather like you should have thought of this. Easier than sneaking out every night, no?
Hermione’s hands shook with rage.
Obviously she’d thought of it. Of course she’d thought of it! As if it wasn’t the very first thing she’d tried, keeping some live Devil’s Snare in her room so she wouldn’t have to go to the river each night. How dare this guard imply that he knew better than her? And so brazenly!
She stomped down the circular stone staircase from her bedroom into the gardens, bursting out of the door still in her nightgown. She heard her lady’s maid follow anxiously, calling out for Hermione to please put some clothes on, your highness, but she ignored her.
“What is the meaning of this?” Hermione asked the guard, brandishing the flower pot in one hand.
The guard bowed instantly at the sight of her, and Hermione waited impatiently for him to straighten up. What use were these formalities when he had already insulted her so personally?
“Your highness,” he said. In the daylight he seemed taller, somehow. She was surprised to see he looked only a few years older than her, with sharp, disarming features. His gaze flitted down to her white nightgown before carefully returning to meet her eyes. “I merely wished to assist.”
“Assist?” she repeated. “And you thought to imply that I had not considered this method? That a silly girl like me couldn’t possibly have come up with the idea of taking live blossoms and harvesting them from my room?”
“I did not mean to insult—”
She stepped up close to him and shoved the flower pot into his chest.
“They must remain connected to their root source,” she hissed. “Obviously. Perhaps you will not think so lowly of my intelligence next time.”
The guard did not say anything and Hermione huffed angrily at his sudden reticence.
“And what is your name?” she demanded. “I’ll have the Head of Guard know of this impudence.”
“Malfoy,” he answered at once, as if he had been just waiting for her to ask. “Draco Malfoy.”
Hermione just sniffed and turned back to the castle.
“Your highness,” he called out. “I hope you will forgive me saying that there is a connecting charm on the flower pot to the riverbank. The blossoms remain attached to their root source. I had hoped this would keep them usable for your purposes.”
Hermione stopped in her tracks.
A connecting charm.
Why, that was brilliant. And a hugely complex piece of magic. She wondered if he performed it in the traditional manner or if he’d used some distance-agnostic version…
“I see,” she said evenly, schooling her features into appearing completely unimpressed. “Not that it makes a difference, mind you. Still rather presumptuous to assume…”
She trailed off before walking back to him, cheeks red, and snatching the flower pot back. Then she scurried up the steps back to her bedroom.
He was still an ass, she thought, setting the pot in a shaded portion of the room and misting some water onto the vines.
── ✵ ──
A week later Hermione was walking from the library back to her bedroom when she looked up from her book to see Malfoy standing guard on the garden paths. Her cheeks turned pink and she walked faster, trying to avoid his eyes. She was still embarrassed from their last interaction and did not want to see the smug look in his eyes.
He coughed quietly.
“What?” she snapped.
“Nothing. I was just coughing.”
“Oh, just go on then. Gloat—I know you want to. You were right about the blossoms, they worked marvelously. There! Are you happy?”
Malfoy only looked at her.
“And yes, congratulations!” Hermione went on somewhat hysterically. “I didn’t think of the connecting charm. I don’t know how I missed it, but there you go.”
Malfoy looked around and, seeing that the paths were empty, leaned forward with a playful smile.
“Don’t be such a grump. You got the ingredients you needed, isn’t that all that matters?”
“Who asked for your help anyway?” Hermione sniffed. “I would have been fine.”
“Probably. But it would have been rather unfortunate if you got stuck in quicksand again.”
She shot him a disgruntled look.
“How do you even know about that?”
He smiled lazily.
“A little bird told me that’s why you’re no longer permitted out of the castle at night.”
“Your little bird is misinformed. The real reason I’m no longer allowed out at night is because I wouldn’t stop murdering annoying guards.”
Malfoy breathed a little laugh.
“Very cute.”
His head was tipped down to look at her, a few blond strands falling over his eyes and a fond smirk on his face. Hermione was suddenly very aware of how large he was and how close they were standing to each other. She swallowed and stepped backwards, face hot.
Malfoy straightened up, cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” he said.
He did not say why he was apologizing but they both knew. Nobody—certainly not a member of the Royal Guard—was supposed to talk to her like that.
“It’s fine,” Hermione mumbled, not looking at him. She hurried away.
No sooner was she back in her quarters than Hermione darted to the window and peered out from behind the curtain into the gardens. Malfoy was looking down at his feet, an expression of mild frustration on his face. Then he straightened up, jaw tight, and turned to look right at her window. Hermione quickly snapped the curtain shut.
It was not like Hermione to be distracted, but the next few weeks found her far less focused than usual on her studies and extracurricular pursuits.
Something about Malfoy had certainly lodged itself in her brain. She learned that he was fresh off a highly-decorated stint in the army and had joined the Royal Guard only a month or so prior. She also learned that she was hardly the only one to find the tall blond man interesting. It was not uncommon for Royal Guards to be highly desirable—the blue-clad soldiers represented the crème de la crème of the King’s Army, after all—but even by their standards Malfoy seemed to be making quite a splash. Everywhere Hermione turned she heard lady’s maids giggling his name, or saw noblewomen of the court dropping handkerchiefs at his feet.
This irritated Hermione greatly, a sentiment that she chose not to examine too closely. Anyway, what business was it of hers if Malfoy was popular with the ladies? She tried to put him out of her mind.
She had managed to draw her focus to her next potions project one evening when she thought she heard his voice coming from a secluded corner of the gardens. In spite of herself, Hermione was curious. She followed the noise, froze when she heard a woman giggling.
“Mm, Draco…”
Hermione flushed. She should leave. This was most inappropriate for her to be eavesdropping on. But her breath caught when she heard him groan next, low and breathy.
“Yes, just like that sweetheart…”
Hermione had never heard a man’s voice sound like—that.
“Open your eyes, Draco,” Hermione heard the woman whine. “You never look at me…”
Hermione crept closer, gave up on pretending she was going to leave. She desperately wanted to hear more. Malfoy and the woman were just between those bushes there, based on the sound of their voices. Hermione’s cheeks were hot and a strange twisting feeling was building in her lower stomach. Maybe she could even sneak a peek…
Her foot caught on a stone and with a horrified squeak Hermione tumbled forward, right into the bushes and into view of Malfoy and the mystery woman, who screamed.
“Your highness!” the woman exclaimed, rushing to cover herself. “M-my apologies, my goodness, we were just—I was just leaving—”
Hermione—through a haze of panic and humiliation—recognized the woman as some countess or the other. She was beautiful, with dark brown hair and flushed pink lips. The woman was in some state of undress but quickly pulled her clothes over herself and rushed away, cheeks bright red.
Malfoy was breathing hard, his usually well-kempt hair in disarray. He straightened his uniform, not meeting Hermione’s eyes. For the first time ever he seemed flustered.
Hermione had to get away from him. She was far too aware of the faint flush on his cheeks, far too aware of the fact that she had been spying when this whole thing happened. She muttered a quick apology and turned to leave, the image of Malfoy’s mussed appearance burned into her brain.
“I’m not on duty,” he called out suddenly, voice strained.
Hermione stopped in her tracks, mostly out of not knowing what to do.
“Okay,” Hermione responded faintly.
“I just—didn’t want you to think that I would shirk my responsibilities. For something like this.”
“Of course not.”
The conversation seemed to be finished, so Hermione resumed walking hurriedly. But then Malfoy spoke again, words rushed as though he could not keep them in.
“It’s casual,” he said. “With the countess. That is to say—casual means I’m not seriously involved with her.”
Hermione felt delirious. Why was he telling her this? Couldn’t he see that all she wanted to do was leave?
“Yes,” she said, lightheaded. “I know what casual means.”
“I’m sorry,” he said instantly. “I didn’t mean to assume you didn’t. I just… since you are an innocent—”
“There’s nothing wrong with being an innocent,” Hermione snapped, humiliated. This was a very bad time for him to be making her feel naïve. “It is proper for a princess to be innocent.”
Malfoy’s jaw tensed and Hermione felt her eyes flutter shut. She could feel his gaze like it was a physical touch.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Don’t be embarrassed.”
He seemed about to say more but Hermione didn’t stop to listen, took quick steps back to the castle with her cheeks burning.
Chapter Text
Hermione decided, over the course of much miserable rumination, that the worst part of the encounter had been how young and inexperienced Malfoy made her feel.
This was really saying something, considering that there were also large quantities of embarrassment and a strange sort of disappointment at play as well.
But—Hermione thought resentfully—she was an adult. Nineteen years of age, old enough for her parents to have started bringing up the topic of royal suitors with some amount of impatience. Malfoy had no business treating her like a child.
The way he’d spoken to her after the countess had scampered off—like he needed to stay and explain things to her—made Hermione’s cheeks heat with humiliation.
It’s casual with the countess. That is to say—casual means I’m not seriously involved with her.
Hermione scowled at the memory, highlighted a passage in her potions journal so hard that she nearly tore through the parchment. She was sure he would not have spoken to the countess like that. The countess, who was experienced and beautiful and lucky enough to not be an innocent like Hermione.
Hermione shook her head with annoyance and returned her focus to the task at hand.
Her research was going well. The improved Pepperup Potion had been excellent. Hermione made careful note in her potions journal of each adjustment she’d made to the brewing process, making sure to capture every detail. She had even deigned to include a small section about connecting charms and their usefulness to time-sensitive ingredients like Devil’s Snare blossom. It had been an impressive bit of magic, after all, she thought grudgingly. Even if it had come from Malfoy.
Hermione groaned and rested her head on the desk. Clearly, she needed a change of scenery.
She stood and grabbed her cloak. She had been meaning to visit the castle orchard anyway. The potions cupboard was running low on glow worms, and there were plenty to be found on the apple trees—the task would keep her mind busy, at least.
In the fresh air, under the afternoon sunshine, Hermione felt a little better. It was lovely outside—skies clear and blue, a warm summer breeze gently fluttering the layered fabrics of Hermione’s dress. Pale golden sunlight streamed through the curled leaves of the apple trees, throwing dappled patterns onto the ground.
Hermione took her time with the task, enjoying making progress on something productive. She carefully searched the bark of each tree in search of the telltale shimmering silk that marked a glow worm’s tunnel. She was on her third or fourth tree when the unexpected sound of footsteps came from somewhere nearby.
Hermione turned, squinting, trying to see who it was through the thick rows of trees. Nobody but her ever came to the orchards this time of day.
“Hello?” she called out.
Malfoy came into view, ducking under a low-hanging branch to join her. He gave her a tentative smile.
“Hello, your highness.”
“Oh,” Hermione said, exhaling. She turned back to the tree trunk she had been examining, hoping he could not see the faint flush on her cheeks. “It’s you.”
What was he doing here? Hermione felt her stomach twist nervously.
“I happened to be nearby, I thought perhaps I could offer my assistance.”
“You don’t even know what I’m doing,” she pointed out.
“You’re collecting glow worms,” Malfoy said easily, moving a little closer. “For potions.”
Hermione shot a look at him.
“How did you know that?”
He leaned forward, reached over her head to pick a glow worm off the tree trunk. The smell of him—clean, with notes of some warm spice—washed over her.
“I know that glow worms are active in the late afternoon, making them easier to find,” he said, dropping the worm into her jar. “And I know you love working on potions.”
“You seem to know a lot about me.”
“I just want to be helpful.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be guarding something?”
“You, usually,” he said, sounding amused. “But I’m not on duty right now.”
“I’ll be sure to tell the countess,” Hermione muttered, unable to help herself. She turned back to the tree.
There was a pause.
“I came to apologize for that," Malfoy said finally.
“It’s fine,” Hermione said stiffly. She was already wishing she hadn't brought it up.
“No,” he said. “It's not. I—I don't want you to think I'm...”
He paused, seemed to grapple with what he wanted to say.
“A scoundrel?” Hermione supplied helpfully.
Malfoy breathed a laugh.
“Something like that.”
Hermione screwed the lid onto her glass jar, deciding to call it a day. She hiked up the long hem of her dress and started walking back to the castle.
“I’m actually not seeing her anymore,” Malfoy said casually, following her. He caught up to her in two long strides.
“Oh?” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “Moving onto the next maiden in the queue?”
“Is there a queue?” he asked innocently, but the corner of his mouth twitched up. He seemed pleased and surprised that she knew anything about him.
“You know very well there is,” Hermione said primly. “Even I’ve heard about the stir your arrival to the castle has caused, and I’m far removed from the rumor mill.”
She tried to walk faster to outpace him but he stepped easily into her path, started walking backwards ahead of her so she had to face him as they made their way back to the castle.
“I think maybe I’ll put the queue on hold for now,” he said, eyes sparkling as they watched her. “Settle in, you know—since I’ve only just moved back here.”
“The maidens will be crushed, I’m sure,” Hermione said drily.
“They’ll survive. Far more important that I take the time to adjust after two years away, don’t you think?”
“Are you trying to get me to ask you where you’ve just moved back from?” Hermione asked, amused in spite of herself. His playfulness was infectious.
“Where have I been, you ask?” he said at once. “Overseas. On a very dangerous, heroic assignment, but I don’t like talking about that. They gave me six medals for bravery, you know.”
Hermione finally laughed, and Malfoy's easy smile turned wide and delighted at the sound.
── ✵ ──
Against her will, Hermione started to warm to Malfoy again. Maybe he wasn’t that much of a scoundrel. And he had said he would put a pause on the queue of ladies, and that was not very scoundrel-like, was it?
Not that it mattered to her. She had her research to focus on, after all.
Having closed out her Pepperup Potion notes, Hermione had moved on to an exciting new project—a rare ingredient she’d read about in an old Herbology textbook. Carefully, she replicated the relevant page and pasted it into her journal, then highlighted the first passage:
Silverbell Mushrooms
Notoriously difficult to acquire, Silverbell Mushrooms are native to the lakelands of West Haven. They are named for their distinctive shape and metallic sheen. Wizards and witches who have a desire to invent their own spells, or who wish to find an amplifier for their potions, will find a Silverbell Mushroom aids them greatly. Hunting for these rare fungi is not easy, but for those savvy enough to find one, the rewards can be tremendous.
Hermione had never before heard of a fungus powerful enough to help with inventing spells. And West Haven was her own homeland, the lakelands only a few hours’ walk from the castle—if that wasn’t a sign, she didn’t know what was.
There was only one problem. Hermione was strictly forbidden from going to the lakelands.
Her parents had been very clear on this point—the lakelands were not well-explored, and were known for being beautiful but dangerous. They were no place for a princess, to be sure. The rule had never bothered Hermione in the past, but she had also never had a good reason to go into the lakelands before.
She briefly considered asking her parents for special permission before dismissing the thought. The king and queen already thought she was too headstrong and reckless—she didn’t want to accidentally give them reason to put even more rules and curfews into place.
No—better to take matters into her own hands.
She would set off during the day and be back before dark—nobody had to even know where she was going. If the Royal Guards saw her leaving she would just tell them that she was taking a stroll through the fields, or heading to the nearby river. They would be none the wiser.
Hermione had to admit she was excited. This was an exceptionally fascinating project, and the little bit of rule-breaking only made things feel more adventurous.
She changed from her dress into some light trousers suitable for hiking around in. Her parents did not like it when she wore trousers—especially now that the prospect of royal suitors and marriage loomed, they thought she ought to signal more traditional values—but Hermione was very practical when it came to her research. She made sure to tuck her wand into her pocket but left her notes on her desk, not wanting to risk damaging them. She knew the information by heart now, anyway.
The first hour of the walk was comfortable and familiar. She passed the oak trees she’d climbed as a child, then the riverbank she’d so recently broken curfew to visit for Devil’s Snare blossom. Her mind went to the small flowerpot in her bedroom. Malfoy had been here recently, too, she thought absently.
As her journey went on, the woods turned wilder and wilder. The weeds grew taller, the trees more ancient and gnarled. Even the wildlife became more exotic—there were no more chattering squirrels or lazy bees, replaced instead by strange hares with colored eyes that darted from hollow to hollow, or iridescent flying insects that Hermione had never seen before.
She could not wait to return at a later time to study them. Maybe that would be her next project, once she’d finished finding her Silverbell Mushroom.
Her research indicated that the mushrooms preferred shady, damp areas, but four hours in and Hermione had not seen a single silvery fungus. She had traversed over acres of increasingly strange forests and muddy shores, and her legs were starting to ache. The lush countryside was both fascinating and gorgeous, but as Hermione wiped her sweaty forehead and trudged through reeds that came up to her hip, she rather thought she could do with being inside, under the comfort of a cooling charm and sipping on some of her favorite lavender lemonade.
The sun was an hour or so away from setting when Hermione finally decided to call it a day.
Hermione had marked her path through the dense lakeland with little white ribbons that she’d conjured and tied to shrubs or tree branches. She was grateful for this foresight now—she knew apparition did not work well in ancient, magical forests, and the woods were too foreign for her to find her way back without help.
She was only a few minutes into her trek—still a long distance from the castle—when a flash of silver caught her eye.
Hermione turned at once, squinting in the dim light. The flash had come from the borders of a murky puddle a few meters away. The sky was getting dark quickly but she was almost sure it was a metallic, mushroom-like shape.
It was strange—the woods suddenly seemed to have gotten oddly quiet. There were no more birds singing or chattering tree creatures—not even the rustle of leaves in the evening wind.
Hermione shivered. She felt a little unsettled but, as her eye caught again on the flash of silver, she decided to investigate anyway. It would only take a moment, after all, and she had come all this way. Carefully, she stepped over jagged fallen branches and pockets of deep, sticky mud, trying to get a closer look.
She did not notice the thick, spiked vine coiling around her ankle until it dragged her violently to the ground.
Pain shot through Hermione’s leg—she screamed as her knee twisted from the force of being pulled down. She tried to clamber away but another vine rose up, snake-like, to wrap around her waist.
“Diffindo!” she choked out, trying to take aim at the thorny tendrils. The spell seemed only to irritate them—a third vine swung up to thrash painfully against Hermione’s arm, sending her wand flying into the underbrush, out of her reach. The plant was scaly and black—she recognized it, too late, as carnivorous Serpent’s Tongue.
Hermione felt a pang of true terror.
Panicking, she tried to pull herself free, but white-hot pain shot up her leg with every movement. Fear threatened to drown her and she fought to control her heaving breaths. Stay calm, she thought to herself wildly. She needed to think strategically if she was going to get out of this.
But already Hermione was starting to feel unnaturally sluggish and confused.
That would be the Serpent’s Tongue toxins starting to work, she registered distantly. There were venomous thorns currently wrapped around her ankle and waist, barbed into her skin at multiple points. She reflected on all this with increasingly dreamy detachment.
Hermione knew, abstractly, that she was only a few minutes away from losing consciousness. Once she did, the vines would drag her deeper and deeper into the forest floor. There, its roots would digest her body.
The best thing to do would be to remain very still, she thought dazedly.
Her vision bled into darkness.
── ✵ ──
Strange, amorphous lights flickered on the inside of Hermione’s eyelids. Every once in a while she would jerk awake, try to move and feel herself still bound by the vines before drifting back into restless sleep.
Then, as if from a great distance, Hermione felt something touching her.
She frowned, not liking it. She wanted to stay where she was, here in these vines, did not want anything waking her up or moving her.
More insistent movement, and Hermione finally opened her eyes.
It was Malfoy.
Foggily, Hermione was happy to see him. His serious grey eyes were so lovely, the line of his jaw so sharp and strong. How handsome he was, she thought loopily. But Malfoy did not look happy, and so she frowned, confused.
His face was intense and agitated and worried, his skin paler than usual. She felt his hands at her ankle, at her waist, and saw that he seemed to be trying to say something to her. But although Hermione could see his lips moving, she could not hear anything except a faint sort of buzzing.
She closed her eyes, exhausted, and only awoke again because of the unbearable pain.
“Hermione!” came Malfoy’s voice suddenly, warping and unblurring. The world seemed to come back in a rush, like Hermione had just surfaced from underwater. “Can you hear me?”
The numbness was gone, and now every inch of her skin felt like it was on fire.
“It hurts,” she gasped, writhing. “It hurts—make it stop—”
“I’ve got you,” Malfoy said, sounding pained. “Hold on.”
More pain, more pain. Hermione thrashed and screamed out, felt Malfoy’s hand firmly holding her hips down, trying to keep her still.
Through bleary eyes Hermione saw dark red bruises around her ankle. The vines were gone, she was on a mossy stretch of ground instead, when had that happened? Malfoy seemed to be using his wand to pull venom out of her injuries.
Hermione sobbed, reached out weakly—Malfoy caught her hand at once.
“What’s happening?” she asked, breathing hard. “Where am I?”
“We’re in the forest,” Malfoy said shakily. “You’re hurt. Just hold still for me, alright sweetheart?”
Hermione whimpered, twisting in pain as Malfoy’s wand made steady progress over her injuries.
“I’m scared,” she gasped.
“I’ve got you. You’re alright now.”
Hermione nodded, tears still streaming from her eyes.
“Serpent’s Tongue,” she mumbled, her voice wobbly as she remembered. “I—I thought I saw the Silverbell, and—”
“Shh, I know,” Malfoy soothed, and Hermione felt him squeeze her hand. "It's alright."
Hermione wasn’t sure how long they remained like that, her on the mossy ground and Malfoy kneeling beside her, his hand stroking her palm, her knuckles, her wrist, whenever she cried out. Slowly, the pain ebbed away.
Malfoy leaned back, breathing hard. The magic had taken a lot out of him.
“We’ve been looking for you all night,” he said hoarsely, emotion twisting his voice.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice shaking.
Malfoy just looked at her, jaw tight. She wondered if he was angry.
“I’m going to carry you back,” he said softly. “But your leg is broken and it might hurt. Can I put a sleeping spell on you? You’ll be more comfortable.”
Hermione nodded. He muttered a quick incantation and she felt her eyelids grow heavy.
Unexpected panic filled her for a brief moment—this was how it had felt when she lost consciousness in the vines, wasn’t it? But then Malfoy was leaning over her, bending low to gather her up in his arms. His chest was solid and warm.
Hermione’s heart rate slowed and she drifted off.
Chapter Text
The king and queen were beside themselves with relief that Hermione was safe.
They were then—immediately afterwards—furious that she had almost gotten herself killed in the name of research.
Again.
Hermione lost the privilege of indefinitely delaying marriage talks. She had been previously permitted to devote all her energy to her projects—postponing again and again meetings with prospective matches—but only because she’d agreed to follow her parents’ rules to keep her safe. No more.
Arrangements were made for her to leave on a tour of the continent the next morning, owls sent out informing the royal families of neighboring kingdoms that West Haven’s princess was finally ready to meet her suitors. The responses poured enthusiastically back in and soon the remainder of Hermione’s month was spoken for.
Though she was disappointed that her parents’ marriage-minded patience had worn thin, Hermione knew they were being fair—fairer than they had to be. Most women of royalty didn't even get to pick who they married, let alone when. Unlike them, Hermione was still free to choose among the princes who had formally indicated interest—still free to marry for love. The most her parents did was subtly make their preference known by suggesting she visit the kingdom of Noxelm first.
“You and Prince Jacob played together as babies, you know,” the queen said. “And if you get along, maybe there will be no need for you to travel further after that.”
They had meant for their daughter to go alone, but then the king and queen spotted Hermione taking neat, copious notes on the vegetation around the famously dangerous Noxelm Crumbling Cliffs. They decided to send a Royal Guard along for the journey as well, after that. Probably the one who had saved her in the lakelands would be best.
Truthfully, Hermione was more excited than she wanted to admit to learn Malfoy would be coming. She had not forgotten how it had felt to open her eyes in the lakeland to see him, how good he had been to her when he carefully took care of her injuries, soothing her cries the entire time. He had just been doing his job, but it stood out in her memories just the same.
She turned eagerly when she heard him approach the carriage they would be taking.
“Your highness,” he said, smiling at her.
As he moved closer Hermione saw two long, thin cuts that stretched from his cheek to his jawbone from the Serpent’s Tongue.
“Oh no!” Hermione said, taking a step forward. “Not your face!”
For some reason, this made him laugh. He seemed unbothered but held still to let her examine the cuts.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. “Unless, of course, it means you don’t like looking at me anymore?”
“Of course—of course that’s not what I meant,” she stammered irritably. “Does it hurt?”
“Not at all,” Malfoy said, smiling lazily down at her.
Hermione wasn’t sure if she believed him. The injuries seemed to be healing but still looked painful.
“Will I have to wait much longer for you to tell me how brave I was?” he asked politely, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Oh, stop it,” Hermione huffed, but she couldn’t keep her own smile from showing. “And you were very brave, so there. You know I know that. Thank you for saving my life.”
“There’s no need to thank me."
“Well, I at least have to thank you for being nice about having to tag along at the last minute.”
Malfoy raised an eyebrow playfully.
“It’s not a chore. It will be fun—I get to witness your first trip out of West Haven.”
Hermione blushed and Malfoy's eyes lingered for a moment on the heat of her cheeks.
“I imagine you’ve traveled everywhere," she said. "I'm very boring in comparison."
“I think it’s sweet,” he said, looking away. “I've been to Noxelm before. I can show you around.”
Hermione’s ears pricked up.
“That would be amazing!”
"Yeah? I think you'd like the night market, we can go there if you like."
Hermione made a delighted little noise.
“I hope we have time. I’m not sure how much courtship Prince Jacob plans on doing.”
“Right,” Malfoy said after a short pause. “I hope we have time too."
They sat in companionable silence for a bit, and Hermione pulled out a book from her bag to read. She made sure to look out the window every once in a while to watch the landscape shift. Noxelm was in the mountains and the scenery turned prettily from grassy fields to craggy mountains as the day wound on.
“Do you think you’ll marry him?” Malfoy asked casually, a short while later.
Hermione marked her place in her book, then looked up.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “My parents like him, I think. But they’re letting me choose from the royal suitors, which is lucky. I hope I can find what I'm looking for."
His eyes flicked to hers.
“And what are you looking for?"
“Someone clever,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “And kind, and handsome. I'd like someone who loves to read and who makes me laugh.”
She paused as she remembered one of her other considerations.
“I suppose it would also be nice if he was—experienced.”
“Experienced in what?” Malfoy asked, leaning forward curiously.
Hermione shot him an embarrassed look and Malfoy’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” he said stiffly. “Right. Of course.”
“Do men care about that sort of thing?” Hermione asked tentatively. Part of her was worried that her suitors might find her lack of experience off-putting. “If you—if you were courting a lady who was an innocent. Would that bother you about her?”
Malfoy cleared his throat.
“No.” he said. “I think it could be—sweet.”
“And you would not mind… teaching her things?” Hermione asked.
“No,” he said hoarsely, shifting in his seat. “I don’t—um—I don’t think I would mind.”
Hermione smiled, relieved. That was a good sign, at least.
── ✵ ──
Noxelm Castle was bigger and colder than the one in West Haven, with a sort of elaborate grandiosity that Hermione found simultaneously impressive and unsettling. Night had fallen by the time they reached the stables, and the castle staff was waiting to help move Hermione’s bags to her guest suite. Malfoy paused to speak with the Noxelm guards to align on security precautions for Hermione’s quarters.
“Where is the prince?” Hermione asked the butler curiously. She had expected him to receive them.
“Prince Jacob regrets that he is in an urgent strategy meeting tonight, your highness,” the man answered. “He asked us to show you and your guard to your quarters. Also to relay that he looks forward to seeing how beautiful you have become when he meets you at the feast tomorrow night.”
Hermione blushed. She had only the scarcest memory of Prince Jacob—dark hair and blue eyes, if she recalled—but it seemed he had grown into quite the charmer.
Their rooms were large and comfortable. Hermione’s was a guest suite and the adjoining bedroom had been prepared for Malfoy. They separated to get settled in—Hermione took a shower before starting to unpack her things.
She was seated on the floor by the fireplace with her books spread out all around her, halfway through organizing them onto the shelf she’d conjured, when a light knock sounded on her door.
“Come in,” she called out. She heard the door open.
“You brought so many books,” came Malfoy’s amused voice, approaching her.
“Of course!” she said. She turned to look at him and then blinked in surprise. He was in—normal clothes? And his hair was damp. Hermione was so accustomed to seeing him neatly-groomed in his distinctive military blue that the sight of him with freshly washed hair in a pair of dark trousers and a white shirt was jarring.
“You’re not in uniform!”
He laughed at her indignant tone.
“Sorry—I thought we were in for the night,” he said, corner of his mouth twitching. “But I’ll put it back on if you want me to. It’s not an uncommon request…”
He smirked and Hermione rolled her eyes. She wasn’t sure exactly what joke he was making but assumed it had something to do with women liking how he looked in uniform.
Malfoy adjusted his stance to better peer over Hermione’s shoulders at the books on the rug, and a flash of ink on his arm caught her eye.
“You have a tattoo,” Hermione noted, surprised. With the way they were positioned, Malfoy standing over her while she was seated cross-legged on the ground, his forearm was just above her eye level. She reached for it, wanting to see more of the ink. "I didn't know that..."
Malfoy tensed, took a half-step back.
“Sorry,” Hermione said quickly, uncertainly pulling her hand back. “Should I not touch it?”
Malfoy seemed to be battling with the conflicting desires of not wanting to discuss the tattoo but wanting Hermione to touch him. After a moment, he extended his arm for her to examine. She laid tentative fingers on the skin, tracing the mark curiously. He breathed a low noise at her touch.
“What is it?” she asked, trying to discern the shape of the tattoo. His shirt sleeve still covered the upper half.
“A long story.”
“It looks good,” Hermione mumbled distractedly.
It was true. The ink was stark and dramatic against his pale skin. Even without it Malfoy’s forearm was nice to look at. It looked… strong. And she liked how the muscles felt under her fingers.
This was the most she’d ever touched a man before.
Hermione quickly withdrew her hands at the realization, cheeks hot.
“Are—um—are you still interested in going to the night market?” Hermione said, changing the subject awkwardly. “It seems like we have the evening free.”
Malfoy’s eyes were soft as he gazed down at her, the angle making his grey irises seem unusually dark.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m still interested.”
For all his lazy confidence and easy manner, it seemed Malfoy was not so overconfident as to take his job lightly, even if they were in relative safety of a friendly kingdom. He insisted that she bring a hooded cloak to minimize the chance of her being recognized, chided her when she pushed back. He sternly reminded her of the importance of being vigilant to robbers or ransomers.
Hermione could not help but notice with some amount of chagrin that even without the distinctive blue of West Haven’s elite army on his body, Malfoy still managed to attract more than a few interested looks. She supposed tall and handsome men with easy smiles didn’t need a soldier’s uniform to stand out.
The night air was cool and smelled like honeysuckle. As they made their way from the castle into town the sound of market festivities slowly grew louder, and when the road became dotted with more and more people Malfoy made them pause on the side of the path. He carefully checked the hood of her cloak to make sure it covered her face.
She smiled conspiratorially at him as he arranged the fabric.
“Espionage and intrigue,” she giggled.
He smiled, eyes catching on the shape of her lips as she laughed.
“If only real espionage operations were more like this,” he said, gently tucking a curl of her hair behind the hood so she could see more easily.
The night market was busy. She had not realized how sleepy West Haven must be in comparison to Noxelm. The liveliness was dazzling in its sheer concentration. There were hundreds of stalls crammed together on the narrow streets in the center of town, thousands of witches and wizards milling about. Some of the stalls were even stacked atop each other, and the patrons frequenting the higher levels had to hover up to examine the wares on broomsticks.
Malfoy nudged her arm when they passed a wall of fairy lanterns, and Hermione’s eyes went wide. He laughed at the dazed look of wonder on her face, then pulled her gently back when she tried to grab the lights.
“There’s a charm on them to make you want to do that,” he murmured. “But no touching. The fairies bite.”
“But they’re beautiful!” Hermione exclaimed, struggling against Malfoy to go touch the lights anyway. He caught her with a broad hand around her waist, pulling her tight against his side to lead her away.
Hermione huffed but turned pink and obediently left the lanterns alone.
Malfoy seemed largely immune to the mind-boggling wonders of the market, preferring to watch Hermione’s reactions. She bounded eagerly from stall to stall, examining everything from enchanted amulets to cursed bookshelves to fluffy pet kneazles for sale.
When he noticed her looking longingly at someone eating something fried and golden, he pulled her by the hand into a closed-off purple tent that sold food and drinks.
“Should have gotten you something to eat right away,” he said, smiling apologetically. “I must be getting rusty.”
“Rusty at what?” Hermione laughed distractedly, staring at the frozen desserts a neighboring table was eating.
“Nevermind.”
“What’s that?” Hermione whispered excitedly as a long, tall glass of frosty blue liquid levitated past them to land on the table behind.
“I think that’s Noxelm ice wine,” Malfoy said. “Do you want some?”
“Yes! It looks delicious."
She stood to go order but Malfoy nudged her gently back into her seat, then moved closer to her to make room as a rowdy group passed.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said into her ear. Her back was against his chest. One of his hands hovered, not touching, over the curve of her hip. “What else do you want?”
“Um…”
Hermione was overly aware of his slow, steady breaths.
“Um—you pick," she said, trying to regain control of her mouth.
Malfoy returned a few minutes later with two tall glasses of ice wine topped with pale, seafoam-like cream and a platter of something toasted and savory. Hermione picked up the frosty blue glass and sipped it eagerly.
“Oh, it’s delicious!”
Malfoy grinned at her evident enjoyment and picked up his own.
“Careful,” he said. “It’s deceptively strong.”
“The cream is so sweet,” she hummed, delighted, as she reached the bottom of her glass. She picked up some of the fluffy white whip with her straw but a little glob slid down and Hermione caught it with her tongue before it could spill, carefully licking the sweetness off the glass. Malfoy shifted in his seat. When Hermione dropped more cream again just a moment later Malfoy leaned suddenly forward to wipe it off her glass with his napkin before she could get to it. He looked strained.
“I’ll get you more,” he said. “You shouldn’t—don’t um—lick it like that.”
Hermione was about to tease Malfoy for his unexpected fastidiousness when her gaze caught on a group of people over his shoulder. Her eyes widened and she pulled her hooded cloak up higher around her face.
“It’s the prince!” she whispered urgently to Malfoy. “Behind you!”
Hermione had not met Prince Jacob since she was a baby, but she did not need much more than context clues to determine that the man entering the tent was a royal. There was the thin gold crown on his head, which was a pretty good hint, as was the crew of drunk-seeming richly dressed nobles around him. Orbiting beyond them were a glittering formation of low-cut gowns and the full-breasted women wearing them.
Was this the strategy meeting Prince Jacob had missed meeting her for? Hermione frowned.
But as she took in the prince's disarming blue eyes that traveled lazily around the tent, she found herself wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt. He certainly was very handsome, with dark slashes for eyebrows and a serious mouth. Hermione nibbled on her straw absently.
Snatches of the prince’s conversation floated over.
“...from West Haven?” one of the prince’s friends said.
Hermione sat up. Were they talking about her?
The prince shook his head with a dismissive smile.
“Should be easy. You know how these sheltered princesses are.”
“I heard she’s pretty, at least,” his friend said. “Might be fun.”
The prince tugged one of the curvy, scantily dressed women—a blonde with red lips—into his arms. He watched her languidly as she eagerly picked up his hand and placed the tip of his index finger between her lips. With her eyes locked on his, she sucked lightly. The prince made a soft groan of approval.
“West Haven would be a strong ally,” he said distractedly, as the blonde moved closer to start mouthing prettily at his neck. “I can make it work for that reason. But bookish virgins aren't exactly anyone's type."
Malfoy stiffened and Hermione’s eyes widened.
She blinked a few times and looked down. Then she got unsteadily to her feet, took quick steps to get away from the tent and the crowd and the prince's words as soon as possible. She heard the sound of Malfoy getting up to follow her. His hand caught hers as he tried to get her to slow down.
“Hey,” he said, brows furrowed, pulling her to him. Hermione took a shuddering breath and tried to look away. “Hey, look at me.”
But Hermione didn’t want sympathy. What she wanted was to no longer be an innocent, to not feel so naïve all the time, to shed her inexperience before it suffocated her.
Malfoy caught her chin in one hand and tipped her face back to look at him. His eyes were serious on hers.
“Look at me,” he repeated. “Don't listen to him. He's—”
Hermione made a sudden, rash decision. She pushed forward onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips to Malfoy's before he could say another word.
Chapter 4
Summary:
😇
Chapter Text
Malfoy’s entire body froze at the contact.
Hermione realized as soon as her lips touched his that she had no idea what she was doing—she had not thought far enough in advance to know what her plan was after this point.
For a moment, she thought she’d ruined everything. But then something in Malfoy seemed to snap.
He pressed forward so suddenly that Hermione would have lost her balance, except his arms were now around her, pressing her against him. One of his hands gripped the back of her head and the other pulled her in urgently by the waist. His mouth was warm and demanding, the hunger evident in his every movement. It was obvious that he, unlike Hermione, knew exactly what he was doing. With an impatient, practiced nudge of his head Malfoy tilted her face to the side to give himself a better angle. He opened his mouth to take her bottom lip between his teeth, kissed her with desperate, heat-blurred precision.
Hermione pulled back, gasping.
“Oh—my god,” she stammered, her heart pounding with adrenaline and… something else. Something hot curled insistently in her lower stomach. She brought a shaking hand to her lips.
Malfoy’s chest was heaving, his cheeks flushed and his mouth slightly swollen. He stared at her hungrily through half-lidded eyes, then moved forward again to close the distance between them. Hermione, confused and overwhelmed, stumbled backwards in alarm.
That made him freeze. He took a horrified step back.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hoarse. She had never heard him swear before. “I’m sorry—are you alright? I’m so sorry—”
Hermione had been the one to start the kiss. She knew that. But she’d had no idea what to expect, had certainly been unprepared for the intensity of Malfoy’s response. It seemed to point to things well beyond the chaste pecks she had envisioned as kisses, to a carnal appetite that she was entirely unfamiliar with.
Hermione panicked. She apparated back to the castle, leaving Malfoy behind.
── ✵ ──
A tumult of feelings swelled inside her, all of them foreign and confusing. Hermione sat, frozen, by the door. She heard Malfoy return to his room—listened to the sounds of him pacing back and forth for almost half an hour before he knocked softly on the door connecting their rooms.
Hermione opened it. Malfoy was standing a few paces back, as if to show her he would not lunge forward.
“Are you okay?” he asked in a low, even voice.
“It’s my fault,” Hermione said, wringing her hands. “I’m—I’m the one that kissed you.”
“No,” Malfoy said firmly. He looked shaken but seemed immensely relieved that she was talking to him. “You—that was your first kiss. I shouldn’t have—I lost my head. I’m older than you and experienced enough to be able to control myself.”
Hermione just looked up at him nervously, not knowing what to say. But his eyes were gentle and she felt her heart rate slow.
“Did I scare you?” he asked softly.
Hermione looked at her feet.
“Only a little. I just didn’t know that it was going to be like that.”
“It’s not always like that. I’m sorry.”
He paused and sighed.
“I think I should—head back to West Haven. I can arrange for a replacement guard.”
“What? No!”
Malfoy’s mouth set in a tight line but he didn’t argue. He seemed to want to let her make the decision. Hermione fiddled nervously with her sleeve. She had been turning an idea around in her head, but now that it was time to ask him she felt nervous.
“Draco…” she trailed off.
“Tell me.”
Hermione took a deep breath, then looked up at him.
“Can you teach me? How to kiss?”
His eyes widened in alarm.
“It’s just—it was good,” Hermione said quickly, needing to fill the silence. Her cheeks were heating and she wished they wouldn’t. “I mean, I thought you were very good at it. And it would be helpful for me to be familiar with—that kind of thing. Don’t you think? What if there’s more that I don’t know? What if I panic when a suitor tries to kiss me because I didn’t know what to expect?”
Malfoy swallowed. He gave her a strange, pained look.
“I don’t think I can do that,” he said finally.
Hermione’s face fell.
“It’s just… I’m worried,” she said in a small voice.
Malfoy’s expression softened into concern.
“What are you worried about?”
“What if we hadn’t overheard the prince, and I didn’t know he was like that?” she asked, unable to keep the anxiety out of her voice. “He might have been my first kiss. I don’t want—I don’t want to accidentally learn about things from someone like that. I know you’ll take care of me, Draco. I trust you.”
Malfoy looked at her, jaw working. He looked conflicted.
“I don’t know—”
“Please. I need your help.”
His eyes closed and Hermione knew he would give in.
“Just—just kissing, right?” Malfoy asked, strained.
“Yes. Yes—just kissing.”
“Just once?”
“Yes, okay,” she said, after a pause. “Just once.”
Hermione silenced the part of her brain that pointed out that maybe she wanted to kiss Malfoy more than only once.
"Right... now?"
Hermione was too shy to vocalize that yes she wanted it to happen right now. She turned to sit on the edge of the bed in answer and hoped he would follow her. There was a long pause, but then he did. He sat stiffly next to her and she shifted to give him room.
“Can you tell me what you’re doing as we go?” she asked nervously.
“Yeah. Of course,” he said. He took a breath, squeezed his eyes shut before opening them again. “Can you—can you come closer for me, sweetheart?”
Hermione blushed but moved closer until her thigh was pressed against his. He was... very large.
“Good,” he said softly. “Is this okay so far?”
“Yes,” she said instantly. His smell—warm, spiced, comforting—was all around Hermione. Everything was perfect.
“I… I would probably try to hold your hand first,” he said quietly. “Like this.”
Malfoy moved his hand slowly over the bed until his fingers brushed hers. He used his thumb to rub a soft circle on her skin. Hermione’s breathing stuttered.
“And if you don’t like—the man who you’re with—you should take your hand away,” Malfoy instructed softly.
“Okay,” Hermione said. She was careful not to move at all.
“Right,” he breathed after a pause. “So—this is going well, I think.”
He smiled wryly at her and Hermione giggled.
“And then…”
He lifted his hand from hers, bringing it up to her face instead. He tucked an errant curl behind her ear, then stroked her cheek.
“I’d touch your face,” he said quietly. “Because it looks so pretty and soft.”
Hermione could not breathe. She gazed wide-eyed at him, waiting for him to continue.
“And then I’d be thinking about kissing you,” he whispered, leaning slowly in. Their faces were very close. “I’d probably… have thought about it a lot by now…”
His lips met hers and fireworks exploded in Hermione's chest.
They were so warm and soft, brushing lightly over hers. He inhaled then pressed in a little firmer. He held his lips there, still stroking her cheek gently with his hand. Hermione leaned forward, deeper against him. He smelled so good.
They stayed like that for several long moments. Malfoy adjusted slightly here and there, moving her face gently to the side, interchanging between pressing in deeper and grazing lightly. Finally, he pulled back, let his hand drop from her face.
“Oh…” Hermione breathed, blinking dreamily up at him. “Wow.”
The corner of his mouth twitched up.
“Yeah?”
“Yes—yeah.”
“Good. That’s what our first kiss should have been like.”
── ✵ ──
Hermione was supposed to stay in Noxelm for a week, but given the incident with the prince she felt it reasonable to cut this part of the trip severely short. She could not stand the thought of seeing Prince Jacob so soon after what she’d heard, let alone sitting next to him for the duration of a lengthy formal dinner.
She left a brief note indicating that her interest in a match had waned, and apologized for the sudden change. Before noon they were in the carriage again, heading down the mountain towards the coast. The kingdom of Harloft was next, two days of travel away.
Hermione tried to read the notes her mother sent along that gave details on her suitors. In Harloft she was to visit with a prince she had never met before. It was a small kingdom but advantageous for its position along the sea—her parents had prioritized it second after the larger and more powerful Noxelm, but it was high in preference nonetheless.
But for all her attempts at focusing on anything else, she could not stop thinking about the previous night.
Malfoy sat quietly across from her. He had not said much that morning, and neither of them acknowledged what happened. He was looking down at his hands, a faint flush visible on his cheeks. The combination of the blush with his sharp soldier’s uniform and neatly groomed hair was unexpectedly, devastatingly attractive to Hermione.
Hours passed, or maybe only fifteen minutes. It was hard to say. Hermione was restless, felt something warm and frustrating in her that she didn’t understand.
“Draco?” she asked finally.
“Yes?”
“How long is the trip to Harloft?”
She already knew, but she wanted an excuse for them to break their silence. She needed to hear his voice.
“Two days. We’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.”
“Where are we staying tonight?”
“We’ll be at an inn before nightfall.”
They fell back into silence but Malfoy was looking at her now, at least.
“Can you tell me—what you’re thinking?” she asked anxiously.
His eyes softened.
“Not much. You sound worried. Are you feeling okay, sweetheart?”
Her heart rate picked up instantly at the endearment. Against her will her eyes flitted to his mouth.
“Um…”
Was it so wrong to want to kiss him again? She could get more practice.
Malfoy shifted in his seat and she wondered if he could tell what she was thinking.
“Maybe—one time wasn’t enough,” she said finally, watching his expression carefully. His jaw flexed. “Can we..?”
“We’re in this carriage for a long while, Hermione,” he said hoarsely.
“That’s okay,” she said slowly, confused. Why would it matter how long the carriage ride was? “I like kissing you.”
Malfoy laughed weakly.
“I like kissing you too,” he said. “But we can’t just…”
He trailed off as Hermione moved closer to him, hopeful. She crawled into the seat beside him and leaned her chin on his shoulder.
“Please?”
He sighed, laughing weakly. Hermione smiled, delighted.
Malfoy leaned down to touch their foreheads together, stayed there for a moment and just rested against her.
“Just a little, okay?” he murmured.
Then his mouth was on hers again. Hermione made a breathy noise of pleasure, felt relief flood her that they were like this again.
It was slow and sweet, like the night before. Malfoy seemed to be careful to make only gentle, chaste movements. His mouth remained closed. The memory of their kiss at the night market rose unbidden to Hermione's mind, when he'd kissed her open-mouthed, demanding, biting down on her bottom lip.
The memory made Hermione squirm nervously. She tried to keep still, did not want him to worry that she was frightened again.
The kiss lasted much longer this time.
It was mostly her, she thought, that made it that way. She pressed urgently forward when she sensed him moving back even a little, even boldly brought her hand to his chest to stabilize herself when she had to lean too far. His chest was warm and hard, the muscles shifting slightly under her touch.
She was probably being a little excessive, she thought later.
They kissed on and off for the entirety of the carriage ride. She would pull back once in a while when it felt natural, when she just wanted to rest her head on his shoulder and watch the scenery pass for a while. An hour or so would go by, maybe less, then she would tip her face again up to his to wordlessly ask for more. He always gave it to her.
Neither spoke about it. They might chat about other things in between kisses, but neither of them seemed willing to verbalize what was happening. For her part, Hermione tried to not think about it. It was fine, she told herself. This was—fine, and reasonable.
Their kisses closer to evening started changing, becoming just a little different.
Hermione tried to pay attention to what she was learning. That was the whole point of these lessons, she reminded herself. She noted with academic awareness that kissing seemed to carry an unspoken inertia, that it could not carry on the way it was without needing to become more intimate.
For example: Malfoy had kept his hands carefully in his lap for the first half of the journey. But by dusk, he seemed unable to stop himself from holding her jaw, from cradling the back of her head and pushing her ever so slightly towards him. Similarly, he had been a very silent kisser at first. But after a few hours he started making small noises. A harsh breath, for instance, or a low, frustrated hum. He always cut the sound off though, and Hermione wondered if this meant it was bad form to make noise when kissing. She would ask him later.
“I need to—shower,” he said, when they arrived at the inn. He looked strained. “I can find you after for dinner, is that okay? I just need a few minutes.”
“Sure,” Hermione said, peering around the inn to look for the pub. “I’m hungry.”
“God, me too,” Malfoy muttered.
They passed their bags to the footman before entering to speak to the innkeeper. She was a pretty redhead, gave Malfoy an interested look that made Hermione’s stomach twist.
“Two rooms please," he said.
The innkeeper had been giving Hermione an assessing glance out of the corner of her eye but upon hearing they wanted two rooms she smiled.
“Of course,” she said, opening her guest log. “Let me just take a look.”
Hermione waited patiently as the woman traced a finger down the page, checking for availability. She flipped to the next page.
“Hm,” she said with a frown.
Chapter Text
The room was spacious, at least.
“It’s a bit small, isn’t it?” Malfoy asked, running an agitated hand through his hair. “I think you can stay here and I’ll just sleep in the carriage.”
“Oh, don’t do that, Draco,” Hermione said anxiously. They had been spending all day together and she didn’t much like the idea of separating now. “I think this will be fine.”
There was only one bed but it was roomy, and provided neither flailed around in their sleep they could spend the night without even brushing each other. Not that Hermione would have minded finding out what it was like to cuddle.
She decided to keep this thought to herself, seeing as Draco looked stressed enough as it was about their close quarters.
Maybe she could ask him later, if they kissed more.
In the meantime she rummaged through her bag, pulling out some books on marine magical flora and fauna she’d packed specifically for this leg of their journey. Harloft, which they would reach tomorrow, was by the sea.
“Do you think we’ll have time to visit tide pools?” she asked, leafing through one of her texts.
“Sure,” he said. “Whitecap Rock is probably the best spot for tide pools, as long as it’s not storming.”
“That’s what my book says too!” she said, looking at him in surprise. She hadn’t expected him to be familiar with Harloft. “Have you been?”
“I have.”
“Oh! Please let’s go, you can tell me all about them. I want to see if I can find a redglass urchin for my potions cabinet.”
“Interesting—that’s an unusual ingredient,” he said. “What do you have in mind for it?”
“I was thinking it could be good for a modified Calming Draught.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“That’s a good idea,” he said, thoughtful. “It might be tough to stabilize it though, what with the venom. Though I guess you’re thinking that the crocodile heart would balance it?”
Hermione gave him a long, curious look. She slowly lowered her book.
“How do you know so much about potions? I never have conversations like this with anyone else. You knew what I was doing with the Devil’s Snare blossom instantly, too.”
He hummed noncommittally.
“I was pretty good at potions in school. And—I had to do a lot of potions work in the years before I returned to West Haven.”
“As a soldier?” Hermione asked curiously. “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“It was… an unusual assignment.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked at her for a moment.
“Kind of a long story," he said finally.
Something about the way he said it, the brief haunted look that came over his usually relaxed features, let her know she shouldn't push for more.
He’d been given medals for bravery, she remembered. For the first time, Hermione considered the fact that medals for bravery necessarily implied the existence of dark things.
Impulsively, she reached for his hand.
“Maybe you can tell me some other day,” she said, smiling up at him.
He looked down at her, an unreadable expression in his eyes. But he squeezed her hand.
It took them both a moment to let go.
── ✵ ──
The inn’s pub had already closed for the night but the kitchen sent meals up to the room for Malfoy and Hermione to have before they went to bed. They both had time to shower and change into pajamas before the food arrived. When it did, they ate sitting on the rug by the fireplace together, their plates carefully balanced in their laps as their damp hair dried by the warmth of the hearth.
Hermione had grown up on tutors and private lessons, but she’d read about common rooms and the camaraderie of situations like this in her books. She could not help but smile into her roast chicken at the warmth between her and Malfoy, how good it felt to do something as simple as eat a meal on the floor with someone you felt happy and safe with.
“Why are you smiling?” he asked.
Hermione looked up to find him watching her, an amused look in his eyes and a forkful of food stilled halfway to his mouth.
“I don’t know,” she said happily. “Isn’t this fun? I’m having such a good time with you.”
He laughed.
“We’re not doing much. Just eating on the floor.”
“I know! Isn’t it wonderful?”
She poured herself some mead. It was apple honey, or something, and extremely delicious.
“I didn’t know you drank generally,” Malfoy noted, taking the bottle from her to pour himself a glass. “I thought the ice wine in Noxelm was a one off.”
“I don’t drink that often,” she admitted. “I guess just with you.”
“I should warn you then that the sugar in this mead will make you feel not very good tomorrow if you have too much.”
“How much can I have before that happens?”
He ran his eyes up and down her frame thoughtfully, which, for some reason, made Hermione’s stomach flutter.
“I would guess no more than two glasses, to be safe,” he said finally, putting the bottle down. “You’re a lot smaller than me and I’ll start feeling it the next day if I have more than five or six.”
“You have a lot of experience drinking?” Hermione asked, amused.
“What kind of scoundrel would I be if I didn’t?”
“Just another thing you know more about than I do,” Hermione sighed, taking a last bite of chicken before putting her empty plate to the side. “What must it be like to be so worldly?”
“Difficult,” Malfoy said, the corner of his mouth lifting. “There are all these cute princesses who want to learn things from me.”
Hermione laughed, delighted.
“All these princesses?” she asked, feigning offense. “My goodness, and here I thought I was in a queue of my own. But I suppose I’m just like everyone else.”
“It’s just you,” Malfoy said, his smile softening. “Don’t worry.”
Hermione made a show of preening.
“So, um,” he said after a moment, leaning casually back. “How are you feeling about all this marriage business? I heard you’d been putting off meeting suitors for a while before this.”
She hummed thoughtfully.
“It’s fine, I suppose,” she said. “I knew it had to happen eventually. I’m sort of worried everyone will be like Prince Jacob, though. I hope the prince of Harloft is kinder.”
“Jacob was an ass. You’re only looking at princes then?”
“Well, princes are traditional,” Hermione said. “My parents prefer princes.”
“What do you prefer?”
Hermione had always known she would marry a prince, so she was surprised to feel a small, twisting barb in her chest at this question.
“Um, I don’t know,” she said, looking away.
He paused.
“Sorry, should I not have asked?”
“Oh, it's fine,” she said with a smile, shaking herself. “It was a reasonable question.”
She cleared her throat.
“Anyway, what about you?” she asked, changing the subject.
“What about me?”
“Looking for a wife yet? Even the bravest and most scoundrel-like soldiers have to settle down eventually.”
His eyes didn’t leave hers.
“Might be looking.”
“Tell me what the marriage mart is like for you. I imagine there’s less royal politics involved.”
He cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. Still watching her.
“It’s not so bad. Women seem to like how I look. And my father has a lot of money, which helps.”
“Is he a merchant?” Hermione asked curiously.
“Yes,” he said, wrinkling his nose at her. “That’s the only way us non-royals can hope to make our fortune.”
“Did you grow up in one of those big waterside estates?” Hermione asked, an image already forming in her mind's eye. “Near a harbor, for ease of trade?”
He smiled a little.
“Maybe I’ll show you one day.”
“I’d like that,” Hermione said honestly.
She stood and stretched, yawning, and Malfoy followed. They moved the dirty plates outside the room and then Hermione went into the bathroom to wash up before bed. Malfoy waited for her to finish before doing the same.
Hermione crawled into the bed, pleasantly warm and fuzzy. It was soft, the covers plush and downy.
A soft sense of anticipation built in her stomach as she watched Malfoy approach. He seemed to be avoiding looking at her, and she watched one of his fingers drum anxiously against his legs as he drew the curtains, as he turned off the lamps.
“Are you okay?” she asked, concerned. The room was dark now, and she couldn’t easily read his expression.
“Yeah,” he answered softly. “Sorry. Just a little tense.”
She shifted over a little more, trying to make additional space so he would be more comfortable, and Malfoy laughed.
“It’s not that—you’re fine. There’s plenty of room.”
Maybe to convince her of this, he finally pulled down the covers and climbed into bed next to her. She felt the mattress dip, felt the covers being shifted slightly off her as his body filled the previously empty space next to her.
Hermione’s heart pattered wildly in her chest.
They remained like that, breathing softly, the sounds of their quiet inhalations and exhalations the only sound in the darkened room. His smell, warm and clean and heady, was all around.
She was on her back, facing the ceiling, but the urge to look at him was overwhelming. The heat of his body, radiating off of him, was a visceral thing, the kiss of it palpable on her arm, her hip, the side of her leg. She closed her eyes.
Though she had been a little tired earlier, suddenly the last thing Hermione wanted to do was sleep. But she didn’t know what she wanted instead. She had no name for the urge to be closer to him, the potential energy of their intimacy crackling across her skin like static. They shouldn’t be side by side, looking up. They should be talking, laughing. Facing each other.
Hermione flipped to her side, moved a little closer to him. She heard and felt his breathing stutter slightly, heard and felt him control it until his chest rose and fell in an even tempo again. There was a thin beam of moonlight from an opening in the curtains that illuminated a section of his face—a swathe of white blond hair, the stark line of his jaw. But it didn’t show his eyes, and she didn’t know if he was looking at her.
“Draco?”
She reached out tentatively and heard him exhale when her fingertip grazed him, when she ran her touch lightly over his shoulder.
“Yes?” he answered hoarsely.
She moved closer again, dragged her fingertip slowly lower. She reached his bicep, trailed her fingers lightly over him. She had never touched him here before.
So much of him that she’d never touched before, she realized with a warm tightening in her stomach. It was an obvious realization—she didn’t go around touching people, as a rule—but somehow, with him so close, the uncharted territory of his arms, his shoulder, his torso, took on a new significance.
She could touch him now, maybe.
If she wanted.
If he wanted.
His breathing was more uneven now, his ability to control it shaved thin. She leaned in and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, the part that always twitched up when she'd said something that amused him. She felt him shiver but he did not move, and so she leaned in and did it again.
“Will you kiss me?” she breathed against his skin.
He made a low, broken noise at her plea, and when she leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth a third time he turned to catch her lips, kissed her fully and softly and sweetly while the dark hung around them like a velvet cloak.
She touched his collarbone, then his broad chest. She drank in the feel of his body through her fingers like it was in Braille. Hard muscle that jumped beneath her touch, a strong, wide frame that was so much larger than hers. Skin so warm it felt almost feverish. His arm moved finally—finally—looping around her waist and tugging her to him with easy strength.
Hermione gasped when their bodies pressed together, separated only by the thin fabric of their sleep clothes.
Her body was soft, she realized. She had never thought of her curves that way before, never thought of the gentle slopes of her form as being anything other than normal, but she could see now that she was soft compared to a man. Compared to Malfoy. She melted pliantly against him, her skin singing under his firm but tentative touch.
He slid a hand slowly up and down her waist, over the same stretch of her over and over again, not going higher or lower.
Hermione breathed a little harder, a strange frustration building in her lower stomach. His slow, soft kisses were wildly insufficient, paled in comparison to the frenzy of emotion she felt within her. Her heart was beating fast and it was as though she could feel the pulsing of it everywhere—in her chest, in her stomach, between her legs.
“Draco,” she gasped, pushing her mouth harder against his. His hand came up to tangle in the hair at the back of her head, guiding her to the angle he wanted. “I feel strange.”
She knew that this would be enough, that she only had to say this much for him to understand what she was trying to tell him. He was experienced, after all, knew much more about this than she did. Surely he would know how to take care of her.
He did.
In a smooth, slow move he took control. He caught her wrist with his hand, removing it from his chest and using it to push her backwards, forcing her back so he could move into her space.
“Listen to me,” he said hoarsely, slowly. Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut at the sound of his voice. “I know what you want. But we can’t do that, okay sweetheart? Just kissing.”
“What else is there?” Hermione gasped, arching against his mouth. “Tell me, please tell me.”
He groaned.
He moved his lips lower, pressed a single fiery kiss against her neck, and Hermione shuddered with the sensation.
“I could kiss you—other places,” he said shakily.
“Please,” she begged, and he moved his lips obediently again into the crook of her neck, mouthing against her skin, breathing in the smell of her. Hermione squirmed desperately and instantly felt his teeth bite down softly in response.
She cried out, the sound tender and raw, and Malfoy pulled back. His hands were shaking against her, his breaths coming hard and unsteady.
“Hermione,” he breathed. “I don’t want to scare you again. I—I need you to stop me, to tell me to stop kissing you, just say it—”
“Show me, Draco,” she pleaded. “Show me how you touch the other girls.”
Chapter Text
“God,” he gasped. “You can’t just say things like that—”
“Draco, please.”
There was a heavy pause. Malfoy’s uneven breathing was the only sound that filled the room.
“That’s the only thing you want from me?” he asked finally. “Just my touch? My skills?”
“Yes, yes, please—”
“Hermione,” he said softly. He didn’t say anything else, just let her name hang in the air like a plea.
She touched his chest, ran her fingers in a soft circle, feeling his muscles jump and his breathing catch.
“Is it because you don’t want to?” she asked finally. “Or because you think I’m too innocent?”
A shaking breath, then another.
“Not because I don’t want to."
Hermione made a relieved, desperate noise, grabbed his jaw and pulled his face urgently towards her. She pressed their lips together, ran her fingers through his hair—the same hair she’d seen lit up in moonlight, the same hair she’d never, ever touched. It was soft.
She felt rather than heard the groan he made.
Then, his hand was tilting her chin up, leading her upwards and deepening their kiss. His other hand tangled in the hair at the back of her head.
“Fuck,” he gasped, the sound a broken surrender. “You have no idea what—”
“I want to know,” she begged, pressing herself to him. “I want you to show me.”
Malfoy obeyed, pushed further into her space, mouthed at her neck and collarbone before moving lower to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to her breasts. He took a nipple in his mouth, pulled at it gently with his lips, making the fabric of her shirt damp.
“Yes, like that,” Hermione managed to say, and it was all she could do to keep from whining. “Like that—Draco, please—”
He hummed in agreement, and then his hand was moving down her hip, grazing her stomach tentatively. His fingers drifted down to her pelvis.
Every nerve ending in Hermione’s body was alive with awareness of his touch. Smoothing firmly over her, burning through the thin fabric of her pajamas. Exploring.
Her stomach muscles started trembling.
“This is what you wanted?” he breathed. “For me to show you?”
“Yes—yes, oh—”
His hand slipped under the edge of her pajama bottoms and she felt his fingers on her bare skin. His hand was big and warm, the pads of his fingers a little rougher then her own.
“Draco,” she whined quietly, and he groaned.
“Sweet thing. Such a good girl.”
His palm smoothed over her, insistent and teasing, low enough now to be grazing over the fabric of her underwear.
“Your legs are squeezed together,” he noted softly, pressing gently on her tensed muscles. “Do you know why?”
Her stomach, already clenched, tightened even more as he moved his fingers lower over the fabric of her underwear. To their center, where her inner thighs met.
Then he slipped his fingers between her clamped legs.
Hermione would have been embarrassed of the choked gasp she made if she was any less gone. Malfoy grunted softly in response.
“Yeah,” he said shakily. “Right there, hm? Is that the spot?”
He dragged his fingers against her, in and out along her seam, and Hermione moaned and tried to open her legs.
“Sensitive,” he murmured, helping push her legs apart.
The sticky, twisting feeling in Hermione’s stomach tightened when she saw Malfoy’s other hand between his own legs, pressing the heel of his palm against his bulge. She squirmed and he removed his hand from himself, used it to push her hip against the bed to keep her still.
“This,” he breathed shakily, nudging deeper against her with his thumb, making her hips jump and spasm, “is your clit. Feels good, hm? I can make it feel really, really good…”
As if to illustrate his point, Malfoy pushed his thumb more firmly against her, rubbed it quickly back and forth, a sharp contrast to the slow movements he’d been using thus far. Hermione gasped and thrust upwards, and he pushed her hips back down against the bed again.
“You like it when I take care of you? I could take such good care of you.”
“My underwear,” she whimpered. She wanted them off, wanted his hand on her bare skin, wanted to ease the twisting frustration she felt building in her. “Please…”
“We’ll take them off next time,” he said. “If I give you everything tonight you might not need me again.”
He was crazy for thinking that. She would let him touch her whenever he wanted, needed his hand against her like this all the time. He was amazing, so strong and handsome and experienced, knew everything about how to make her feel good…
Malfoy repositioned his hand, started moving two fingers around her clit in a tight circle. Hermione’s body went into a frenzy.
“Draco,” she panted. “Draco, something is—”
“I know,” he said softly. “It’s okay...”
The friction was everything she needed, and Hermione was relieved that he knew what she was trying to say because words were failing her. Sharp little breaths left her, escalating in speed as he circled his fingers faster and faster.
“Oh my god,” she gasped, hips shaking. She felt full to bursting with sensation, was on the precipice of something huge. “Oh my god, Draco—something is—something is—Draco, Draco, Draco—”
“Fuck,” he gritted out. “So close, yeah? So close that you keep saying my name?"
“Draco! Please! I need—”
“Come for me.”
His hand slowed suddenly, unexpectedly, and Hermione tipped in slow-motion over the edge, felt his fingers moving just fast enough, dragging intense shockwaves of pleasure out of her.
Hermione screamed, tried in vain not to thrash. Her stomach seized up and her legs started shaking uncontrollably. All the while Malfoy’s two fingers pushed against her, rhythmic, unforgiving, controlling the pace of her release, making her hips push involuntarily up against him to try to get more, until finally the waves subsided and Hermione fell back against the bed, shuddering.
Hermione curled instantly to her side. Malfoy’s body dropped over her, his arms pulling her limp form to his chest. He stroked the sweat-damp hair by her face.
“Fucking perfect,” he breathed, his voice low and raspy. “Sweet girl. What a good job you did.”
Hermione caught her breath, nuzzled into his forearm and felt him tighten his hold. In the back of her mind, a twinge of embarrassment rose. She had been making such noises, had been squirming and whining, and all because he had been touching her with only two fingers...
But Malfoy was whispering sweet nothings into her hair, was kissing her head over and over and Hermione settled against him, felt her eyelids droop at the comfort of his broad chest against her back.
“That was good,” she mumbled into his forearm. “You’re good at it.”
He laughed a little.
“Good enough for you to let me do it again?"
She nodded. His heartbeat was steady on her back, lulling her to sleep. She was just drifting off when she felt him let go of her, ease his way out from under her to get off the bed.
“Where are you going?” she mumbled.
“I’ll be back in a second. I’m just going to go take care of myself.”
Hermione slumped back onto the bed, watched Malfoy’s silhouette slip into the bathroom and close the door. She stayed awake long enough to hear his breathing turn harsh, long enough to realize what he meant, and her last waking thought was how she wanted so badly to see what his face looked like when his breaths turned ragged like that.
── ✵ ──
The next morning, Hermione woke to Malfoy crawling on top of her, his eyes sleepy and his hair tousled and his smile wider than she’d ever seen before.
“Good morning,” he mumbled into the crook of her neck.
Hermione giggled, squirming away when he started nipping at her ear.
“Draco!” she laughed. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you kisses,” he answered, pulling her back to him.
“You're not going to make me ask for them this time?” she teased.
“I used up all my self-restraint.”
They tangled together in the sheets until Hermione felt she was dangerously close to begging him to put his hands between her legs again. He seemed to have reached the same realization, finally kissed her on the head before climbing out of bed.
“I liked last night,” Hermione said, trying not to turn pink.
He looked down at her with soft eyes.
“I liked it too.”
“Can we do it again later?”
“Anything you want.”
Hermione smiled, pleased.
“Maybe after we leave Harloft,” she said hopefully.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, then nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
When they stepped out of the room, Malfoy kept careful distance between them, the perfect picture of a soldier.
This was for the best, Hermione thought. She was certainly not supposed to be sleeping with her guard—it was probably good that the innkeeper, and anyone else around, did not get the wrong impression. She was heading to Harloft to meet the prince, to meet her suitor, after all. And if she had asked Malfoy for kisses, if she had begged him to touch her until he’d finally caved, what business was it of anyone else’s? She’d wanted to learn, to not be innocent, when the time came for her to marry. And now she could have what she wanted—with Malfoy’s help.
With all that in mind, Hermione attempted to regain some amount of normalcy between them.
In the carriage, she pulled out her mother’s notes on Harloft’s prince, hoping to learn more about this faceless suitor before she met him this evening. Details in the dossier were somewhat scarce. His name was Arlo and he was six years older than her. Her mother had noted that he was very taken with Hermione’s portrait and had been the first of the royal suitors to request her hand after seeing what she looked like.
Hermione noted irritably that it seemed the tradition of shopping around the princess’s attractiveness, while the princes’ faces remained unknown, seemed to be alive and well. She wryly pulled up the notes on his family’s finances and estates, which presumably would be more relevant to her as the prospective wife.
“Anything interesting?” Malfoy inquired evenly.
“Not even a picture,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose I’ll meet him in a few hours. But it would be nice to know what he looks like.”
“Looks matter that much to you?” he asked, sounding amused.
“They’re a bonus,” she mumbled, looking away as his smile turned cocky and knowing.
“Interesting. And do you have a type?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only been—with you.”
“And am I to your liking?”
Hermione turned pink.
“I think you're very handsome,” she said. “You know that.”
His eyes were laughing and Hermione knew he knew.
“Lucky for me.”
“What about you?" she asked. "Do you have a type?"
He hummed noncommittally, eyes sparkling.
"Cute princesses."
Hermione laughed and he smiled at the sound.
“Such a sweet tongue. No wonder there’s always a queue of maidens.”
His smile faltered, just for a moment.
“Does the queue not bother you?”
Hermione tried to keep her expression even. The truth was, the thought of all the beautiful women who wanted Malfoy made her feel rather uncomfortable. But she did not want to sound like she was developing feelings, or jealousy—neither made sense in her situation.
He must have seen what he wanted to see in her face anyway. He smiled wider.
“It does,” he said, and he sounded far happier than she would have expected.
“No!” she protested at once, but did not know what else to say to sound more convincing. She opened and closed her mouth, and Malfoy smirked but changed the subject.
All too soon, the sun sank into a reddish-pink horizon and evening fell on the land. As the carriage neared Harloft Castle, the sound of distant waves crashing to shore filled the air.
“The ocean,” she whispered, moving closer to the window. She tried to peer out but it was too dark. “Draco, can you hear it?”
He moved a little closer to her.
Hermione turned to look up at him, found him already watching her. Against her will, her eyes went to his mouth.
But then the carriage came to a halt. The voices of castle footmen floated in from a short distance away. Hermione blinked quickly and moved away.
Unlike in Noxelm, the prince was waiting to greet her this time.
She hadn’t been sure if he would be, but within moments of setting foot on the ground she heard his voice, the telltale authority of a royal ringing in it.
“Princess,” he called. Hermione turned. Malfoy stiffened slightly, but then the Harloft guards asked him something and after a moment he turned to address them.
Prince Arlo was handsome.
Hermione must have cared more about looks than she liked to believe because her stomach flipped as he approached with slow, confident strides. Tall, with brown hair and dark eyes. A disarming smile.
Hermione offered her hand, as she had been taught to, and he caught it before brushing his lips softly over her knuckles.
“May I call you Hermione?” he asked, his commanding tone turning soft. He did not let go of her hand.
“Of—of course,” she managed to say, pinned under his gaze. He looked pleased.
From behind her, she heard Malfoy’s conversations with the Harloft guards falter. One of the guards asked a question, but Malfoy’s voice did not answer. The guard repeated the question.
Hermione blinked and cleared her throat, gave the prince a polite smile.
“And what should I call you? Prince Arlo?”
“Please just call me Arlo.”
He gave her hand a gentle tug, and she followed him into the castle.
── ✵ ──
“I know you’re probably exhausted,” Arlo said. “But I was so excited to meet you. If you aren’t too tired, I’d love to spend some time together.”
Hermione was flattered, especially when she compared her reception here to Prince Jacob’s indifferent one.
“I am a little tired,” she admitted. “But I wouldn’t mind talking for a bit.”
“I wanted to show you our library. Your parents told me you love reading.”
Hermione brightened instantly.
“Oh, how thoughtful,” she said, smiling widely. “I’d love that.”
Prince Arlo did not let go of her hand once, keeping it in his own as he led her down the wide castle halls. They were lit with lovely blue lanterns, and Hermione saw etchings of ocean waves on the glass.
“I’ll have the servants bring us wine,” he said. He kept looking at her, his eyes wide and earnest.
“Oh, thank you,” she said.
He certainly seemed very interested in her. Hermione had never been properly courted before, and she was surprised—especially after Jacob—that a prince as obviously good-looking and charming as Arlo felt any need to be nervous around her.
She supposed there were times when Malfoy seemed nervous around her, too. But she forced her thoughts to the present moment, the man presently with her.
Arlo pushed open a tall set of double doors, and Hermione’s eyes widened.
She pulled her hand from his instantly, rushing forward.
The library was far larger than the one in West Haven. The shelves towered overhead, some accessible only by golden ladders that floated absently by the aisles, waiting for a witch or wizard to direct them. Hermione spun in place, craning her neck back, trying to count the shelves.
“Oh my goodness,” she whispered.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s amazing,” she answered honestly.
“Excellent,” he said. He paused, hesitating. “It could be yours, you know.”
Hermione did not know what to say to that. Was it normal for suitors to come on this strong? He must have guessed at her thoughts, because he laughed apologetically.
“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his neck. “It’s just—I’ve been so eager for us to meet. Your portrait was so beautiful. I love curly hair. And your eyes are the perfect shade…”
Hermione smiled awkwardly. Luckily, at that moment a knock sounded from the door.
“Enter,” Arlo said at once, his tone suddenly curt.
It was a servant, bearing a tray with two glasses and a bottle of pink wine.
“Put it here,” he instructed, and the servant did so at once. “You can leave.”
Then he turned to Hermione, his eyes soft once more. He poured her a glass of the sparkling rose-colored liquid, then handed it to her before pouring one for himself.
“Princesses love pink wine, yes?” he asked. He clinked his glass to hers before Hermione could answer, and she forced a smile.
She took a sip of her wine.
“You must read quite a bit,” Hermione said after a moment. “This library is massive, much larger than mine back home.”
“I wish I had more time to,” he said apologetically. “I do read when I get the chance—your parents’ note made clear that was important to you. And maybe I’ll read more with your good influence.”
Reading sometimes was not bad, Hermione told herself. And he seemed smitten, like he actually could become a voracious reader if she asked him to.
They made polite chit chat for ten or fifteen minutes longer, with Hermione getting the sense that he was trying to keep from saying anything overly intense or off-putting. At a certain point he put his hand over her own, brushed his thumb carefully over her fingers.
“I should get to bed,” she said. He nodded obligingly, stood and put his hand over her lower back to guide her out of the library and into the hall.
“I’ll have the servants show you to your quarters,” he said, shooting a wordless spell down the hall to summon someone. A woman appeared moments later, her face deferentially tipped down.
He kissed her hand again before saying goodnight, and Hermione felt his eyes watching her as she made her way down the long corridor.
“Do you—do you know where my guard is?” she asked the woman after a few moments. “He traveled here with me.”
“A room has been made up for him on the second floor, your highness,” she answered. “He insisted on inspecting your quarters, so do not fret—everything is assuredly secure. And our guards here are more than capable of keeping you safe.”
“Thank you,” Hermione said, not knowing what else to say. She would have liked to see Malfoy, but there was no good reason to summon him and she did not want to be strange or overbearing. He had not found it necessary to say goodnight either, after all. Not that she expected that.
She found herself wishing they were at an inn again, with only one room between them. Having dinner on the floor together.
The room set up for Hermione was on the fourth floor of the castle, a lavish suite that Prince Arlo had evidently taken care to arrange for her comfort. There were fresh-cut flowers on every surface, magically engorged to be unnaturally large and colorful.
The gesture was sweet. And Arlo was perfectly nice. More than nice. She could imagine him, so devoted, so sweet, as a husband.
Hermione's gaze caught on the nightstand and her eyes widened. There was a flower pot on it—one that did not match all the crystal vases in the room. She rushed forward to pick it up, lips parting in a surprised exhale when she saw shoots of Devil's Snare in the soil.
The vines were an unusual color, purple-blue instead of green, but white blossoms still burst delicately from the tips. There was a note fixed to the side.
Found these on the castle perimeter and thought of you. They’re blue because the soil is rockier here.
Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. She smiled.
Chapter Text
The next morning, as Hermione got ready for a long day of being courted by the prince, she could not help but think that she'd rather spend the day with a certain handsome blond guard instead.
Probably it was just that she and Malfoy had been spending so much time together. And although Arlo seemed perfectly nice, the fact was that in spite of the dozens of colorful flowers the prince had chosen to decorate Hermione’s room, she didn't like any of the bouquets half as much as the little pot of blue Devil's Snare.
She needed to get ahold of herself.
Yes, Malfoy was charming and funny and made Hermione’s stomach swoop. But Arlo was serious about her. The prince had the approval of her parents and had already asked for her hand. He was, in other words, an actual suitor, and Hermione would be very silly indeed to let a handsome cad—Malfoy was a cad, she reminded herself—distract her from a prince who wanted to make her his wife.
With this thought firmly in mind, Hermione took extra care getting ready before going to meet Arlo for morning tea.
He was as intently attentive as he had been the night before—jumping to his feet when Hermione entered the room, taking her hand in both of his to bring it to his lips.
“Good morning,” he said, still holding her hand. “You look lovely. Did you rest enough?”
“I did,” Hermione said, smiling as widely as she could. “The room is beautiful—thank you for the flowers.”
He pulled her chair out for her and Hermione made herself take note of how gentlemanly he was.
“It took me a long time to fall asleep last night,” he admitted. “I’m just so excited you’re here with me at last.”
“You are too kind,” Hermione said. “I must admit I was not expecting your interest to be so…"
She trailed off, wondering how to phrase her thought, and Arlo looked embarrassed.
“My advisors warned me that such an overt demonstration of affection this early could be considered unattractive—”
“Oh, please do not apologize. I was only curious what about me seems to have captured your interest so thoroughly?”
The only information he'd really had about her was her portrait. She hoped that was not the only reason he was so interested, though she knew that it was the typical way of things.
“As soon as I saw your portrait I knew you were the one for me,” Arlo said reverently, and Hermione winced. “You are a jewel. The other princesses who I reviewed simply pale in comparison. None have the curly hair I so adore, none have a smile half as lovely…”
“You are far too kind,” Hermione said after a moment, not sure how else to respond.
Arlo did not seem to notice her discomfiture. He gazed raptly at her, his gaze tracing her features as though examining the details of a statue. Hermione looked away, trying to feel flattered instead of put off.
“Surely there are other qualities in a wife you desire other than curly hair and a lovely smile?” she asked hopefully.
“I will be flexible whatever your temperament and character,” Arlo said at once, seeming to think that this was a reassuring thing to say. “I was not sure I would ever find someone who suited my tastes so precisely—now that I have, you can be certain I will be indulgent to the extreme.”
His words made her heart sink. But, Hermione reminded herself valiantly, Arlo was doting, and handsome, and sweet. She should not be so quick to judge him just because he had a strong preference in physical features. There were many worse things a husband could be than overly admiring, she told herself.
After tea, Arlo took Hermione on a tour of the grounds. They passed rose gardens and an orangery and the Harloft soldiers’ training facility, around which dozens of red-uniformed troops milled.
She found herself hoping to see Malfoy's blue uniform and forced her attention back to Arlo instead.
To his credit, the prince kept up a polite stream of questions about her throughout the tour. Her interests, her hobbies, her preferences—Hermione was pleased that he seemed to at least care a little about her personality. But she could not help but wonder if it mattered at all that she preferred Potions over Divination, or that she loved animals and was afraid of heights. Not when she had already checked what seemed to be his most important box with her appearance.
“This was lovely,” she said at the end of their walk. “I hope you will not think me terribly rude if I request some time alone to explore the castle?”
“Not at all, princess. I hope you will do me the honor of dining with me this evening. I’ll have my servants attend to you in the meantime.”
He kissed her hand again, letting his arm drop around her waist this time. His touch was pleasant and firm so Hermione did not know why she wished he would keep his hands off her.
Ever the attentive host, Arlo seemed to have instructed his servants to remain close at hand to cater to Hermione's any whim. Despite her best efforts to wander the castle undisturbed, butlers and maids were never far. They trailed behind her, holding refreshments and fruits. They appeared out of nowhere to ask if she needed directions to any particular part of the grounds.
Maybe it was that she was starting to badly want some time to collect her thoughts, and every servant’s interruption was starting to feel overwhelming. Or maybe it was that their deferential murmurs were all beginning to blend together and that made Hermione think—a little frantically—if Arlo would think her as replaceable as one of his many well-trained servants were it not for her face.
But when Hermione finally managed to get a few seconds ahead of a butler—finally managed to duck into a hall on the second floor—it was with a desperate sense of relief that she saw one of the doors in the hall open, and Malfoy step out.
Hermione had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. Malfoy's eyes were downcast but at the sound of her footsteps he looked up. The beginning of a surprised smile flitted across his face but before he had the chance to react further, Hermione rushed forward, pushing both her hands against his broad chest to send them both back into the room. She tugged the door shut quietly behind her, exhaling in relief when she heard the servant’s footsteps pass by outside a moment later.
“Sorry,” she breathed, turning to Malfoy. “Could I—could I hide here for a bit?”
“Are you alright?” he asked, looking concerned. "What happened?"
He was still very close to her, had not bothered to step back. Hermione realized one of her hands was still on his chest. She meant to move it but somehow her body did not want to stop touching him, and she let her touch linger.
“I just—need a break,” she said softly. “Sorry to ambush you.”
His eyes softened.
“It's no problem,” he murmured. “I was just thinking about you.”
He was in full uniform, the picture of a gallant soldier. Hermione moved her fingers a little, enjoying the feel of his uniform jacket against her hand, before finally taking her hand away.
“About to go on duty?” she asked, smiling up at him.
In response, he unfastened his coat and shrugged it off before tossing it onto the bed.
“Not anymore.”
Hermione laughed, felt the tension in her shoulders ease away. The room smelled like him, his clean, warm scent automatically soothing her nerves. He gestured to the sofa and she took a seat gratefully.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked, moving one of his bags so she had more room. “You look exhausted.”
“I just want to sit with you,” Hermione said, tugging at his hand. He sat next to her at once. "It's been such a long morning."
He hummed sympathetically.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “Though I suppose it led you here. So maybe I'm not that sorry after all.”
Hermione could not stop smiling. She had missed just hearing his voice, his playful teasing. She tucked her legs below her to settle into the sofa more comfortably, leaned a little closer to him.
“What have you been up to all morning?” she asked.
“Just patrolling. I set some defensive wards up on your room and on the gardens outside your windows. I was supposed to go stand guard there but now that you’re here I think I’ll just watch you from the comfort of my own room instead.”
“How fortunate for you.”
“You have no idea,” he said. “I was worried I’d have to overhear you and the prince talking.”
He looked away, and Hermione got the impression he was embarrassed at having mentioned Arlo.
“Would that have been so terrible?” she tried to tease.
“Yes.”
“Our conversations are not that dull.”
“So much the worse,” he said shortly. But then Hermione gave him an uncertain look and his face softened.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “I suppose I just prefer it when I’m your conversational partner.”
Their eyes met and he did not look away this time. His gaze was intense and open, and Hermione felt her stomach flutter.
“I—prefer it when you’re my conversational partner too,” Hermione finally admitted. It felt wrong to be saying as much here in Harloft castle—her suitor was probably just a floor or two away, after all—but it was true. She wanted Malfoy to know it. “I missed you.”
She heard his breathing catch.
“Yeah?” he asked after a moment. “You've—been thinking about about me?"
“Yes,” she whispered, feeling the truth pulled from her.
The next instant, Malfoy had moved forward and pressed his mouth to hers.
Hermione’s little noise of surprise was swallowed by his lips, but then his hand was behind her head, pulling her closer, and she melted against him.
“Did you miss me, Draco?” she asked, her words blurred through their kiss.
“You know I did,” he groaned. “I know you know, you don’t have to ask me that—”
Malfoy pulled her into his lap and suddenly Hermione was remembering the last time they had been alone in a bedroom together. An involuntary noise—something between a whine and a gasp—left her. He gripped her waist in response and she knew he was thinking the same thing.
“Is this okay?” he asked desperately, pulling her body tighter against his. “We don’t have to—we could just talk—”
“Please,” she gasped, and she realized her fingers were tugging frantically at the buttons of his shirt. “Just a little—I want to touch you—"
Malfoy pulled his shirt off, impatiently tossing it to the side where his discarded coat lay, and then Hermione’s hands were finally running down his bare chest. He made a low noise of pleasure at the feel of her fingers on him.
"You're so handsome," Hermione whispered. “You’re so—your chest is so—”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh, but then her fingers moved lower, down to the muscles of his stomach, and he groaned.
“God,” he gritted out. His hips jerked involuntarily under her, and Hermione felt his hard length for the first time, pressed against her thigh.
She made a noise of surprise and Malfoy must have taken it for embarrassment, because one of his arms instantly moved to loop around her waist, repositioning her so she could no longer feel the evidence of his arousal. He picked up one of her hands and kissed it apologetically. Hermione wanted to explain that she very much wanted to feel him pressing against her thigh again, but then Malfoy was moving his lips across each of her knuckles, was twisting her wrist around to press a kiss to the center of her palm, and all she could think about was how much she liked the feeling of his mouth.
His forearm was angled to face her and his tattoo—dark and dramatic against his skin—came into view. It looked dangerous and compelling, just another sharp edge on her strong, handsome guard.
“What do you want?” he asked her softly, drawing her attention back to his face. “Tell me. I want to please you.”
“Anything," she pleaded. "Please—I want you to do whatever you want—"
She felt a shudder run through his body at her words.
"Whatever I want?" Malfoy repeated, skating one of his large hands up her side, up her chest, making her shiver.
Then he wrapped his long fingers lightly—tenderly—around her throat.
She let out a gasping whine at the sensation, felt her legs squeeze together involuntarily as he gently pulled her closer by the neck.
“I’ll take care of you,” he promised in a ragged whisper.
She nodded frantically, and Malfoy stood suddenly, picking her up. He reversed their positions and pinned Hermione against the sofa, leaning down over her. His body caged her in and his hand was still around her throat.
Hermione could not have moved if she wanted to. But she did not want to at all, had never felt so adored and desperate and needy. She felt every one of her racing heartbeats between her thighs. Malfoy’s handsome face, tipped down hungrily towards her, looked almost pained from desire. His jaw was tight, his eyes hazy. She wanted him to take everything he wanted from her, wanted to watch his face as pleasure made him come apart. His free hand moved to hike up the skirt of her dress and then—
The door opened.
Both Hermione and Malfoy looked up at the noise, shocked frozen.
It was a servant—a young man. He stared at them, mouth open. His eyes moved first to Malfoy’s hand, wrapped around Hermione's throat, and he sputtered angrily. Then his gaze moved to the black tattoo on Malfoy's forearm.
His anger turned to terror.
“Wait—” Hermione began, but the man was already yelling.
“Death Eater!” the servant yelled. Then, louder, as he shot an alarm spell down the halls: “Death Eater! On the second floor!"
Hermione did not have enough time to even wonder what a Death Eater was. Harloft guards appeared instantly, the sounds of their apparitions ringing one after another through the hall. Malfoy stood, letting go of Hermione to move instinctively in front of her.
“Wait,” Hermione said, trying to pitch her voice loud enough to be heard. She did not know what a Death Eater was, but the situation was fast spiraling out of control and she wanted to stop it before it did. But nobody looked her way, everyone was staring at Malfoy.
And then they started firing.
The first curse hurtled past Hermione, slashing the sleeve of her dress before Malfoy deflected it into the wall with a furious wave of his arm. His wand was in the pocket of his coat, out of reach, but he was apparently versed in wandless magic.
“Watch your aim!” he yelled angrily, but two more spells fired off, one catching him in the shoulder and the other destroying the bookshelf behind Hermione, sending wood and glass falling onto her.
“Confringo!” Malfoy snarled.
The floor under the guards exploded, sending them flying back. He muttered another spell and Hermione felt a dense protection spell settle on her like a leaden blanket, making her knees almost buckle, just in time to protect her from the next onslaught of attacks.
Whatever a Death Eater was, it was bad enough for the guards to not notice—or care—that Hermione was in the crossfire. They were aiming for Malfoy but she still felt stray attack spells ricochet wildly off the protective bubble around her
He was trying to explain things to the guards, it seemed, was yelling something about West Haven and trials, but Hermione could barely hear him over the din and so she knew the guards could not hear him either. Even if they could, Hermione got the impression they were disinclined to listen. All the Harloft guards wore identical expressions of furious hatred, and she was suddenly very afraid for Malfoy. He seemed more than capable of defending himself, but as more guards appeared Hermione realized that if Malfoy did not surrender they were going to try to kill him right where he stood.
Malfoy must have realized the same thing.
“Close your eyes!” he yelled to her.
He didn't want her to see him get hurt. This did nothing for Hermione's panic, and she ignored his instruction, trying to stand, trying to help him. Malfoy swore. He used precious time to cast a spell at her, making her eyelids grow heavy, and in the seconds that he was not defending himself he was hit twice more in the ribs.
Then Malfoy turned to face the guards, raising his arms above his head in a show of surrender. They didn’t care. The last thing Hermione saw before her vision went dark was Malfoy being knocked to the ground as a hex caught him square in the chest.
Notes:
Feel terrible that it took me this long to update, please enjoy!! And don't forget that you can subscribe to the story if you want to receive an email notification when I update ❤️
Chapter Text
Hermione woke up to the sound of yelling.
“—firing spells like imbeciles while the princess was right there, what were you thinking?” came Arlo’s furious voice. “She could have been killed!”
“My apologies, your highness, we were following protocol—”
The voices flickered in and out of Hermione’s attention as she tried to catch up to her surroundings. She was on a bed. Had she fallen asleep?
Malfoy was hurt.
Hermione sat up with a choked gasp as her memory came crashing back.
Through still-bleary eyes she saw that were a few servants and a Healer in the room, in addition to Arlo and a man whose uniform seemed to indicate he was the Harloft Head of Guard. Arlo walked to her, concern written all over his face.
“You're up,” he said gently. “You silly girl. How are you feeling?”
“Where is Draco?” she asked, hardly hearing him. “Is he alright?”
The prince clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
“Your guard is in prison. He was a Death Eater—we’re lucky he didn’t kill you. I am not exactly pleased that he attempted to seduce you, but at least my servant saw his Dark Mark as a result.”
"Draco would not have hurt me—I don't understand—"
“Forgive me, I forget that things of this nature are not often mentioned around ladies. Your guard is branded with the Dark Mark—it means he is a servant of the Dark Lord. Or was, anyway, before the Dark Regime fell.”
“That’s not possible,” Hermione responded instantly. Malfoy was kind, and funny, and sweet. He was not any kind of dark.
Arlo just looked at her pityingly.
She realized how she must seem to him—a naïve innocent charmed by a guard with a handsome face—and tried to fight the feeling of humiliation rising in her.
“He was saying something about trials when your guards attacked him,” she continued, dogged. “Did you let him explain? The King’s Army would not have allowed a Death Eater in its ranks, there must be a mistake.”
“Hermione,” Arlo said, taking her hand in his. “I know the real reason you're upset, even if you don't. You’re afraid I will be angry with you for letting the guard kiss you. But please do not fret—I understand that young ladies are susceptible to romantic flights of fancy. It is just your nature and I don’t blame you a whit. I only ask that you wander with a chaperone you from now on—”
“What? Arlo—no—that’s not why I’m worried,” she said, incredulous, pulling her hand away. “I'm asking about the possibility that you’ve wrongly imprisoned Draco!”
“There is no such thing as wrongful imprisonment when it comes to Death Eaters,” Arlo said, taking her hand again. “Malfoy did attempt to tell us a tale of how he was pardoned—a fabrication, no doubt. Harloft has learned the hard way what these monsters are capable of. My men show no leniency to dark wizards—I would be surprised if Malfoy survives the week in their care. This is the right way of things, darling. Trust me.”
Panic, slowly growing in Hermione all this time, reached fever pitch.
“That’s illegal.”
“Not in my kingdom.”
“I demand you release him at once! He is my guard, and I am—I am representative of West Haven here.”
“Please, Hermione,” Arlo said, and he sounded actually worried. “You’re agitating yourself. You need rest.”
Hermione was about to protest, but then she saw the prince gesture to the Healer behind her, who sidled forward.
“What are you doing?” she snapped at the Healer. The man looked guiltily away.
“If you don’t calm yourself, I will ask the Healer to put a soothing charm on you,” Arlo said sternly. “It’s for your own good. This is not the sort of thing a young princess needs to be worrying about. Punishment and prisons—my goodness, I ought to be ashamed of myself for talking about this in front of you to begin with.”
Hermione began to realize the direness of her predicament.
Whatever the truth was about Malfoy’s involvement with the Dark Lord, he would die in Harloft if Hermione did not get him out. And—the way things were going—Hermione was going to be hard-pressed to do anything about it. She wouldn’t put it past Arlo to have his Healer knock her unconscious if he believed her to be working herself up further.
“You’re right,” she finally said, her mind working furiously. “I—don’t know what came over me, it must have been the shock. I’m feeling much calmer now. Thank goodness I have you here to look after me.”
Arlo looked pleased.
“No doubt this was a trying experience. Your delicate feminine sensibilities weren’t meant to handle such jarring events. I’m just happy you’re alright.”
“Me as well," she said, trying to smile. "I—I can hardly wait to spend all evening with you, Arlo. How nice it will be to put this behind us.”
He leaned forward, kissed her cheek.
“I feel the same way.”
“Only…" she said, as though it was an afterthought. "I find myself a little angry at Mr. Malfoy for putting me through this. An apology from him would go a long way, Arlo.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, darling. You’ve had so much excitement already today."
“Are you very sure? I know it might sound silly to you, but I worry that without one I won't be able to focus on our evening. I don't want to dwell on resentment towards that man all night.”
Arlo seemed to deliberate for a moment.
"You did promise you would be indulgent to me..." she added, when the pause became worryingly lengthy.
“Well—very well. I did promise that, didn't I? I’m sure a few minutes can’t hurt. And we can have dinner on the terrace after, what do you say?”
“Oh that sounds delightful!”
Hermione stood from the bed, trying to look grateful and happy and not nervous and ill. Her plan to free Malfoy was amorphous at best and she hoped she could play it by ear when the moment called for it.
She took Arlo’s arm and followed him out of the room, into the courtyard and towards the brick tower past the barracks that, now that they were close, Hermione could see was the prison.
Malfoy’s cell was at the top. They would have to Apparate out, then, Hermione thought as she and Arlo climbed the stairs. Escaping on foot would not be possible.
Malfoy was sitting on the stone floor of his cell. She did not meet his eyes, was not sure she would be able to hold it together if she did.
He was still shirtless. It seemed the guards had not seen fit to let him dress himself. On his bare torso were numerous new bruises and cuts, and under the leg of his trousers Hermione saw a weighty copper shackle to suppress his ability to do magic. Three Harloft guards stood watching Malfoy—they were no doubt the dealers of his recent injuries. Hermione found herself vindictively glad to see that two of the guards had bloody lips and one a black eye. It seemed even three-on-one Malfoy had been able to hold his own.
She did not let herself consider the possibility that she should not be on Malfoy's side, the possibility that he was lying about having been pardoned. That would mean that he had been manipulating her this whole time and she simply could not think about that right now.
“I would like to speak to him alone,” she said.
“Darling,” Arlo said. Malfoy shifted slightly at the endearment, but Hermione did not look at him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. All that excitement, remember?”
“I will be careful. Please—let me speak to him privately for just a few minutes. He owes me an apology, after all. It is a—um—lady’s right.”
She had no idea what she meant by the last sentence, was just hoping that the mention of something relating to womanhood would be enough to convince Arlo this was something he didn’t need to understand.
“Very well,” Arlo acquiesced. He kissed Hermione on the cheek and she heard Malfoy move a little again. “Only a minute or two, yes? I’ll be right outside when you’re done.”
He gestured at the guards to give Hermione privacy and they followed him out. She must have not seemed very threatening in her slightly ripped gown, her little heeled slippers, because they seemed entirely unconcerned as they left.
The door swung slowly shut behind them.
“Are you alright?” she asked, walking uncertainly towards the bars. She had been planning on asking him about his innocence first but concern won out. He did not seem frightened, but Hermione was struck by how horribly alone he looked.
Malfoy stood as she approached. He moved closer, close enough for Hermione to see his throat work as he swallowed.
“I’m so sorry. I know I should have told you sooner—”
“So it’s true? You were a Death Eater?"
His mouth twisted and his eyes were pleading with her to understand.
“Yes. But I was pardoned. I—I’m not dangerous.”
“Okay,” she said faintly, wishing she could believe him fully. Arlo’s words—Harloft has learned the hard way what these monsters are capable of—still rang in her head. “So you—you never hurt anyone.”
He looked pained.
"I have," he said. "I have hurt people. I'm sorry."
Hermione thought she might be sick.
She closed her eyes for a moment, took a fortifying breath. This did not change her plan, she knew. She still had a duty to get Malfoy out of here if there was a chance he was telling the truth, still had a duty to prevent him from being wrongfully killed by vengeful Harloft guards. She could deal with her feelings—and there were certainly a large number of them now—later.
She aimed her wand through the bars of Malfoy’s cell and turned the copper shackle on his ankle to dust. The power in the room shifted instantly as he regained his abilities. He exhaled sharply and flexed his shoulders.
“They’re going to hurt you here,” she said, unlatching the cell door without looking at him. “We should go back to West Haven where there are records of your—pardons.”
“Hermione,” he said softly. “Look at me. Please.“
She couldn’t.
“Please,” he said, sounding desperate. “Please don’t be frightened of me—”
From outside, Hermione heard Arlo’s voice say something. She grabbed Malfoy’s arm, interrupting him. It was too confusing to listen to him anyway.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Malfoy paused, but then the door creaked as someone started to open it. Without wasting another moment he tugged Hermione to his chest, tucking her close against him.
Perhaps, given everything, Hermione should not have felt so soothed by the sudden proximity. But Malfoy’s scent was familiar, even if he himself no longer was. She squeezed her eyes shut and let herself press her face into his chest. The prison twisted and blurred as they Apparated away.
── ✵ ──
They reappeared in what seemed to be someone’s private gardens. Fruit trees and vine plants surrounded them—through the foliage Hermione could hear the burbling sound of a distant fountain.
“Where are we?” she asked, stepping away from him. She missed his warmth instantly but—all things considered—figured it was best to force herself to be at least somewhat wary.
“My family estate,” Malfoy said. He was breathing hard. “I couldn’t get us all the way back to West Haven in one Apparition. This is about halfway.”
Halfway was still more than a hundred kilometers. The magic required to Apparate them that far was considerable—it would have been impressive had Hermione not had reason to find Malfoy’s power frightening.
“You brought me to your home?”
“I’m sorry—it was the only place in this direction I could think of,” he said. “I’ll be recovered enough to Apparate us again tomorrow. You should owl to tell your parents you’re here, if it makes you feel safer. They’ll receive it in a day or two but at least you’ll know they have your location.”
It was a thoughtful suggestion, and Hermione’s nerves were soothed a little.
“Are you alright?” she said, noticing that he was shaking a little. “Is it the injuries?”
“I’m fine,” he said, but his voice was hoarse. “Just magical depletion from the long distance apparition. There’s a potion I should take, if you’re alright with us going inside?”
“Yes, of course,” Hermione said. “Towards that building? Let’s go—“
He led them down the winding gravel path at the end of which a large stone house stood. A side door brought them into the manor kitchens. Hermione looked around curiously. Was this where Malfoy had grown up?
“Accio Recovery Draught,” he muttered, collapsing into a chair. A small purple bottle flew out from somewhere down the hall and into his extended hand. Malfoy downed it then grimaced.
Hermione dropped into the seat across from him. She didn’t know where to look—it felt too intense to watch him, especially with the confusing jumble of feelings sitting heavy in her stomach. She looked down at her hands instead.
A few long moments passed. The sound of Malfoy’s breathing became less labored as the Recovery Draught took effect.
“Will you talk to me?” he asked softly. She looked up to find him watching her. “I need to know what you’re thinking.”
“I just feel—stupid.”
“Why?”
“I don't even know if you're actually innocent,” Hermione said. His eyes were serious, the look of intent focus in them still so heart-stoppingly compelling to her in spite of everything. More words spilled out of her as though drawn forth by his gaze. “I don't—I don't even know if you’re going to hurt me. I came with you anyway—I broke you out of prison. I’m just… so stupid.”
Malfoy looked tortured.
“I would never hurt you, Hermione. Never.”
She didn't say anything and he reached across the table for her hand, tentative and unsure. Hermione did not move away and Malfoy let out a shaky exhale of relief when their hands met. He entwined their fingers slowly together.
“There is a record of my pardon on file in West Haven,” he said. “The King’s Army will confirm it. West Haven asked me to spy and I did—I was pardoned because of my contributions in helping defeat the Dark Lord.”
“Why—why did you switch sides?”
“I was young and stupid when I joined. There were family reasons and—it doesn’t matter. By the time I knew better I couldn’t leave. But I was good at potions, good at magic. Good enough to become someone important. And the King’s Army needed someone important to be their spy.”
Hermione started to shake and Malfoy squeezed her hand instantly.
“I know,” he breathed. “I know, I know, I’m so sorry. I know you didn’t expect this, I know this changes what you think of me, I wish I told you sooner—I didn’t think you’d find out like this—”
His voice broke and he swallowed.
“I can’t make it all the way right,” he continued. “I know that. But there must be something I can do to start fixing it? To make you feel safer, at least?”
Hermione just looked at him. Every confusing emotion she could possibly feel rocked through her. All she wanted was some distance from the tumult of her feelings.
“Could I get a drink?"
He hesitated, surprised.
“Um—of course,” he said finally, standing. “Right. Wine? Butterbeer? The cellar is fairly stocked…”
“Anything is fine.”
Malfoy retrieved a bottle of pale orange wine from somewhere, then pulled a glass from the cabinets and poured Hermione a small portion. She took the bottle from him and filled the glass to the top. Malfoy opened his mouth to say something but she shot him a dark look and he closed it at once.
“I’m going to sit outside,” she told him, bringing both the bottle and the glass. “I need to be alone, please. Could you write to my parents and tell them I’m here?”
“Of course. Are you sure that you don’t want to do it?” he asked. He looked like he was fighting the urge to follow her. “So you can be sure it goes out?”
“There are ways you can make sure the owl doesn’t get there, if you wanted to. I might as well trust you all the way.”
He continued watching her as she left.
Hermione walked through the gardens at random, still balancing her full glass and the bottle of wine. The sun was setting and under any other circumstances Hermione would have found these grounds enchanting. As it was, she barely noticed that the air was perfumed with blossoms, that as the evening grew dusky and dim bright yellow fireflies started appearing dot by dot.
Finally, she sat herself down on a bench by some rose bushes and topped off her glass.
Hermione took a sip of wine every time her anxiety spiked.
Was she technically a criminal in Harloft now?
Sip.
Would her parents understand when they heard about what she’d done?
Sip.
Should she feel betrayed by Malfoy?
Was he being honest when he said he’d meant to tell her eventually?
And why, why, could she not turn off the tender, confusing feelings she held for him, even though she badly wanted a reprieve?
Sip. Sip. Sip.
Notes:
What’s our girl gonna do when she gets a lil tipsy? 😇
—
You guys make me so happy with your comments - it makes my whole day thank you ily 🥹💕💕
Chapter Text
The bottle of wine was quite a good one, even by Malfoy cellar standards.
It was elf-made, three centuries old, and fermented from a type of orange that didn’t even exist anymore. Had Hermione known all this, she might not have chugged the whole thing quite so fast. But alas—down the hatch it all went and before long she was lying on the ground.
It wasn’t as uncomfortable as one might think. A bed of moss and grass cushioned her back and stars twinkled prettily on the velvet-dark sky above her.
“It’s perfectly rational for me to feel confused, isn’t it?” she asked the garden at large. “I’m not a bad person for still—still being fond of him, am I? After all, I only just found out about his history.”
A distant frog's croaks were the only response.
Hermione closed her eyes. She imagined Malfoy smirking down at her, how handsome and cocky he always looked. Had he looked so handsome when he worked for the Dark Lord, too? Maybe he would have looked more worn, stressed and agitated. Jaw tight, resentment in his grey eyes.
She decided that things would really be much easier if her brain could decide between being afraid of the man and wanting to kiss him very badly.
Minutes ticked into an hour or maybe more, and Hermione did not move. The grass was starting to make her gown damp, not that she was sober enough to mind. It was just her and the garden—but no sooner had the night air turned chilly enough for Hermione to begin shivering than she heard footsteps coming out of the dark gardens.
She opened one eye to see Malfoy looking down at her, hands in his trouser pockets. His tall silhouette looked doubly so looming over her prone form.
“I said I wanted to be alone,” she said, but there was no heat behind her words. She was happy to see him—as always. Hermione hoped for her own sake that Malfoy really was a reformed man, because it seemed like even if he wasn’t she’d have a hard time getting over her crush.
He hummed in agreement, but did not leave.
“It’s very cold out here,” he noted. “And you’re lying on the ground. And I suspect you’ve finished that entire bottle. Am I truly expected to just leave you out here like this?”
“Yes,” Hermione said, wrinkling her nose. She saw his mouth twitch up at one corner.
“I’m afraid I can’t,” he said finally. “How about you come inside so I stop worrying? You can just as easily be upset with me indoors, where it’s warm.”
“I’m not upset with you,” Hermione grumbled, feeling petulant. But she did not fight him when he helped her to her feet, when he caught her securely against his side as her knees wobbled.
“Poor little thing,” he murmured, steadying her. “You must have been very stressed to have finished that whole bottle.”
“I got—I got anxious.”
“I know you did. It’s all my fault. Are you feeling alright?”
“Yes. I’m dizzy. The wine was delicious, though.”
That made him laugh.
“You have good taste, then. Come on. Let’s get you a hangover potion.”
She followed, grateful for his strong arms steadying her when she swayed or stumbled. Somewhere in the back of her mind Hermione worried that she was being sloppy or embarrassing—but Malfoy did not seem to mind. He kept hold of her hand and one of his arms hovered carefully over her waist, not touching unless she seemed unsteady.
She wished he would touch her, but she did not say so.
Malfoy led her to what appeared to be a guest bedroom, seating her on the sofa by the fireplace. The flames were already roaring merrily. Hermione dutifully drank the water Malfoy summoned as well as half a vial of hangover potion.
“Finish that, please.”
“But it tastes awful,” she said, making a face.
He snorted.
“That’s to remind you of the error of your ways,” he said. “You just had probably six glasses of wine—you should be careful getting that drunk. It’s not safe.”
“Would a scoundrel have taken advantage of me?” she teased.
He looked like he was trying not to smile, but it only made his grin come out crooked.
“Yes,” he said. “And I know you’re teasing but it’s serious. You shouldn't be too trusting.”
“But you’re a scoundrel too,” Hermione pointed out. “And you’re not taking advantage of me.”
He shot a fond, annoyed look at her.
“I’m a retired scoundrel.”
Hermione giggled and Malfoy looked like he was trying not to smile once more.
“It’s late,” he said, adjusting the blanket around her lap. “You should get some rest.”
Hermione sat up straighter, alert now.
“You’re—you're going?”
“Yes,” he said, shifting his weight. “My room is down the hall, if you need anything. I was thinking tomorrow morning I could make breakfast. And we could—talk. If you're okay with that.”
He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and only then did Hermione notice he had changed clothes. Of course—he had been half-naked and bruised-up before, and now he was in a relaxed shirt, a bandage peeking out from under his collar.
“Did you take care of all your injuries?” she asked, coming up with anything to extend their time together. She did not want him to go yet, even if she was too drunk to talk about anything serious with him. They could still spend time together, couldn’t they?
He nodded, rubbing his chest absently where Hermione knew there must be more bandages.
“They weren’t too bad. Just some cuts and bruises.”
She opened and closed her mouth, trying to come up with something else to ask him, and Malfoy raised an eyebrow.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asked, sounding both amused and surprised. Hermione turned pink and he smiled. "I thought you were scared of me."
“I’m not scared,” she said quickly, wanting him to stay. But he gave her a look that told her he knew that wasn’t the whole truth, and she stammered. “I mean—I was. I am. Just a little. But I still want you here.”
Hermione reached for his hand and he let her pull him into the seat next to her. She tucked herself into his side, heart thrumming with contentment. Malfoy didn't move for a moment, but then his hand rose to rest softly against her back.
“No survival instinct,” he murmured, and she felt his words vibrate through his chest. “You shouldn't cuddle with men who scare you."
“Just this one,” Hermione mumbled distractedly into his shirt. He smelled like everything she wanted. “I promise.”
Malfoy’s heartbeat thudded reassuringly against her. Hermione tilted her face up towards him, asking for a kiss as she had on so many other occasions, but he just shook his head down at her. His eyes were dark and half-lidded.
“Not tonight. You’re drunk.”
“Why—why does that matter?”
“I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and regret anything.”
Hermione felt disappointment build in her chest, and she frowned so hard that Malfoy laughed.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, toying with a curl of her hair. “I’m being a gentleman. I thought you liked that.”
“I do,” she said, tucking her face against his shoulder. “I like you so much.”
The confession came out without her even realizing it, and Hermione was too drunk to fully notice Malfoy’s heart rate speed up at the words. She turned her face towards into neck and pressed her mouth to crook of it, where his pale skin was soft and sensitive.
He shivered and she kissed him there again.
“Hermione… behave.”
She mouthed at his neck again, and his hand tightened on her hip.
“Hey,” he said, a gentle reprimand. But his voice was unsteady. “Or I’ll have to leave before I succumb to your charms.”
Hermione stopped instantly.
“Okay,” she said, trying to keep the whine from her voice. “I’ll stop. Don’t go.”
“Good girl,” he said, exhaling. “We can talk instead, hm?”
“What do you want to talk about?”
Hermione settled against his chest. He did not pull away, so this much contact was evidently allowed. His body was warm, the comforting heat making her sleepy.
“Anything you want,” he said. “I love talking to you.”
“You said I have no survival instinct,” she said, closing her eyes. “Do you really think I ought to be more afraid of you?”
He laughed, then hummed thoughtfully.
“No. I’m not a bad man, I don't think. And even if I was... you have me wrapped around your finger.”
She made a surprised noise.
“Come on,” he said, amused. “That can’t possibly be a surprise, can it?”
Hermione smiled drowsily into his shirt, breathing in his smell. Sleep was tugging at the corner of her vision.
“So charming,” she mumbled, fighting back a yawn. “No wonder everyone’s in love with you. Very hard not to be.”
Malfoy’s pulse sped up again at her words. Hermione fell asleep with his heartbeat against her cheek.
── ✵ ──
The next morning, Hermione awoke to the immediate awareness that she was no longer tucked against Malfoy’s chest. The previous night pieced itself back together in her memory, shimmery with the haze of alcohol.
She was in bed—he must have moved her after she’d fallen asleep. The pale light of early morning illuminated the room, and it still smelled like Malfoy—Hermione turned to see his sleeping form next to her. He was on top of the blankets, like he’d only meant to stay a little while. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.
He had been so sweet to her last night. He was always so sweet to her.
“Draco,” she said softly, kissing his cheek, his jaw. He blinked blearily awake.
“Hermione,” he mumbled, her name sweet in his mouth. "Is it morning?"
She tipped her face down to kiss his neck, remembered how badly she’d wanted to keep touching him the previous night. He was sensitive there, she could tell, and she nuzzled at the soft skin until his breaths came heavy.
“I’m sober now,” she whispered. “I’m not drunk—can you kiss me—“
Even half-asleep Malfoy knew how to handle her. He cradled her cheek in one large hand, pulled her to him so he could take her mouth with gentle pressure. She melted, pliant and warm against him.
But she needed more—she really needed more.
“Can I see you?” she whispered, pulling at his shirt.
“Yeah,” he breathed, kissing her again. He pulled back just long enough to take his shirt off, wincing apologetically when the bandages came into view. But Hermione didn’t care—she leaned forward to kiss his bare skin, kiss the bandages, felt consumed with the smell of him.
“Draco,” she said, and she could hear the little frantic edge in her voice. “Draco, I want to—I want to be with you.”
Even if she did not fully know what it meant, she trusted Malfoy to show her. A low groan left him.
“I know,” he said. He exhaled, shaky and rough. “I want that too. But I don’t know if you’re—”
“Please,” she begged, and then her fingers were at the waistband of his trousers, tugging at the buttons.
“Fuck,” he said, voice hoarse, and a thrill went through her. She knew he usually tried not to swear around her. “One second, sweetheart. I need to—you’re making it hard for me to think—”
“Think about what?”
“If you’re—if you’re going to be okay—or if you’ll still be interested after—”
He was babbling, half-awake and distracted by her hands on his body, his jaw tensing and his grey eyes hazy and Hermione wanted to kiss him forever and ever.
“I’m interested, I’m so interested, Draco, please—”
Suddenly, he was on top of her. Muscular legs bracketed her hips and large, strong hands pinned her own back.
“So greedy,” Malfoy said, his voice low and hungry. He leaned down to nip at her throat, her collarbone, moaned against her skin like the taste of her was making him insane. “My greedy little princess.”
Hermione gasped under his mouth, her thighs clenching involuntarily.
“Fumbling at my trousers?” he continued, licking a stripe over her throat. “You don’t have to do that, love. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“I want—I want to see you,” Hermione managed to say.
He let go of her hands, sitting up so he could undo the fastenings of his trousers and pull at the band of his pants. Hermione watched with round eyes as he pulled them down and off, then tossed them carelessly to the side.
He was naked.
Hermione felt her heart going a million beats a minute. She had never seen anyone fully naked before, and now Malfoy was naked here with her. The most handsome man she knew, the strongest, the smartest—
He seemed entirely confident naked, as languid and at ease as ever, even as Hermione felt like her chest might explode from the sight of him. He was long and thick and very, very hard. She could not stop staring as he took himself in one hand, stroked lightly up and down—once—his stomach muscles twitching at the sensation.
Hermione's cheeks were hot and her lips parted, and she knew he was watching her, drinking in every detail of her first time seeing him.
“This is my cock,” he said, stroking himself once more before letting go. Hermione did not know how he knew that she wanted him to explain as they went, but she was grateful. She reached for him and ran her fingers slowly up his shaft. It was firm, the skin velvety and hot to the touch. He made a low noise in his throat as she traced him with the tip of her finger. “That—feels so good, sweetheart. Can you feel how hard I am?”
Hermione nodded, tried wrapping her fingers around the rounded top. That made him make a broken noise and she looked questioningly up at him.
“Feels so good,” he repeated hoarsely. “If you keep doing that a little longer I’ll come, though. The same way—the same way I helped you come, at the inn that night.”
“I want to make you come.”
“Not yet," he grunted, pushing her back again. "At the end, if you want. I need to hear you make more of those pretty little noises first."
With one lazy hand, Malfoy undid the ties on the side of her dress. He tugged the fabric away, revealing her bare breasts, then her waist and hips. One more tug and the gown fell to the side—cool air kissed Hermione’s skin.
“Finally,” he groaned, touching her everywhere. His hand moved down the curve of her waist, over her stomach, one knuckle trailed teasingly up and down her breasts. “Finally, I get to see you.”
Malfoy’s pupils were wide and black, swept ravenously up and down over every centimeter of her. He pressed hot kisses to her ribs, her hips, her thighs. The contact was unexpectedly intense, each touch of his lips sending jolts of electricity across her skin.
“Please,” she begged finally. "Please, Draco."
“Please?” he repeated, almost a growl. He pulled her thighs apart, slow and languorous, still kissing her body, wet and open-mouthed now. “Please what?”
“Make me—make me feel good,” she gasped. His kisses were moving lower, more centered. “Oh my god yes, keep—keep kissing—“
“I’m going to eat you,” he murmured, his words a hot breath against her skin. Beneath his low tone she could register a starving sort of desperation. “And you’re going to come all over my mouth. Do you understand?”
Chapter 10
Notes:
😇 😘
Chapter Text
“Yes,” she said, trying to angle her hips towards his mouth, giving herself to him. “Please—Draco—”
Malfoy kissed her on the thigh, on the pelvis, then used his fingers to gently spread her lips apart. He pressed his mouth to her and Hermione bucked instantly at the wet, unblunted contact.
“Oh!”
His lips were hot and tender. His tongue was firmer—probing at her entrance briefly, making Hermione arch up and shiver at the foreign sensation—then dragging across her clit. His pace was slow and pulsing.
It was far more stimulation than Hermione knew how to handle, far more than she'd experienced before. She bucked against him and he just dragged her hips closer, long fingers digging into soft skin, holding her tight against his mouth so she would not twist away. All her awareness reduced to the aching neediness between her legs and the slow pressure Malfoy fed it. Within seconds something in her lower stomach convulsed. It tightened sharply with each brush of his tongue.
Hermione cried out again and Malfoy made a muffled, savage noise of satisfaction against her—she felt it vibrate through her. She wanted him to go faster but he slowed down instead. His tongue slid languid and torturous over her, too light, like he wanted to see her dangle from the edge.
“Please,” she cried. “Draco, please... I can’t wait, I can’t wait, I can’t—”
Malfoy teased her a little longer before giving in. The slow, evasive friction turned quick and firm, his tongue finding its target right in the center of her. The pressure pulsed perfectly right against her clit. Hermione moaned, felt her inner walls clenching, and right before she tipped over the edge she felt his lips clamp tight around her clit, sucking sharply once, twice, thrice.
The extra stimulation was too much.
Her core spasmed, shock waves of pleasure rocking through her making her vision white out and her hearing turn to static She bucked, sobbing. Malfoy’s strong hands pinned her firmly down by the hips and his mouth worked her gently through the storm. He dragged every quiver of pleasure out of her, did not surface until she fell back limp and whimpering.
He rose to his knees then, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand before climbing on top of her. His eyes were black and urgent, his breathing heavy. He kissed her cheek, her jaw—his motions sharp and jerky with his own pent-up desire—but when he touched his forehead to hers it was gentle.
“Perfect,” he panted. “So pretty. Are you alright, sweetheart? Did you know you taste so good?”
The pleasure circuits in Hermione’s brain were still humming. She writhed, vision still blurry, trying to catch her breath, and he kissed her soft and sweet.
He was so, so good to her. Hermione was overwhelmed by it. She wanted to make him feel good too, needed to see him fall apart at her touch.
“Draco,” she breathed, kissing him. Her hand crawled between them, searching for him. He was hard and swollen, pressed against her thigh. When she fisted his cock Malfoy gasped and his hips jerked. "So good, Draco, thank you..."
Hermione could easily become addicted to seeing Malfoy like this, she thought. Here was the same tall, handsome soldier she used to daydream about, with his sharp military posture and cocky smile—only now instead of smirking lazily down at her he was gasping and twitching at her touch.
“Is this okay?” she asked. She dragged a finger against the underside of his tip and he made a choked noise.
“Yes,” he breathed, and she wasn’t sure if he was responding to her words or reacting to her touch. The head of his cock seemed to be the most sensitive part of him and Hermione made sure to tease it, running her hand around the ridge and under the tip. She was rewarded with deep, broken moans. “Yes, yes…”
She went faster, stroking him like how she'd seen him touch himself earlier. Whenever she grazed the underside of his tip his hips twitched like he needed to enter something, so she did it more and more. The power was intoxicating—could she really be having this effect on a man like him?
“Stop,” he gasped suddenly, and Hermione let go at once, startled. His hips continued jerking sharply. “Stop, I—oh my god—”
Malfoy’s jaw clenched and his head tipped back and Hermione wondered if he was coming. She watched him, starving for the sight of it, but to her disappointment he regained control of himself. After a moment he shivered and looked back down at her. His blond hair was sweat-damp, hung in strands over bleary grey eyes.
“God,” he gritted out. “I don’t usually get close so quickly.”
“Isn’t close good?” she asked, reaching for him again. Light touches, then firmer. “I want to make you come.”
“Um—it’s supposed to be—supposed to be better if I can last a long time.”
“I don’t want you to last a long time..."
She crawled down him, leaving little kisses in her wake, smiling when she heard his breathing catch sharply above her. She ran her lips down his stomach muscles. There was a trail of blond hair under his belly button and she kissed that, then pressed her mouth to the sharp angled line of his pelvis. Her lips were just centimeters away from his cock and she looked up questioningly at him, but Malfoy seemed in no condition to speak. He watched her with his jaw working, his eyes slitted and a faint flush of color on his high cheekbones.
When she kissed the tip, he grunted and shuddered. So she did it again then slid the thick tip into her mouth.
“Oh god,” he breathed, harsh and low. His head was angled back, his eyes squeezed shut like he was in prayer. She lapped lightly at the sensitive ridge around his head and watched in amazement as his stomach muscles convulsed each time she did so.
“Does it feel good?” she mumbled around his cock.
“Yeah,” he moaned, shuddering again. “Yes, yes feels good. It feels good, it feels good, my perfect fucking girl…”
She glowed at the praise, sucked diligently at the head of him, hollowing her cheeks. He started lightly thrusting into her mouth, jerky, involuntary movements.
“Hermione...“
The desperation in his low voice made Hermione’s stomach flip. She sucked at him harder, in and out, in and out, dragged her tongue fast and wet along the tender spot under his tip.
“Fuck,” he growled, his hips jerking up and up. The words were frantic now. “You’re going to make me—I'm going to come—I can't stop—"
He groaned, deep and urgent, and then something warm and salty-sweet started spilling onto her tongue. Hermione pulled back, surprised, and the sudden friction of her mouth dragging off his cock made Malfoy convulse again. More fluid shot out, landing sticky and white on his hard stomach. His normally languid body was tense and shaking, his eyes hazy with bliss.
“Oh my god,” he said, chest heaving. “Come here. Come here, was that alright? Are you okay?”
Hermione touched her mouth and examined her finger—the sticky sweet evidence of Malfoy’s pleasure.
“So good,” he praised, pulling her close. He kissed her head, her cheek, her hair. “Perfect fucking thing. Gorgeous girl, mine...”
Hermione giggled, arching into his kisses and his praise.
“I liked that,” she said, eyes drifting shut dreamily. “Did I do a good job?”
"You're amazing."
"Can we do it again?"
“Yes,” he breathed, sounding relieved. Hermione laughed, surprised at his reaction.
"Are you surprised?"
He laughed.
"I don't know. I wasn't sure you would want more. Maybe you just wanted to learn."
“You must be used to being asked for repeat performances,” she giggled. “I thought you knew how the ladies at the castle talk about you! They're very impressed.”
Malfoy just groaned.
“The ladies at the castle,” he repeated wryly, covering his face. “If I had known I had a chance with you I wouldn’t have been such a cad. Not a good way to impress a princess.”
“I don’t mind that you’re a cad,” Hermione teased. “You're so experienced, so you can teach me everything."
He was silent for a moment. Then he caught her chin with his fingers, tilted her head back so she would look at him.
“I want you to mind,” he said, kissing her nose. “I can still teach you things. But I can—be with just you, too, you know."
Hermione’s heart flipped. But she was too practical and clever to believe the post-pleasure words of a handsome scoundrel.
“Hoping for a promotion?" she tried to tease.
“You know what I'm hoping for,” he said, nuzzling her cheek.
“I’m still supposed to be meeting more suitors, Draco,” she interrupted, trying to keep her heart in check. It was beating wildly now.
“Yeah?” he asked, sounding amused. She got the sense he was teasing her. "And why is that?"
“You know why,” she mumbled. He leaned down to mouth at her neck and her eyes drifted shut. “My parents want me to get married.”
“And you think you’ll find someone better-suited than me?" he asked, nipping at her throat.
Hermione laughed in spite of herself and felt Malfoy’s mouth curl into a smile against her skin.
“You don’t think I’m serious."
“I don’t,” she agreed, relieved that he understood. She arched up into his touch, melting at the way he mouthed at her pulse point.
“And is that your only opposition to the idea?” he hummed, pushing her gently to lie on her back. He kissed her breasts, sucking on each nipple until she squirmed. “That you believe me to be too much of a scoundrel to be serious about settling down?”
“Yes,” Hermione answered, gasping. His mouth was extremely distracting. “Yes, Draco…”
“What about the fact that I’m not a prince?” His lips were moving down her belly now. “Is that still an issue?”
Hermione spared a thought for Jacob and for Arlo. She knew her mother and father would never want her to be married to men like those, not for all the kingdoms in the world. No, Malfoy’s suitability as a suitor had nothing to do with his lack of royal blood, Hermione decided. The much larger impediment was the fact that he was a rake, albeit apparently a very romantic one. Perhaps also that he was a wanted man in Harloft. But now that Hermione knew the state of Harloft's justice system she did not mind that offense so much.
His mouth grazed her hips and she shivered.
“No, Draco,” she answered, thighs clenching. “It's not an issue that you're not a prince…”
Malfoy made a low, pleased noise and shoved her legs apart.
“Good girl,” he praised, voice rough with victory. “Such a good girl. You’ll let me take care of you, won’t you?”
Then his mouth latched to her dripping center and she could pay attention to nothing else.
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
After everything, Malfoy made Hermione breakfast, as promised.
It was a surprise to learn he could cook. But Hermione supposed that, given his rakish ways, Malfoy probably had a fair bit of practice feeding hungry women in the morning. Ordinarily she might have teased him for this but for some reason this time it did not seem very funny—after the sweet morning they'd shared, complete with orgasms and pillow talk, it was a little painful to imagine him regularly sharing such tender moments with anyone other than her.
She tried not to dwell on that sentiment. There were plenty of other wonderful things happening to focus on instead. For instance, Malfoy was evidently the type of man who cooked breakfast shirtless. His pajama bottoms hung slack around his narrow waist in a very pleasing way, his muscled stomach bared. He smiled when he fed her bits of jam and toast with his fingers before licking the sweetness from her lips.
"You look thoughtful," he said. “What are you thinking?”
“Oh. Just—I’m just really liking this. That’s all.”
He hummed.
"That's it?"
She paused for a moment.
“I don't want to go back yet," she said finally. "That's all."
"Why not?"
"I don't want—to not be like this with you anymore."
"You have me for as long as you want," he said, smiling. "Here. Back in West Haven. Anywhere."
“But once we go back, it will all be... back to normal."
"Is that what you want?"
She shook her head.
"Good," he said, kissing her. "I like our new normal better."
She giggled, leaning into his kiss. He caught her jaw and moved her face slightly to the side, deepening the contact.
"I'm going to ask your parents for permission to court you when we get back," he said against her mouth.
Hermione pulled back a little, alarmed.
“Draco—they're going to take that really seriously."
He laughed, to her surprise.
“I know," he said, his mouth curved into an amused smile. "I know that."
Hermione opened her mouth to say more but then Malfoy was pulling her closer again, his thumb running soothingly over her cheek. She had no experience with other men and did not know how to tell if his intentions were really serious; but he said he knew. So she believed him.
She let him pull her closer, let herself smile into his chest. A bright burst of joy blossomed in her.
The joy blended headily into nerves as they prepared to leave for West Haven, but still it remained in her—true and solid. Like a warm light she carried.
Malfoy seemed as happy as she did. Hermione hoped—really, really hoped—her parents would be able to see how much she liked him. She wasn't sure what reaction to expect from them. A soldier—even a highly-decorated one like Malfoy—was certainly not traditionally appropriate for a princess. But Hermione didn’t have it in her to embark on more stuffy courtship rituals with more problematic princes, not now that she knew what it was like to be with Malfoy.
She carefully practiced her plea, wording and rewording the nature of her explanation in her mind. As fate would have it though, Hermione needn’t have worried about all that careful planning. They arrived in the throne room to find none other than Prince Arlo already there, talking to Hermione's parents.
“Hermione!” the queen said, spotting her. “Oh good—Harold, look, she's back."
"What—what is he doing here?" she managed to ask.
“And she is with the Death Eater—exactly as I said!” Arlo said, triumphant. “He still has her under Imperius, no doubt."
Malfoy stiffened next to her but Hermione's mother spoke.
“Captain Malfoy is a West Haven soldier," she said evenly. "We assigned him to Hermione ourselves, and his past crimes have been pardoned. Is that what this is about, Arlo?”
“Captain Malfoy has magically manipulated your daughter,” Prince Arlo replied. “I offered her everything a princess could desire! And she threw it away in order to break a common soldier out of prison. Does that sound like the behavior of a woman in her right mind to you?”
"You had him falsely imprisoned!" Hermione shot back.
“You are seduced," Arlo said bluntly. "It did not seem to be justice on your mind when my servant walked in on Malfoy kissing you."
Hermione’s cheeks heated. She felt her parents' eyes swivel to her instantly.
“Mum, dad—please—I did kiss Draco, but I just—I like him."
Her mother's eyebrows were raised. The king looked obviously upset.
"You were her guard," he said to Malfoy, his voice growing in volume. "How did this come to be?"
“Captain Malfoy?” the queen asked, interrupting her husband. “Would you care to tell your account?”
Hermione had opened her mouth to say something—she felt tears threatening to rush to her eyes—but her mother gently lifted a hand.
"Let us hear what he has to say, Hermione."
Hermione looked down at her feet, trying to regain control of herself.
There was a long silence.
"I'm sorry," Malfoy said finally. His voice was steady. "I really am. You trusted me with your daughter, and I know this is not what you expected."
He took a breath.
“But I am not sorry that she likes me more than her suitors,” he said. A hint of defiance crept into his tone. “She chose me, and that might be my greatest accomplishment. I did not curse, hex or poison her into her feelings. I earned them."
Arlo laughed, cold and unkind.
“What else could he say in front of us all?”
“Give me Veritaserum, then,” Malfoy said. “I have nothing to hide.”
“You were a Potion Master for the Dark Lord!" Arlo said. "Who knows what secrets you have to circumvent truth potion—”
“There is no way to circumvent the effects of Veritaserum,” Hermione said angrily, having had just about enough of Prince Arlo. “Everyone knows that.”
The king looked for a long moment at Malfoy. Hermione could tell that Malfoy’s willingness to take a truth potion had won him some favor with her father, who valued honesty and bravery above most other qualities.
“Three drops,” the king said after a moment. “And Arlo—if he is innocent, we agree to put this behind us.”
Arlo sputtered but the king was already asking for a vial of Veritaserum to be brought in.
Malfoy took three drops of the clear liquid.
Hermione felt her heart rate thud in her ears.
They waited a few seconds for the potion to enter Malfoy's bloodstream, and then the king began asking questions.
“Captain Malfoy. Did you give Hermione any potion without her knowledge?”
“No, I did not."
“Did you put an enchantment on her?” the king asked next. “A spell? Any sort of magic?”
“No."
Arlo cut in.
“Have you done anything to sway her feelings for you?”
“I have done my best to win her affection,” Malfoy bit off, shooting a look of great dislike at Arlo. “I like her rather a lot, after all.”
Surely that was enough to clear the issue? Hermione glanced at her parents. Though they still seemed to be assessing Malfoy, the king's gaze no longer held hostility.
But Arlo was not finished, it seemed. He leaned forward again.
“Have you done anything that you would not want her to know about?”
The room seemed to still.
Malfoy's cheek flushed.
“Yes," he said finally. "But nothing—nothing bad. Nothing unethical."
A look of cold triumph painted itself onto Arlo's features.
“And what exactly did you not want her to know?”
Malfoy’s jaw worked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“I was trying to meet her for a long time,” Malfoy said finally. “Before we—before we actually met. I had been trying to find a way to talk to her."
Malfoy paused, though his jaw continued flexing, as though the potion was still trying to get him to spill more.
"I thought she was—I was interested," he said stiffly. "I sometimes traded guard shifts in order to be on duty on the paths near the library. So that I could see her. I would—I would ask around about her—"
“Those all seem rather innocuous,” the queen interrupted—not unkindly. "Did you do anything harmful, Captain Malfoy? If not, you may say so.”
“Nothing harmful," he said, his cheeks still pink.
“Then I believe we’ve heard enough.”
Hermione had a great number of questions on her mind, but Malfoy seemed to be avoiding her eyes. He looked embarrassed, perhaps not understanding that his confession had been the most romantic thing Hermione had ever heard.
── ✵ ──
After Arlo left, Hermione's parents wanted to speak to her privately. Malfoy waited in the hall.
She answered questions about her feelings for him, grateful for her parents' gentle curiosity. Yes, she liked him rather a lot. No, she hadn't known he liked her before they met. Yes, she was happy. Very happy, actually.
Her mother looked excited for her, kept asking questions about Malfoy's treatment of her and whether he would want to live in West Haven or move elsewhere. The king was gruffer but, all things considered, Hermione did not think this was a terrible sign.
They spoke privately with Malfoy next. When Hermione asked if she should wait outside her mother told her to go on to bed.
“We have a fair bit to discuss with him. You can catch up with him tomorrow morning.”
She wanted to see him sooner than that but went to her room for the night anyway. It felt odd, after all that had happened, to be back.
Her little pot of Devil's Snare was flourishing.
Malfoy came to find her just before midnight. The knock on her door was soft.
"Hermione?"
She shot to her feet, rushing to the door.
“How did it go?" Hermione asked, pulling him in. "What did they ask?"
He laughed.
"A—weird mix of things," he said, taking a seat on her bed. "My family history; that was sort of rough. But also what I like about you. Where I would want to live. They wanted to know if I knew about all your hobbies and things, I suppose to make sure I really know you."
He tugged her hand and she sat eagerly beside him.
"Your room is pretty," he said. "I've never been in here before."
She giggled.
"Did you used to ask around what it looked like?"
“God,” he said, dropping his face into his hands. “Don't talk to me about that, please. I'm not ready."
Hermione laughed, pulling his hands from his face.
“It’s sweet,” she promised, giggling. “It is, really, and I think it’s so… so romantic…”
She kissed him and he held her face against his, his hand firm against her cheek as their lips connected.
“Did you know all about me?” she wheedled, nipping at his lower lip. "Did you find out all sorts of things?"
He breathed a laugh and pulled her close again.
“Everything I could,” he mumbled into her mouth. "It wasn't easy..."
“Did you know I was an innocent?” she breathed, crawling into his lap.
He stilled at the question, seemingly embarrassed.
Hermione took the opportunity to let her fingers travel from his face to his chest, start undoing his shirt buttons.
“Yeah,” he breathed, unsteady under her touch. “Yes, I knew…”
“Did you—did you imagine being my first?”
He blushed again.
“Why are you asking?” he asked hoarsely.
His hands moved down the sides of her dress, stopping at the flare of her hips. She felt his fingers grip the fabric there, like he was hanging on.
“I think it's so sweet,” Hermione managed to say. “I think it's so—so sexy..."
“I thought about being your first,” he said finally, voice strained. “I did. I thought about it—”
Hermione pulled his hands to the fastenings of her dress, to the curve of her chest.
“Please,” she begged.
Obediently—almost frantically—his fingers went to the fastenings on her bodice.
“I thought—I thought if I made you feel good you might want it again and again,” he murmured, pulling the fabric down, baring her skin. His hands worked firm and fast but his mouth on her was so gentle and slow. “Then I could teach you to kiss, and to touch, and... maybe one day you’d tell me it wasn’t enough, that you loved me..."
He pressed kisses to her collarbone, to her bared breasts, making her skin prickle with goosebumps.
He pushed her gently, lying her on her back. She shivered under his expert touch, watched with wide eyes as he pulled off his shirt and undid his trousers. He climbed on top of her, his eyes serious and starving.
They were both naked now, his skin hot and soft against hers.
“You're perfect,” he said, his voice rough with pent desire.
His erection was hot and hard against her leg already, and her skin was alive with awareness of it. His broad hand smoothed down over her stomach, pressed firmly on the soft space between her legs until she was spread open. He made a satisfied noise then tapped one finger gently against her clit.
“Oh—oh—” she gasped.
With his finger still between her legs, Malfoy mouthed at her neck, her breasts. His weight was pinning her firmly down, that broad, strong frame that she adored so much pressed heavily over her.
“You always want me to explain what I’m doing, hm?” he breathed unsteadily. His voice shook and his eyes were black as pitch. “Right now I’m pushing you down, sweetheart, into the bed—because I know when you feel good you wriggle. And I know if I hold you down you’ll have to stay still and take all of it.”
Hermione’s eyes rolled back as his finger adjusted pace, stroked up and down her folds firmly before returning to her clit. He moved it lower and then pushed it—ever so slightly—against her entrance.
“Draco!” she gasped.
“You’re so tight,” he cooed. “So tight and so pretty. Do you like it when I touch you inside?”
“Yes, yes, yes—”
“Good.”
He flipped her over then, so she was on her stomach, as easy as if she were a rag doll. Then he pried her legs apart, one hand gripping each thigh. She tried to look back at him, wanted desperately to see him touching her, and was surprised when he kissed her like that—him on top of her, his hand moving gently to hold her throat as he bent low to catch her mouth.
“You’ll get to see,” he promised. “I just want to take a look first.”
She let her face drop forward into the sheets, trying to be patient. He promised she would get to see later.
His broad palms felt hot and rough against the delicate skin of her back—the plumpness of her arse, the soft backs of her thighs. He touched and squeezed lightly, caressing her curves, then pulled her thighs apart. The air was cool against her; she could feel wetness against her thighs.
“I'm going to need to work you open a bit,” he said softly. “Otherwise my cock won’t fit, will it?”
Hermione made a high, needy noise.
“You are so precious,” he went on, sliding his fingers between her folds again. He slotted one fingertip against her, moving it slightly inside her until she shook from the sensation. “Will you take it all for me?"
“Yes,” Hermione gasped. “Please, Draco, I want to see—"
He obliged, pressing a last kiss to the small of her back before moving her so she was face-up once more. He pulled her knees apart and crawled between them, watching her face the whole while, starving for every detail of her reaction.
“No matter how many times I imagine this,” he breathed. “Seeing your face when I touch you… it’s so much better than in my fantasies. You pretty fucking thing. You want my finger deeper?”
She nodded wildly, mouth open, loving how his voice turned harsh with desire.
He slid the finger in, in—pausing only when her muscles clenched involuntarily around him.
“Oh—oh it won’t fit,” Hermione stammered wildly.
She was talking about his cock—now that his finger was half inside of her it seemed obvious that nothing bigger could go in. The stretch was tight.
But he groaned, like her words were driving him insane.
“It will,” he murmured, fondling her clit gently with his other hand. “I'll take care of you, I’ll make sure it goes in..."
His voice was firm—almost instructive—and that made Hermione feel obedient and wet and hungry. Every tap of his finger made a frisson of pleasure explode outwards from her throbbing clit, sending moisture flowing and loosening the muscles of her inner walls. Malfoy slipped his finger a little deeper and she quivered.
“We’ll just do it like this for a little bit,” he explained calmly, but she could feel from how hard he was against her leg, the hot length twitching every time she made a little noise, that he was not unaffected. “Just like this, hm?"
Hermione was wild with desire by the time he could get two fingers in her. When he spread the two fingers slightly she felt herself start to come. The deep, internal pressure—so intense, so foreign—made the feeling slower and more intense than she was familiar with. She made a desperate, needy noise but he pulled his fingers out and she clenched around nothing.
“Not just yet,” he said, his tone no longer so even. "Not until I can feel you all around me."
He climbed on her, pushing her thighs apart with his hand before positioning his cock just at her entrance. The blunt pressure of him felt hot and hard against her.
“Draco,” Hermione whimpered, trying to keep from bucking up. She wanted him so badly, had never wanted anything so badly in her life, felt half-insane with the bursting desire he’d expertly coaxed out of her with his hands, his fingers.
“Such a good girl,” he cooed, low and soothing. “Are you ready? Is this what you want?"
"Yes, please, yes..."
She felt his cock push against her entrance and then drag up along her seam, ending with pressure on her clit. Then he slid it down again, slotting it once more at her entrance.
“Much bigger than my finger,” he said softly, and Hermione could tell he was on the brink of losing control. His eyes were dark and jerky, flitting from her eyes to her lips to her breasts and then back to her eyes. His hands were equally possessive, sliding over her hips in soothing but eager motions. “Much bigger, isn’t it? Shall we try anyway?”
He thrust down a tiny bit and Hermione cried out when she felt his cock push at her opening. There was some resistance but then it pushed through, hot and overwhelming. She seized up, legs shaking, torn between staying still to keep from splitting apart and bucking up to chase the tantalizing promise of release she could already feel building inside her.
Malfoy’s finger found her clit, rubbed at it until the pain melted to pleasure and she could hardly see straight.
"Is that better, darling?"
“More—more, Draco—”
He groaned, long and deep, then pushed himself deeper. His hips shook from restraint, his hand holding her hip still vice-like.
“Just like that, princess? Does it feel good when I push into you? When I open that pretty cunt up, just for me?”
His words—filthy and possessive—were too much. Hermione felt the beginnings of an orgasm rush through her stomach.
“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Please, touch me, please I’m about to—”
“All mine,” he hissed, pressing his thumb to her clit.
The orgasm felt like it was all his. His thumb rubbed firmly back and forth, dragging her through her climax, and as she peaked, quivering, he shoved his cock another few centimeters deeper into her. Her walls convulsed around the intrusion.
“Oh god,” Hermione whimpered. “It’s too—oh god, please—”
“So good,” he praised roughly. “You feel so good, give it to me..."
Malfoy started rocking a little faster into her, making her walls spasm as the blunt, hard pressure of his cock pressed against parts of her that had never been touched before.
“I love it,” Hermione heard herself say, reaching up to cup his face, barely knowing what she was saying. “I love it, I love it, yes, please—”
He made a broken noise, then braced a hand on the bed and started driving into her faster.
“You love it?” he repeated hoarsely, his finger working her clit again. “You love it when I take you like this? You love it when I explain what I’m doing, explain that I'm pushing my cock into your tiny cunt and tell you all about how good you feel—”
She felt herself clench tight again, felt the pleasure twist in her at his frantic words.
“Fuck,” he said, his voice low and shaking. "I'm going to come."
The rhythm of his hips slowed, like he was trying to stop it, but Hermione could not have that. She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling them close together, pushing him as deep as he could go.
“Go faster,” she begged. “Don’t slow down—go faster—”
He obeyed instantly, his pace reversing course to speed up once more. The sound of his breathing turned harsh.
“Fuck,” he moaned, his voice shaking. “Oh my god—”
She tightened her legs around his hips and then Malfoy was groaning harshly, his hips stuttering in a broken, frantic cadence.
Hermione had been so transfixed by the sight and feel of him approaching his own orgasm that she’d barely noticed the pressure that had been building in her again as well. His pelvic bone on her clit thrummed a deep pattern—the sound of his desperate moans as he pushed hard into her... she felt herself shudder against him, felt her inner walls flutter convulsively one more time at the throbbing feeling of him emptying himself into her, his gaze dark and bleary and loving. She squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed by the onslaught of pleasure.
“I love you,” she whimpered, shaking. “Feels so good—I love you, I love you—”
Notes:
Thank you for your patience!! I hope you like the latest chapter. Please know I work as hard as I can to get new chapters out for you <3 My job has been quite a handful in the last few weeks, hence the delay.
Your comments and reactions mean the world to me! Ah! We approach the end of this story!!!
Chapter 12
Notes:
Here we are at the end at last 💗
I don't know how to properly thank everyone for reading. Your comments make me so happy in a way that’s hard to explain - I promise I read every single one and your usernames make me laugh a lot of the time too!
If this story made you happy, then it was for you - plain and simple. Bringing joy to you is the greatest gift a humble ff writer like myself could hope for.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I love you, I love you—
Hermione’s words echoed between them, outsized, but Malfoy just pulled her closer. He rested his forehead on hers, still breathing heavy, looking into her eyes.
“You don’t have to say that until you’re ready,” he said. “I’ll wait.”
She was ready, but Hermione didn’t mind waiting to tell him another time. She wanted him to really believe it, wanted him to know for certain she meant it when she said it again. And for now, these sweet cuddles and light touches had all of her attention.
She arched into his touch, settling more comfortably against him, feeling so grateful that her first time had been with him.
“Was it everything you fantasized of?” she teased.
He smiled, slow and sweet.
“Everything. More than everything.”
She leaned against him.
“Will you stay here with me tonight?”
“Of course I will," he said. "I’ll sneak out in the morning—I don’t think your parents would be too thrilled to know I ran over to your bedroom before the official courtship even began. It’s supposed to start in earnest tomorrow.”
“Is there an agenda?”
“Yes. Your parents and I worked on one together.”
“Oh! Tell me!”
“Breakfast tomorrow morning first—we’re supposed to meet there, by the way, not show up disheveled together—and then a promenade around the lake. All chaperoned, of course. And in the evening I have a surprise.”
Hermione smiled wider. A surprise.
“A chaperone—goodness. I suppose they know better than to leave us alone. You might steal my innocence.”
“Don’t joke about that,” he said, but he was still smiling. He kissed her nose, the corner of her mouth, then her lips. “It meant a lot to me.”
Her sweet, thoughtful man. She never wanted anyone else.
“Will you wake me before you sneak out?” she mumbled, feeling herself drift off.
“Anything you want.”
His words were soft and promised everything.
── ✵ ──
Hermione had the vaguest recollection of Malfoy waking her up the next morning, but she was sleepy and comfortable and did not do much more than smile and tip her head back for a kiss, eyes still closed. He held her head with one hand, tracing the fingers of his other up along her thigh—and then the door opened and closed and he was gone.
When she finally woke up for real, it was to her lady’s maid bustling in, smiling widely at the news that Hermione had found herself a suitor she liked.
“The king and queen asked me to tell you that breakfast will be held on the queen’s veranda,” she told Hermione. “Would you like to wear the blue gown? I think it sets off your eyes very nicely.”
Hermione was surprised to feel nerves buzzing slightly in her stomach as she got dressed, perfumed and made up. The nerves turned into full-blown butterflies when she saw Malfoy already sitting on the veranda table, his soldier’s uniform swapped out for formal robes. He stood instantly.
“Your highness,” he said, smiling. “Good morning.”
It felt like years since he’d addressed her like that.
Her mother rose then as well, from a chaise just off to the side.
“Good morning, dear,” the queen said. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ll be here as well.”
“Of course not, mum.”
Malfoy looked a little nervous, which was terribly sweet considering they had been naked together not five hours earlier. He moved forward to pull out her chair for her.
“You look a little nervous, Captain Malfoy,” Hermione teased, taking her seat. “Is everything alright?”
He actually blushed.
“Everything is perfect,” he said, shooting her a look that made her suppress a giggle. “I am just—eager to spend the morning with you.”
“Oh my,” the queen said mildly, sitting back onto the chaise. “The chemistry is quite palpable, is it not?”
“Mum!”
“Ignore me,” Hermione's mother hummed, disappearing behind her book. “I’m only here to make sure nothing too fiery happens.”
Malfoy avoided Hermione’s eyes as he poured her some pumpkin juice, and she knew it was because they would certainly both laugh if their gazes connected.
Breakfast passed very pleasantly—more naturally than Hermione expected it would, actually, given her mother’s presence. They spoke about their favorite books and about Hermione’s numerous escapades for potions ingredients.
“Although I seem to recall you already being familiar with my quicksand scandal,” Hermione said. “A little bird told you, I think you said?”
“I didn’t actually have to ask around for that one,” Malfoy said, smiling. “I was by the castle gates when you were brought back. That was my first time seeing you.”
Hermione blinked, surprised.
“You were there?”
“I was,” he said, sipping from his tea. “You were very cute. All covered in mud.”
Hermione wracked her mind but could not remember seeing him. Then again, she had been rather distracted by all the quicksand covering her—and the distress of having been caught sneaking out of the castle grounds.
“Time for the promenade, I think,” came the queen’s voice, interrupting Hermione’s thoughts. “I think you two seem well-behaved enough. Go on—I’ll just keep an eye on you from up here.”
It was a perfect day. The lake was the same cloudless cerulean as the sky, and lazy bees drifted over pink water lilies.
“I can’t believe I don’t remember you being there,” Hermione asked as they strolled around the water. “Surely I would have noticed.”
“I was off to the side,” Malfoy said, looking down at her out of the corner of his eye. “And I was just another guard, so I don’t blame you. You were wearing this amazing yellow dress. A bit sandy, but even so.”
Hermione looked up at him, suddenly feeling terrible that she had no recollection of seeing him that day. The first time he’d seen her—it should have been a special moment.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember,” she said, touching his arm.
To her surprise, he laughed.
He picked up her hand and kissed it, the picture of easy affection.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “I think pining taught me humility.”
She giggled, leaning closer against him. They made another slow, sweet loop around the lake.
── ✵ ──
Malfoy’s surprise for her was amazing—a rare potions recipe, one that he had dug up out of the castle archives just for Hermione and him to work on.
“I figured brewing a potion together might be more fun than promenades for three weeks,” he said, his wide smile turning into a laugh when Hermione jumped up and down, delighted, into his arms. “At least this way we can do something interesting under your mother’s watchful eye.”
“This is going to be so fun!” Hermione squealed. “Where did you even find this? I thought I knew of all the recipe books in the castle.”
“There are a number of old Potions textbooks up in the stacks above the library,” he said. “I’m glad you’re so excited.”
She turned to kiss his cheek and his arms looped possessively round her waist.
“Twenty-one days of brewing,” Hermione noted aloud, running her finger down the page. “Some of these ingredients are quite rare.”
“We better get started looking for them then.”
One thing that the parchment did not entirely explain was what the potion was actually for. But Hermione did not care—she assumed the outcome itself was not important. The best part was just getting to work on a potion with Malfoy.
It was so much fun.
She had never collaborated on a potion with anyone before, let alone someone whose knowledge of brewing rivaled her own. She and Malfoy spent hours upon hours poring over texts together, sometimes devolving into fits of hushed, shaking laughter in the library just out of the joy of each other’s company.
She told him she loved him for the second time right there in the wide aisles of the library, in a whisper, with the afternoon sunlight streaming in on them. His eyes went wide and he kissed her. Hermione could not believe the way he looked at her then—like he was so genuinely, truly amazed by the simple fact of her love.
She told him she loved him for the third time—and the fourth, and the fifth—later that night, with him buried deep in her. He whispered low and breathy promises to her as she came, his fingers wrapped lovingly around her throat, telling her over and over that she was his, that he would take care of her forever, that she was so very, very good.
Being able to be together like this—not in secret, and in the comfort of the castle, and with her parents’ blessing—was a gift. Suddenly it felt like there was never anything to have been worried about. Like she and Malfoy had always been meant to be together.
The potion’s brew cycle went perfectly, not that Hermione would have expected anything less with both her and Malfoy on the job.
On day twenty-one the contents of the cauldron were the perfect shade of pale, pearly blue. But for some reason, Malfoy seemed nervous.
“Relax,” Hermione soothed. “It’s precisely the right color. Even the bubbles are the proper diameter.”
They had set up the cauldron outside, under an arch of magnolias—the recipe specified that pollen from the flowers helped bind the other ingredients Though the night was chilly, everything was beautiful—stars glimmered vast and endless above them and the cool air was perfumed with the scent of magnolia. Hermione felt lucky that her mother had said she was too tired to supervise them this evening, giving her and Malfoy this beautiful night to themselves.
“You’re right,” Malfoy said. “You’re right. I’m sure it will be—perfect.”
“It is perfect,” Hermione corrected. “I can’t wait to make another one with you.”
“Just one second, love. We have to check to make sure it’s done, don’t we?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, let’s take a look.”
He guided her forward, so they were both peering down into the little cauldron’s depths. The potion was at a rolling boil, and before Hermione’s eyes the liquid started vanishing into steam.
“It’s burning off,” she murmured, surprised. “Is it supposed to do that?”
“Yes.”
She gazed, transfixed, as the last of the liquid vaporized. Malfoy’s hands tightened nervously around her hips as the bottom of the cauldron became visible.
There was something there.
It was a jewel, about the size of a berry, brilliantly cut and sparkling like fine champagne.
“Draco,” Hermione breathed, eyes wide. “What is that?”
“I love you,” he said, his voice strangely tight. “I love you so much.”
It wasn’t a jewel.
It was a ring.
“Draco…” Hermione managed to say, heart hammering.
Malfoy carefully picked the ring up, then turned to her. His eyes were wide and intent—unmoving from hers as he took a half step back.
He lowered himself to one knee.
Hermione’s heartbeat rang in her ears.
“I’ll love you for the rest of my life no matter what,” he said, his voice slightly uneven. “But—it would make me happy if you let me make it official.”
Hermione wasn’t sure she responded coherently. She was crying—her cheeks were wet and her vision was suddenly shining and bleary. Or perhaps it had just started raining shooting stars; anything was possible.
Either way, Malfoy must have gotten the gist of her answer. He smiled, wide and joyful.
“I love you,” Hermione heard herself say, reaching for him. “I love you—”
He was on his feet again, his mouth pressed tight to hers. His arms looped around her waist, pulling her close to him.
It was hard to commit every detail of it to memory, but Hermione badly wanted to—she needed to remember this perfect night forever.
One detail at a time:
The stars were brilliant above, the clearest and most endless of summer nights.
Malfoy’s body was warm and solid around her.
And Hermione was pressing herself as close to him as she could—as close as it was possible for two people to be.
Notes:
Alright no promises, but in case anyone wants an epilogue... please feel free to leave a note in the comments of a future scene of domestic bliss you'd like featured!
And! If you liked this story, you might enjoy my others ^__^
I'll now be heads down on my new WIP story A Good Prisoner, which is much darker and also one of my most intensely responded-to first chapters ever! 🖤
Pages Navigation
PrincessAmaranth on Chapter 1 Mon 27 Feb 2023 01:01AM UTC
Comment Actions
Navy_Emerald on Chapter 1 Mon 27 Feb 2023 02:12AM UTC
Comment Actions
Silvermoonshadow27 on Chapter 1 Mon 27 Feb 2023 02:15AM UTC
Comment Actions
QuickLE on Chapter 1 Mon 27 Feb 2023 04:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
Frau_Blucher on Chapter 1 Mon 27 Feb 2023 10:26PM UTC
Comment Actions
WhatNowWhoHow on Chapter 1 Tue 28 Feb 2023 12:02AM UTC
Comment Actions
Runescapeboss on Chapter 1 Tue 28 Feb 2023 02:14PM UTC
Comment Actions
caina91 on Chapter 1 Wed 01 Mar 2023 03:58PM UTC
Comment Actions
ReaderRabid2 on Chapter 1 Thu 02 Mar 2023 05:03AM UTC
Comment Actions
Krisbian4Lyfe on Chapter 1 Thu 02 Mar 2023 05:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
greenflowerpot on Chapter 1 Wed 08 Mar 2023 02:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
Natmom on Chapter 1 Sun 12 Mar 2023 01:56PM UTC
Comment Actions
dreamure on Chapter 1 Mon 10 Apr 2023 03:24PM UTC
Comment Actions
CarrieMaxwell on Chapter 1 Wed 03 May 2023 06:27AM UTC
Comment Actions
Mo (Guest) on Chapter 1 Wed 28 Jun 2023 11:13AM UTC
Comment Actions
greenflowerpot on Chapter 1 Thu 29 Jun 2023 04:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
Fictionfan1 on Chapter 1 Wed 05 Jul 2023 10:11PM UTC
Last Edited Wed 05 Jul 2023 10:25PM UTC
Comment Actions
Cinnamonbun24 on Chapter 1 Sat 19 Aug 2023 09:45AM UTC
Comment Actions
SeverianMatachin on Chapter 1 Sat 23 Sep 2023 12:33PM UTC
Comment Actions
shakemedown on Chapter 1 Wed 04 Oct 2023 03:18PM UTC
Comment Actions
MissiAmphetamine (Kaleidoscope) on Chapter 1 Tue 21 Nov 2023 05:36AM UTC
Comment Actions
dramioly on Chapter 1 Sat 10 Feb 2024 03:43AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation