Reflections of Nobody

by Mephistophelass

Summary:

What happens when the person Hermione Granger loves most is ripped away? Simple: she’s never been one to back down from a challenge. Follow Draco Malfoy as Hermione attempts to piece back together the man she loves, the man he used to be. Can they recover Draco’s memory, or is something else at play?

Notes:

This work is complete! Chapter posts every Friday with the final post on September 19! I am wildly proud of those dates as they're also this story's canon start and end date. I hope you enjoy! ☽☿☾

To all the lovely people in this world:
May you get every single thing you deserve.

Art by Mephistophelass

Chapter 1: Prologue

May 1998, Hogwarts

The walls quaked. Dust and fine rock showered from the high ceilings, forcing Hermione to bury a cough in her elbow. Her head thudded. Her ears rang. Voldemort had fallen what felt like minutes ago. The chaos had significantly dwindled, and the first light of morning had just started to touch the castle.

She picked her way fastidiously through the vestiges of the Final Battle in search of someone. There were dozens of people to worry about, but she sought the one with more targets on his back than even Harry Potter. A hum of distant conversation had drawn her this way. Tracking the barely audible rumbling of voices was a chore.

"Is that so?”

"Yeah, sure is!!"

Heated words pierced her eardrums from a hallway ahead. Nobody was yet in sight. Hermione flinched and continued toward the sound. Navigating through a pool of shattered glass, she moved as quietly as she could through the rubble, stepping around a smashed suit of armor, and crawling over vast hunks of fallen banister. She had to avert her eyes from a badly bent arm that poked out from beneath a crush of fallen stairs.

Hermione's breaths came quicker and quicker as she approached the argument. The speakers were still hidden from view. She was so close! Her sweaty hand clenched around her wand, holding it poised as she crept down the spell-pocked corridor. Her heart clenched seeing the school in such a chaotic state. Not one wall or surface had been spared in the skirmish. Hermione choked down her exasperation at the sight of a charred painting. She could easily recall the chimaera that had glided across its pastel skies, even without the peek of clouds curling around its blackened center. She bit her tongue and kept stalking forward.

Five more steps and the argument became fully discernible; two more steps and Hermione swore she recognized both voices; one more step and she rounded the corner. Hermione peered down the dark corridor. Not twenty feet ahead stood Draco Malfoy, the back of his head a blonde glow in the sparse light. Momentary relief washed over her before the situation fully registered and sent a rip of fear through her navel.

Someone stood facing them in the gloom, obscured by Draco. Only the figure's balled fists were visible around Malfoy’s dark form. Neither seemed aware of Hermione as she continued to creep closer.

Draco's head quirked. He picked a piece of dirt from his filthy button-up, posture as confident as ever. Hermione could practically see the snide smirk through the back of his head. He smirked often but most easily when something caustic fell from his tongue. Hermione's pulse thumped hard through her veins. Draco continued speaking in a calculated, cutting tone made even more acerbic by his formal enunciation.

"She doesn't do that for you, does she? You'll always be a nobody t—"

"Avada kedavra!" The other figure bellowed.

Hermione’s perception of time decompressed, and the scene before her began to crawl at a snail’s pace.

Green light raced across the ruined corridor before bouncing messily off Draco’s shoulder.

Hermione’s heart stuttered, wand frozen in her shaking hand as she witnessed Draco fall unceremoniously to the debris-strewn floor.

The unapologetic way Draco’s knees struck the stone as he crumpled forward gave him the impression of a discarded marionette. Milliseconds drew out painfully as shock enveloped her like thick cotton. A cloud of dust curled around his shoulders as Draco's body settled to the floor, one arm pinned uncomfortably beneath him.

Hermione was rendered speechless. She stared down at his body in disbelief, suddenly so still and silent.

At eighteen, Hermione thought she knew the depths of her anger and desolation. She figured devoting her youth to a war effort, vigilantly protecting loved ones, and following through on devastating decisions had left her highly familiar with every one of her emotions. She assumed a half-decade sprinkled with countless misadventures, tests of her mettle, and months on the run had left her intimate with her limits and potential.

But with Draco limp and lifeless on the ground before her, Hermione felt the true depths of her rage. Her furious gaze flicked up to lock on the figure now in plain view.

She saw the dull shine of familiar red before she loosed an explosive whisper, unleashing utter hell.

Chapter 2: Awaken

Consciousness hit him with a violent start.

His pulse hammered as he took in uncontrolled gulps of air. His spine radiated pain, and his muscles felt heroically sore. His mouth was sour, and his eyes ached like they had recently cried. Why had he been crying? Why did his body feel like it had been in a broom crash?

Raspy breaths continued in a hurry as he struggled to grasp the situation. Chest tight and ribs unable to expand fully, panic started to flood through him.

He attempted to sit up and found himself thoroughly constrained. What the fuck? He lifted his head and saw the abundant ropes of an Incarcerous spell wrapped around and around his dirty black clothing, binding him in place from chest to calf. Arms locked at his sides, his joints protested as he reached the limit of his constraints.

His breathing became wild, and he craned his neck to take in more of the room. He was on a bed, its tidy white linens a stark contrast to him in every way.

How did I get here? How long have I been like this? Where the bloody hell am I? His mind whirred helplessly. The last thing he remembered…

He froze, a rushed breath caught in his dry throat.

Racking his brain hard, he couldn’t recall anything—or, more accurately, there wasn’t anything to recall. Absolutely nothing; his mind was terrifyingly blank like it belonged to nobody.

Where he was reasonably sure memories ought to be stored, he found only faint fragile mists that rushed away. Digging deeper, all he could locate was his body's bottomless panic. His mind felt like a rat's nest of nothingness. In his head was a steady pounding like someone kicking a rubbish bin to the beat of his erratic pulse. His stomach rumbled wildly, empty and voracious.

To his left was a blank wall and a tiny, dimly lit entryway. To his right, a wall of cream floor-to-ceiling drapes. The whole room was white, off-white, or beige. Everything from the wallpaper to the lamps flanking the bed to the small chair and ottoman in the corner was bright and clean. A paper sack, a small pile of clothes, and a beaded bag were heaped on the simple desk against the wall opposite the bed. A bland painting of a red pheasant taking flight was stuck to the wall above it. In the corner sat an odd black box, its bulbous glass face aiming an inflated reflection at the room.

There was a small thud from beyond the wall to his left, followed by the squeak and rush of a sink tap.

"Who's there?" He croaked before he could think any better of it. He mentally kicked himself. He was flat on his back, bound, on a bed with no wand and no idea what was going on. The sink stopped immediately. He heard footsteps from behind the wall, and his heart stuttered.

A young woman hurried into the room only to stop dead in her tracks. Her honey-brown eyes were puffy and bloodshot with deep circles underneath. Her curly hair was a riotous chocolate mess with thick pieces stuck childishly to her heart-shaped face. She sniffled, searching his face urgently as messy tears flowed down her cheeks and chin.

Hermione Granger, his brain purred with no shortage of fondness for this appealing stranger. The thought was a lifeline to his free-floating mind, and he eagerly held fast.

She fostered a giddy sense of familiarity that blossomed through his chest. It felt misplaced: every fiber of his being seemed to know her, and yet for the life of him he couldn't remember who she was. Her presence was like a long hug or a sweet promise. He knew her as if he’d drank her in at least a thousand times before.

"Hermione?" The word slipped out, raw and desperate.

Hermione’s face immediately lit up, and her chapped lips broke into a smile that pushed out more tears. She looked simply knackered, malnourished, and quite literally ran ragged. Her smile was huge but strained; her eyes hollow and wide from something beyond crying; her skin was sallow and tawny. It was as though she had been slowly drained of her essence.

Wide tear tracks shone down her face and neck and disappeared into a raspberry-coloured t-shirt. Shadowy tear stains formed splotches above her small breasts, whose outlines were visible through the thin material. Her shirt and denims hung badly wrinkled around her thin body.

Despite her distress, she was magnetic.

"You're awake," she cried. "Oh, you're awake!"

He smirked at this lovely Hermione woman's obvious concern for him. The sight of his small, lop-sided smile sent her rushing around the bed and leaping at him. She landed halfway on top of him and hugged him ferociously around the neck. Her unruly, half-damp hair slid to cover part of his face, and it smelled floral and tear-salty.

Inhaling deeply with his nose to her crown, he closed his eyes and immediately felt his pounding heart ease. He kept breathing her in, his body still immobilized as she clung to him and repeated herself again and again. His smirk split into an unapologetic grin, infecting the rest of his face. Hermione, his brain foolishly sighed. His breath started to come in regular intervals, and his rabid heartbeat subsided.

After a few moments, she rolled off him and rested her face on one of his shoulders, an arm still draped across him. He simultaneously wondered at the restraints and relished her contact. He longed to return her embrace.

“Hermione…what’s happened?”

“It was bad. Really, really bad.” Hermione said, words cracked with emotion.

He quirked an eyebrow at that. Things didn’t seem all that bad from where he lay.

"I'm serious! You should be dead," Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and pressed into him. He pulled himself together and refocused, even with the distraction of her knees nudged his thigh through the ropes.

"I'm not really sure how it happened. You were fighting for our side—fighting with the Order of the Phoenix,” Hermione took a big, rattling breath, her chest swelling and quaking against him. “We had all managed to do our parts. The Horcruxes had been destroyed, Voldemort was dead, Harry was alive, and Ron was still alive. The Death Eaters had been mostly dissolved, and fighting had wound down… but you got hit. I saw it happen; I saw you fall."

The names were familiar, like the tickle of a dream he’d had a lifetime ago.

Suddenly, his mind lit up with green. Avada kedavra, the killing curse. As soon as the incantation surfaced, he knew its unforgivable weight. His magic growled low and angry in his blood.

"I saw you fall,” Hermione repeated. “You were grazed by the killing curse…it seemed to fizzle and glance off you. I thought you were dead. You were just a pile on the ground. When I got to you, your eyes were empty. It was like the life had just been pulled out of you…" Hermione sobbed. "I've no idea how, but you still had a heartbeat. Weak and fluttery, but somehow, it was still there. I made sure you were safe to levitate and brought you straight here. You were unconscious but stable. I did everything I could think of, I just wanted you back so badly…"

"How long?" He interjected, suddenly apprehensive of her answer. She sniffled before she choked out a response.

"Day before yesterday. You were out nearly 48 hours."

Two days, gone. And before that? He had very nearly died. And before that? There was nothing before that. His splintered mind reeled again and tumbled back into despair as he fruitlessly hunted for any memory more than a few minutes old.

It all felt absent, not just those two days but everything.

Frantic breaths returned as he failed to control his emotions. A thin layer of sweat formed across his brow.

Hermione leaned closer so she could stare up at him. His eyes bugged as he fought a fresh wave of terror. Eventually, he turned his head and tilted his chin to meet her assuring gaze.

"Hey, hey—it's okay. I'm sure you’re disoriented right now.” Her tone was dulcet and calming, as if attempting to placate a feral cat. “We're going to figure it out together. Everything will be alright. It might even be wonderful once we get things sorted out. It's just you and me. Voldemort is gone. The war is over…" she trailed off as his eyes lost focus, pupils tightly contracted.

Hermione sat up and, with great effort, helped him into a seated position against the pillows and headboard. With an apologetic look, she waved her wand to loosen his restraints so he could finally gather full breath. She conjured a glass of water and a straw and placed her wand on the side table to help him drink.

His slow-moving lips felt foreign as he greedily sipped the water. Its coolness soothed his throat, and his mind was content to focus on keeping the small, buoyant straw between his dry lips. His panic momentarily abated.

"What do you remember?" Hermione asked before she set the empty glass next to her wand. She crawled to lean against the headboard beside him.

"Nothing. There's nothing, even when I try. I know your name… I feel like I know you,” he rasped urgently. “How do I know you?"

Hermione's face twisted with something he didn’t understand, but her eyes never left his.

"So much has happened; to you, to me, to us. Are you sure you're up to this?"

He nodded urgently. He needed to know something, anything. He had so many questions he was bubbling over. Who tried to kill him? How had he survived? Why had she been there? How did he know her? She felt so familiar… but he had no memory of why he felt so purely content by her side.

"This is going to be a lot. Stop me if you need a break. I don't want you getting overwhelmed, alright?" Hermione's eyes bounced back and forth between his own with concern.

He nodded.

"Two days ago, all of our hard payed off. We met up with you and used a portrait to gain entry into Hogwarts with some of the other Order members. There was a battle and Voldemort was finally defeated." She paused. "Do… you remember Hogwarts? Voldemort? The Order?"

The names felt annoyingly familiar to his ears, but nothing concrete came to mind. He shook his head slowly.

"Oh…oh." She paused for a long time.

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We met there our first year. For a few years, we weren't the best of anything except—well, except for enemies, perhaps.” Hermione paused again. This time, her eyes and cheeks lifted into an endearing smile. "But I came to mean a great deal to you, and you a great deal to me."

His mind began to churn, and he felt urgently compelled to hold every word she said and make these clues meaningful. Hermione forged on, speaking with a knowing passion. He listened with eager ears, yearning to remember what his life had been like.

"You come from an old magical family that greatly influenced you. Some of those influences were quite harmful. Your parents—your father—forced you into a long-standing hate group led by the most evil wizard in history. You became the youngest Death Eater ever at fifteen years old when Voldemort gave you his dark mark. He chose you, bent you to his will, tried to sharpen you into another tool to cleanse the planet of those he saw unworthy of magic."

He struggled to keep his breathing steady as he absorbed it all. Turbulent magic simmered under his skin like vibrating sand. It hadn’t occurred to him how daunting it might be to learn the answers he so craved. A small sinkhole opened up in his stomach.

"Understandably, you were terrified. Being a Death Eater nearly ruined you. You were never the altruistic sort, but you certainly didn't want to a life devoted to murder in the name of a disgusting man… what was it? ‘He who smells like overcooked pea soup.'" Hermione smiled a weak smile. "You did what you had to, and you didn’t tell me much, but I know it was unthinkable. You had to be unflinching to avoid drawing attention.”

Hermione's face shuffled through upset expressions as her words slowed and quieted. With a sigh, she twisted and slid against him, wrapping an arm protectively across his torso. Feeling her so close was a stunning relief.

“But you refused to give in, refused to break. I’d like to think I played a part in your choice. Harry, Ron, and I were all dedicated members of the Order of the Phoenix. We had always been staunchly and openly determined to fight Voldemort's influence. I think it helped: knowing a force of good was rising to catch you, seeing students your age grapple with roles life thrust at them, knowing there could be hope for something better.

"The summer after you got your mark, you secretly defected to the Order. It’s obvious you were an exemplary double agent, seeing just how livid the Death Eaters were at you during the Final Battle.
"We barely got to see one another this past year. You came to the safe house when you could—popping in drenched with blood and sweat after some horrid errand—even if you could only spare a few precious hours."

Hermione's eyes were sad, but the corners of her mouth lifted as she continued to reminisce. It was out of place given the context, but he couldn’t deny the small thrill he felt at the notion of spending a night with her, of them sharing anything and having it remembered as precious.

"The promise of getting to be with you properly one day both held me together and broke me apart. Every time you showed up unannounced at the cottage was like waking up from a nightmare, and every time you left you took another piece of me with you.

"When we snuck into the castle, I was thrilled and terrified. I loved you so much, I love you still, and I knew how many people had it out for you. None of us were certain it would be the end of the war, but everything clicked into place fast. So much had come together at the eleventh hour. I still can hardly believe how much fell apart at the very end for you and me…" Hermione's voice trailed off as tears trickled down her face again.

Looking at her, the feeling of amazement slowed his overwhelmed mind further. This woman loved him. He had gotten to love her. His eyes rounded again—this time in awe—imagining a blurry, vicious past stitched together with her affection. It all seemed so unreal.

When she continued speaking, her voice was devoid of emotion, as if she were reading a report.

"The battle was long. It started after dusk and dragged out until sunrise. It was madness. Voldemort brought everything he had, but we rose to meet his forces. Together, the Order managed to fend off his supporters long enough to destroy the last Horcruxes. We thought Harry died, but he was fine really; he had removed one last obstacle. Voldemort fell, and most of the fighting was winding down.

“We got separated in the fray, and I was picking my way back to you and Ronald. Something happened; I’ve never seen a curse do that before. It sort of… bounced and glanced off your shoulder. Two Death Eaters had attacked. It happened right in front of me… I lost my mind. While I was on the floor with you, Ron disarmed one of them before he was burnt to a crisp by the other. His body turned to ash from the inside out."

Hermione let out a sob, tears flowing freely as she looked down at her knees. He let all the names and information absorb, feeling further tugs of familiarity and guilt. It was not an easy thing to learn someone’s name in the same sentence you learned they had died beside you.

"I pulled a staircase down on them. Ronald was one of my best friends, and I thought I’d lost you, too. I still don't know who all we lost that day. Kingsley said someone would come check on us this weekend and fill us in. I don’t look forward to it. Kingsley looked like he'd seen a few new ghosts when I spoke with him.

“Harry is alive, thank goodness. He doesn't entirely understand what you and I have together, but they'll all come around. We'll figure everything out, get you feeling stable, and build a new life. You're all I've got now, especially after I had to relocate my parents. All that research… nothing can give back what they lost. They’ll never remember me again."

Her hollow gaze moved down to the puddle of tears growing on her shirtfront. They were silent for a few long moments as he appreciated the horrors he and Hermione endured. She must have cried a lake if half of what she told him was true. He felt horrible, imagining all she'd been through, all she'd lost and watched slip away, only to worry she’d lost him too.

Suddenly, though, his stomach dropped. He couldn't remember hearing his name once. Not a letter or syllable felt like it had belonged to him.

"Hermione…" He asked slowly.

"Yes?"

"Some of this is familiar, like I know I've lived pieces of the life you're telling me about…"

"You don’t remember any—" she started, but he bowled through her words, needing to get his question out before anything else was proffered to his poor, battered brain.

"…But who am I?" He felt panic starting up again. “What's my name?”

She let out a breath, her caramel-coloured eyes holding his stare.

"Draco." She told him solemnly. "Your name is Draco Malfoy."

His magic snapped and burned beneath his skin.

"Draco Malfoy," he parroted back.

The two words met his ears, and his stomach did a confusing barrel roll. Draco Malfoy. The name slithered lavishly between his ears and felt so bloody familiar, as though he'd said and heard it countless times. He supposed it could very well be his. The corners of his mouth lifted into a small smile.

Hermione scooted to the foot of the bed and stood to retrieve her wand. With a small wave, she dismissed Draco’s bindings, leaving behind a ghostly warmth where the ropes had held him. As soon as the bindings vanished, he was able to breathe and settle himself.

With the rope gone, however, Draco became painfully aware of just how punished his body felt. The back of his skull, his shoulder blades, and tail bone throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The soles of his feet felt raw and tight as though he’d run for weeks without stopping. The tendons in his hands protested wildly as he reached to rub circles into his shoulders. Draco stretched his arms and rubbed at his aches, happy for the freedom.

He was indeed lucky to have Hermione. Without her, he would’ve given his life to a monster; without her, he would have died in the rubble of their school; without her still, he would be adrift without a memory like a lone ink blot on a blank sheaf of parchment. Of course, he had gotten his act together and fought with her for the Order. She seemed always to be thinking, considering, diving headfirst into things she believed wholeheartedly in. How could he dream of fighting her on anything?

"I'm sorry you had to wake up like that. How are you feeling?" She asked as she helped swing his legs over the side of the bed.

Draco’s silk-socked feet met the carpet as he slowly righted himself. He was well and truly knackered. As helpful as the absolute tidal wave of information she’d poured over him was, admittedly, he found himself thoroughly overwhelmed.

His stomach churned with hunger and upset. His shaky fingers moved weakly to his cheeks as he tried to take slow, steadying breaths. The magic that flowed throughout him felt erratic. Putting elbows to knees, he hung his head low in an attempt to soothe himself.

"It’s a lot to hear," he said eventually, eyes struggling to focus. "My magic. I'm not sure how to explain… it feels off."

"With everything you’ve been through, it would make sense your magical core might need time to heal and readjust just like your mind," Hermione pondered. "Let's have you avoid using magic until you feel more… settled? We're safe in this hotel. Only two people in the world know we’re here, and I'm with you."

He nodded just as his stomach groaned unapologetically.

"Right! You must be famished. What am I thinking." Hermione hopped to the writing desk and retrieved the paper bag. An intoxicating scent met his nostrils. Settling down right beside him, she placed the bag in her lap.

"But first…when I was researching solutions to help restore my parents’ memory, I came across a potion. I brewed a batch last month to give to them after the war. When I realized their situation was already too far along, I couldn’t bring myself to bin it. The potion can’t help them, but I think you’re a perfect candidate.” She procured a stoppered vial full of thick, forest-green liquid. “It’s a memory restorative. Research recommends taking it to encourage memory recovery. Unfortunately, it has to be administered every 12 hours on the dot."

She looked up at the wall clock and seemed to take a mental note as she handed him the vial.

Without a second thought, he uncorked the tube and downed the potion in one go. His lips puckered instantly at its sour, grassy flavor, and he certainly did not appreciate the tinny aftertaste that followed. It gave a slight roiling sensation as the potion’s effects rippled through his body in real-time.

She fished an arm into the paper bag, pulling out a fistful of something steaming in silvery white wrapping.

“Muggle fast food,” Hermione grinned in explanation as she handed it over and fished out one for herself. “I have a feeling you're going to love it."

Draco’s shaky hands unfurled the papery wrappings to reveal a burger: slightly squashed and a little gooey but giant, steaming, and overflowing with fixings. The burger practically glowed to his hungry eyes. Draco’s mouth watered, eager for such a reward after the tart flavor of the restorative.

Hermione held an identical burger. She folded the wrapper neatly to cover its back half. Draco watched her practically unhinge her jaw out of the corner of his eye and was all too happy to tuck in.

The burger tasted just as miraculous as it smelled, the aftertaste of the potion immediately forgotten. Each of the patties were fatty and divine with a square of cheese melted on top. Fatty strips of bacon hid beneath a mayonnaise-slathered bed of lettuce, all crowned by a watery tomato slice. A halo of pickles sat around the edge of the burger, corralling a slurry of bold, unknown sauces.

The bun was no match for the whole ensemble, and he quickly realized the motive behind Hermione's wrapper strategy: not a drop of condiment escaped as she ate while he struggled with meager serviette after meager serviette to keep the drippy, delicious mess from sliding down his wrists.

Their elbows occasionally bumped as they ate in content silence. Draco quickly finished the burger and licked his fingers as Hermione shot a disapproving glance at him over her food. She handed him another serviette and a paper cup overflowing with chips. Draco was delighted to find a few packets of that same delicious orangey sauce accompanying them.

Hermione finished chewing the final bites of her burger before she spoke.

"This won’t be easy," she said almost to herself, staring straight ahead. She seemed forlorn again.

He chewed a few more chips, happy to have his mouth and hands momentarily busy while he thought of something reassuring to say.

"You seem to know an awful lot about me. I think I'm in good hands." He said finally, around a half-chewed chip.

Hermione shot him another disapproving look. "Your current lack of manners and memory, and my knowledge of you notwithstanding, we have other things to contend with."

He made a point to chew and swallow his chip before he answered this time.

"Like what? You said Volde—Voldemort is dead, and it sounds like his Death Eaters have been taken care of. What more is there?" He asked in earnest.

"Well, there's the matter of the public. Most people don't have a clue what role you served, the risks you took, or how instrumental you were to the Order's efficacy. They think you’re some legacy bigot, the monstrous heir to a pureblood family who was all too eager to serve Lord Voldemort.

"They don't know you were a double agent. They don't know the tattoo on your arm wasn't put there by choice. They probably think you’re greasing your way through the grasp of the Ministry rather than entirely off their legal radar. Everyone knows ‘The Profit’ has never been a publication to leave sordid gossip alone. Just this morning, there was an article supposing your whereabouts, assuming you deserted the battle and fled before it even ended like some coward. Very few know how strong you were, how much you sacrificed, how much you lost…”

Hermione trailed off, her now-forgotten food in her lap. Draco’s food finished, he turned and studied her. Did he care that the public didn't know the truth about him? He didn’t think so. So long as she knew it, so long as she understood, that was all that mattered. Hermione looked back up at him, her eyes misty with a forecast of fresh tears. Draco was struck by how cosmically fortunate he was to have this beautiful witch beside him. It was apparent how brave she was, how dedicated. Knowing she had chosen to take care and protect him lifted some of his hazy stupor.

He could figure out who he was with Hermione by his side, he was certain. Draco let a laugh bubble out of him. Her eyes sharpened on his, confusion dancing across her face.

"Are you… laughing?" She asked, the corners of her mouth tipping down.

"I'm not worried," he said with a foolish smile breaking across his face. "I feel like nobody right now. It’s you who matters. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. If you promise to help, I know I’ll get back everything that matters."

Hermione's face immediately shifted into a soft, hopeful smile. Relief radiated from her eyes, her lips pouting as a tiny breath puffed out between them.

It was then he realized just how close they were. Sitting side by side, their thighs were pressed together, their breath mingling as he met her gaze. She was so magnetic. A feeling of belonging swelled and washed over him. He took a fortifying breath, and his Adam's apple bobbed.

“Hermione? Can I please kiss you?"

Her eyes widened, and she clung to his stare for a long moment.

"Only because you said 'please,'" she replied, her face erupting into a tentative, teasing smile.

She tipped her face up to meet his, eyes sparkling, and pressed their lips together. Draco’s mouth became liquid the moment they touched. Her kiss felt like a sensation he had been waiting years for, perhaps his whole life.

A small sigh left him as he continued to melt into her soft lips, parted slightly over his. Soon, his right hand wandered to the inside of her thigh to stroke circles near her knee, and he turned to face her better. Hermione relaxed further against him with a small hum. Her fingers meandered up his arm to rest against his chest.

Draco’s stomach tightened at her touch. He was certain Hermione had always been very special to him, for however long he had the privilege of knowing her. It made his heart soar that he mattered to her, that she wanted this, too.

Hermione broke away before he was ready. Feeling her absence, he ran his tongue along his lips to soothe the loss. Searching her face for hints of regret, he was greatly relieved when he found none.

Standing, she caught his hand as it slid from her thigh and tugged him lightly to his feet.

"Come on," she said, her smile shy. "You're long overdue for a shower.”

Chapter 3: Wonder

The moon glowed gibbous overhead. His small form sat bundled in black on the worn bench of a small boat. The lake was eerily unbothered by the flock of vessels floating across its inky waters.

His boyish hands clung to the lamp he held aloft. He had immediately volunteered to carry it, desperate to distract his nervous hands. The warm cast of its flame felt protective with the world awash in blue moonlight.

Beside and behind him were two boys his same age. Around them were perhaps a half dozen similar boats ferrying similar charges of giddy children, flocked like stern ducks. At their vanguard, an impossibly large figure filled a boat all to themselves. The night was crisp and alive with the collective anticipation. Murmurs and whispers floated all around.

He'd heard so much in his young life about their destination. He couldn't believe it: now was his turn. Excitement bloomed in his chest.

The host of boats was aimed at a castle. It perched like an observant dragon atop a craggy cliff defying the far edge of the lakeshore. Torches dotted its exterior with warm, welcoming light. A ribbon of fog draped lazily at the water's edge. It was all so overwhelmingly beautiful. He sat utterly enraptured, muttering mindless words of appreciation as they continued to drift toward the water’s edge.

With a gentle thud and the whoosh of varnished wood on grass, his vessel found solid ground. He stood and leaned forward as he was helped from the boat by a welcoming professor's hands—the short lamp leaning forward with him as he stretched a foot out to meet the shore.

Halfway there, his bright eyes caught the edge of his distorted reflection dancing across the jet water…

 

 

He awoke beaming, the dream bobbing fresh in his mind. It had ended abruptly, as only the best dreams did. The dream—a dear memory—glowed happily across his murky synapses.

Hogwarts, the fabled school of witchcraft and wizardry. Last night he’d dreamt of the very first time he’d seen the castle, he was sure of it. The promise of entering into its hallowed walls and being forged into a proper wizard had been entirely alluring to his young self.

He savored the sensation of remembering. Stretching out his sore muscles, he reminisced about the school as he drifted awake.

He regretted this mental meander immediately as urgent questions reared up and began to devour him whole.

Why was I so eager to attend Hogwarts? Who had planted that seed? He stiffened against his pillow without answers. He couldn't summon a single face or name, not one person who may have serenaded his young self with stories of the magical boarding school. His mind picked at the healing scab of everything he'd absorbed the day before.

Who am I again? His breath hitched for a moment as he groggily sifted through the mental scrolls he'd penned and piled in his brain, hunting down the name that didn't feel like it belonged to him yet.

I am Draco. I am Draco Malfoy. In equal parts relief and frustration, he sighed. He let the name echo through him, hoping it might stick better this time.

The information Hermione had heaped on him the day before was still stacked against the walls of Draco's mind, but it was like an Anti-sticking charm had been cast: none of the information had matriculated. He still had to seek out every answer from among the haphazard heap.

It was like quizzing himself to pass a test on somebody else. The information didn't belong to him yet; how could it belong to the nobody he still felt like? What if he always woke up without a clue of who he was? What if all he ever dreamt of was that same short boat ride? He knew right then he was at the universe's mercy. As if unable to look ahead at that terrifying abstraction, he shoved his head to the side.

Not the universe's mercy, his mind chuckled. Just Hermione's.

Looking over, he saw the back of her head poking out from a nest of bedclothes. Her glorious mahogany curls rumpled around her like a fallen flag, soft waves cascading across her sheet-covered shoulders.

Draco's anxieties fell away at the sight of her. Hermione seemed so far away, but he knew she wasn't ready to be so familiar just yet. As much as he craved her closeness, the last thing he wanted was to scare her off.

It was just as she said: they had time to make things right.

Like a tentative experiment, Draco dove back into his mind. With more pride than he felt deserved, he instantly found all the mental notes he'd taken. Some footnotes of his childhood, his parents' names, and a smattering of details from Hogwarts, it all stiffly waited in his head.

He greedily relived the previous day in all its detail, further soothed by his ability to retrospect on something concrete.

Once their breakfast of divinely greasy burgers was finished, Hermione had towed him into the small bathroom. As the two of them filed into the tiled room, he was confronted with his reflection.

A haggard, angular face stared back. Hawklike, pewter eyes shone among pale, refined features. Soot crisscrossed one sharp cheekbone, and a fading bruise painted his jaw light purple and yellow. A muss of white-blonde hair stuck out over well-groomed brows. He was tall, the top of his head cut off by the mirror's edge. His well-tailored shirt and trousers were coated in dust and grime to a near-comical degree. The monochrome bathroom made his dishevelment all the more prevalent.

The person he saw gazing back at him was glaringly familiar, like someone he knew well from a lifetime ago. He stared at his reflection for a long moment, willing the features in the mirror to snap into belonging. Still, no. Clutching his new, dear memories at the forefront of his mind as he harpooned his own gaze did nothing for the dissonance.

It felt like a betrayal of the self. With a small sigh, Draco silently acknowledged that recovery wouldn't be instantaneous, that he couldn't swish his wand and go back to the way things were. He had a lot of catching up to do. Hopefully as memories and knowledge continued to click into place, a sense of harmony would follow suit.

This era of discombobulation would pass, and he would help it along however he could. Almost as exciting as reclaiming himself was returning to his and Hermione's relationship. She was the siren that could beckon him across any hellscape.

Turning from the mirror, he noticed Hermione fussing in the cramped room. She unfolded towels, straightened tiny shampoo bottles, and unwrapped a small soap. A slight pink glow settled across her cheeks as she felt his gaze, and Draco was immensely pleased to know he was responsible.

"I'll need to Scourgify your clothes while you shower," her brow furrowed slightly. "I'm afraid you've only got the one set for now."

"Right," Draco said. He wasn't sure if she meant for him to disrobe with her there or not. Had she seen him naked before?

Hermione shuffled around him in the small space to stand at the sink. She made a show of inspecting and rearranging her hair. After a moment, she turned to him with shy expectance.

"Sorry, I can step out." Her blush was adorable. Darker pink washed across her cheeks as she averted her gaze. He began to pop open his shirt buttons in response and couldn't hide his smirk when her eyes retraced their path back to him.

He slipped off the shirt and barely had to reach to hand it to her, as cramped as they were. Draco pulled off his socks before undoing his belt. The silver buckle tinkled merrily before the leather uncoiled like a serpent from its loops and thumped to the floor. His button and fly were undone a second later, trousers pooling at his alabaster ankles.

Not giving himself a moment to reconsider, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and neatly tugged them to the floor.

He wasn't at home with himself yet, but he certainly found nothing to complain about. Hermione seemed equally without complaints as she greedily drank him in. A dumb smile stretched wide across Draco's face as her eyes wandered all over him, something restrained behind them. Her already rosy complexion burst into an intensity of red.

Without breaking eye contact, Draco reached down and grabbed his trousers. Handing her the garment, a sudden urge came over him. He bent to plant a kiss atop her head, curls tickling his nose. He leaned back and stepped into the shower, sliding the curtain closed as his smile deteriorated into a toothy grin. He heard Hermione let out a breath on the other side of the curtain before he pulled the handle and adjusted the water to a comfortable temperature.

"It'll take me a bit to refresh your clothes. I'll leave them by the sink when I've finished, alright?" Her voice held a shaky confidence.

“Yeah, thanks," he replied as he stepped under the hot spray.

The bathroom door clicked shut, and he lost himself in the hot steam. Picking up the fresh bar of soap, he luxuriated in the soothing water. He could do without the strong lavender scent, but beggars can't be choosers.

The water felt amazing on his sore muscles. After boiling himself with hot water and scrubbing stubborn grime from every nook and cranny, he got out and dried off with a towel in front of the foggy mirror.

His clothes were still absent. He wiped at the glass with the side of a fist, getting a jolt of surprise when he caught his reflection.

Draco found himself very handsome—striking even—not that anyone asked. The water had turned his hair a nearly translucent platinum. His gray eyes were energetic and intense beneath a fan of thick, blonde lashes. He stared back at himself, blinking slowly, learning his face. He tried out a few expressions.

Instantly, he understood why Hermione was so fond of his smirk. His facial muscles responded with practiced ease. The devilish expression fit him perfectly and gave him a cocky confidence he rather liked. Smirking at his reflection felt like unlocking a treasured kernel of himself.

Draco held the expression as he continued his self-perusal. He was fit despite a few proudly visible ribs. Efficient ripples of muscle stretched over and around his chest and upper body. His pale skin was flawless porcelain down to the collarbone, where a smattering of thin scars sliced across his chest and abdomen. He thought they lent him a rare brutality that his well-defined features couldn't provide on their own.

His eyes caught on the dark skull tattoo emblazoned on his left forearm. His biggest hurdle: the concrete misdirection, the false proof of his allegiance to Lord Voldemort. He traced a fingertip over the snake as it wound through the skull's open mandibles. How many times had the tricky thing spared his life, and how many times had it nearly gotten him killed?

He almost passed for a war-torn quidditch player between his height and corded, lean muscles. He wondered if he'd tried out for the team during his time at Hogwarts.

Shamelessly, he let his towel and gaze fall to see what else he was working with. Draco's ego inflated, and he reached down and grasped himself experimentally. His cock twitched happily in response.

He heard the door click open behind him and turned.

Hermione's jaw fell open. Stark and glowing from a hot shower, Draco was confident in the picture he painted for her. His smirk was like a nullifying beacon, and whatever words she'd prepared promptly tangled on her tongue. She clutched his freshly cleaned clothes to her chest, speechless.

Draco's new-found confidence swelled further. He reached out and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. Hermione's eyes snapped up to his, hunger and trepidation swirling in their honey-brown depths. He didn't let himself hesitate. Tugging her close, he pressed his mouth to hers, sultry and unapologetic.

A small gasp broke Hermione’s lips as he kissed her deeply. He poured himself into the kiss, giving her everything. One hand snaked around the small of her back and the other curled up around a shoulder. He wanted all of her. He began exploring, his tongue breached her lips. Draco's erection made delicious contact with her stomach, and a groan escaped him. Feeling its hardness against her seemed to shake Hermione from her trance, and she pulled away.

"I thought you were still—I didn't mean to interrupt, I—Your clothes are done, so—So, here!” Face redder than a Babybell, she thrust the clothes against his chest, spun on her heel, and fled like a titillated wren.

Having rendered Hermione dumbstruck without saying a single word was sure victory.

After drying himself off, Draco pulled on his singular outfit, appreciating its renewed cleanliness thanks to Hermione's deft spellwork. The crisp shirt collar and tidy trouser lines provided an aristocratic formality that had been lost in their previous state. Draco now met his reflection—a tidy visage of the young man he wanted to be, the one he'd apparently been all along.

He eventually left the washroom. Hermione had composed herself, her skin returned to its familiar tan. Draco sank onto the bed beside her, wondering what it would take for her to kiss him.

Before he knew it, she had dived back into filling him in about the war. He didn't mind, especially with their thighs pressed together.

She walked him through the nuances of it all: the history and subtleties of bigotry within the wizarding world, names and descriptions of Death Eaters, as well as a crash course on Horcruxes, objects that had contained fragments of Voldemort’s soul.

It was still a wondrous shock to Hermione that it was all over. She struggled to use the past tense and huffily corrected herself whenever she noticed a slip. Then when she spoke of Draco or something in the present, she found herself still stuck in the past test, having to correct herself in the other direction with further embarrassment. He found it all very adorable: the way she scrunched her face in self-reprimand, her attention to correctness… all of her. His thumb began tracing her knee.

While she caught her breath after explaining the Order of the Phoenix’s hierarchy, he angled back and tipped over to stare up at her. He had curled around behind her, head by her hip, and the tops of his thighs now pressed against the sides of hers. Draco had been struggling to pay attention, so enamored was he. Hermione looked down at him, confusion and something else etched lightly across her tired features.

"What are you doing?"

"I think we could use a break," he replied. His slight smile unwittingly pulled itself into a smirk. She stared down at him, her face still holding its light swirl of emotions.

When she didn't reply, he asked again.

"I need a break. Do you want to take a break?" He curled tighter around her and felt very much like a charming, oversized puppy. From his position on the bed he mooned up at her, and her eyes flicked up to the wall clock.

“I suppose we ought to. I talked us straight through lunch."

Hermione ordered room service, and the meals were left in the hallway with a knock at the door. She pushed a cloth-covered cart into their room; two covered dishes sat atop it with a metal pitcher and glasses between. A small tea service steamed at the end of the cart, its dull white porcelain a match to everything else in this Nowhere-land. They ate their fish finger sandwiches in easy silence.

"Someone will come by from the Order in a few days." Hermione had stepped back to the cart to refresh her tea.

"Checking up on us, yeah?"

"Yes. Kingsley knows we're here, but I'm not sure who they'll send," Hermione took in a ragged breath. "They want to make sure we're recovering okay after everything." She looked shakily up at him, her reservation easily visible.

"You can tell them the good news." Draco chuckled at her confusion and gestured at himself with a grand, sweeping wave. "I'm awake and alive, aren't I?"

Hermione let out a genuine chuckle.

They filled up the bulk of the day studying all things Draco. She began to share more small things with him: how he behaved, how he spoke, how he was around her friends, how he had behaved at school. She explained their need to pretend nothing changed when they started seeing one another sixth year; another layer of isolation. Even after Draco became a double agent, it was hard for him to connect with anyone else in the Order. The negative consensus regarding Draco and Hermione’s relationship—something the others insisted was discordant, or merely a product of infinite stress—helped nothing.

They tucked into comically enormous dinners of chicken salad and sweets, and Draco asked if Hermione had a plan for them. Asking felt both brave and pathetic. Beyond his captivating smirk and lovely skin, he had very little to offer anyone right now. Even his magic felt fractious and upset. Hermione wasn’t obligated to take care of him, but it seemed like she had chosen to.

"I'm working on something huge. If everything goes my way, we won't be here much longer. We'll be somewhere safe and comfortable to get you feeling yourself again. We can figure out the future from there." Hermione grinned, and he couldn't help but grin back. Whatever she had planned for them, he couldn't wait.

Hermione finished her salad and charged back into descriptions of Hogwarts. Gratefully, he found that many of his memories from their school days weren't as far gone as they had seemed. With some mental strain and the guidance of her words, he was able to find what felt like fever dreams of his school time. He remembered sitting in Charms learning sticking spells and accidentally getting his fingers stuck together. He could feel the worn wooden spoon handles in Potions and the way Snape drawled moodily about timing their stirring with a potion’s boil intensity. He could feel his shoes slap the smooth stone as he walked down corridors, babbling wordlessly with faceless friends.

Compared to details of the war, the Death Eaters, and the Order of the Phoenix, Hogwarts felt halfway within his mental hold. Draco found that he liked talking about school very much, despite how odd it was to hear of his atrocious treatment of her and her friends. He suspected he’d made a terrific double agent if he was capable of spouting vicious vitriol at her while harboring such affections. It made him wonder when he’d fallen for her and how straining it had been to maintain two faces for their mutual safety. It was no wonder her friends didn't embrace him.

As the sun considered setting, a luminous tube bounced through the curtains and scampered across the floor to Hermione. It took him a moment to recognize the ghostly form of a weasel. A kind but serious voice spoke as if emanating from the polecat. A Patronus, his brain whispered.

"Hermione, my dear, I hope you're well given everything. I'll be popping by tomorrow—right around Noon. Looking forward to seeing you," the weasel said, and with a wriggle of its long body, faded to nothing.

Hermione was already standing at her desk, making a note in her small leather-bound journal. She looked up at him, then glanced at the clock.

"It's time for your memory restorative," she announced, procuring a vial of the deep green slurry from her beaded bag. He popped the cork and tipped it into his mouth, thankful for the water she conjured to help chase it down. The restorative’s tart flavor made his stomach clench.

Hermione had turned back to her journal after taking the empty vial and was now engrossed in writing. It was early in the evening, but Draco was knackered. He removed his socks and shirt and shucked off his trousers, tossing them in a heap on the floor. He slunk under the cool covers and closed his eyes, content to relax into the mattress and listen to the sound of Hermione’s quill skittering across a page.

When, at last, she snapped the journal closed, she didn't seem altogether shocked to find him horizontal. He was barely awake, eyes nothing but slits as sleep tried to drag him under. After she changed into a faded set of pajamas in the bathroom and brushed her teeth—all courtesy of her seemingly bottomless bag—she turned off the lights and tucked herself into their bed with a long exhale.

"Have we shared a bed before?" He asked when Hermione had settled on her side of the mattress.

"Yes, we have," she answered through the dark.

"And have we… slept together?" He continued.

"Like sleeping? Yes, we have," Hermione said.

"What about …not sleeping?" Now, he felt like a proper dolt.

"N-no, not like that," she said more quietly. "We hadn't done that yet."

Draco paused, fumbling for words for what felt like an eternity.

"I didn't think before I got in bed. I'm just in my boxers. I didn't want to overheat, and I just… I just… I don’t want to freak you out."

Hermione chuckled. "I see. That’s fine, but I need to take things slow. It destroyed me thinking you had died," she let out a long sigh. "So much has happened this week, I… I just need a little time for everything to sink in."

"I understand." And he did.

Draco felt like he'd already waited so long for just this. He didn't know how close they had been before, only how close he wanted to be now. Regardless, he would figure out how to be patient with their situation. As he fell asleep, he pledged to make whatever she wanted into their reality.

 

That brought him to this morning, where he lay gazing at her sleeping form just feet away. He relished his recollection of recent events and was massively reassured of his mental stability. There were lots of blanks to fill back in, but with time it was a task they could tackle.

With a sharp inhale and a jolt, Hermione sprung bolt upright. She whirled around quickly, eyes wide as she gulped in her surroundings. She turned to stare down with a crinkled brow at Draco, who lay stock still. A torrent of emotions flashed in her eyes before she gave him a small, apprehensive smile.

"Sorry if I woke you. It's… I've been like this for a while." She juddered her head as if shaking off the physical memories that stained her. He let out his breath slowly and shook his head.

"S'okay. We'll get through it," he said, pulling his lips into a thin smile. He was thrilled when she mirrored the expression. He was less thrilled when she scooted out of their bed.

"I need to get some food and supplies for the next little while. Would you be okay with me going out? I can set you up watching telly." She was already pulling a set of clothes from her bag.

"Watching what?" Draco sat up now, and the white sheets fell away to reveal his pale, bare torso. Fine scars crisscrossed his lean, muscular chest and stomach. He looked up to see Hermione staring, her cheeks rosy. She quickly bustled into the bathroom to dress.

"Gimme a second, and I'll show you." She said as she disappeared.

After she was dressed, she set him up with the telly—that odd box facing the bed from the corner—and a handheld rectangle marred by gummy buttons. Its shiny face had blinked to life, and Hermione had taught him which buttons rotated through the available programmes.

Draco promptly found himself hypnotized by the box. He had found some sort of baking demonstration. He was instantly enamored with close-ups of capable hands laminating croissant dough. It so enthralled him that he startled when a key fumbled at the door, signifying Hermione’s return.

She bustled into their room, arms laden with bags slung around her elbows. She unloaded the groceries and covered the desk with food, casting stasis charms on the juice, cheese, and produce to help them keep. She unfurled sets of clothes, two for each of them, and laid them out on the chair.

With everything unpacked, Hermione made them both lunch. He was shocked to realize it was midday already, the telly’s hypnotic powers having stolen hours from him. Hermione explained that most of her last year involved camping on the run with Ron and Harry. She’d made a lot of sandwiches during those months. She smiled wryly as she handed a sandwich over to Draco.

The two of them talked about Hogwarts for the rest of the day and well into the night. It started with his questions about Patronuses—no, she said, he had never been able to cast one in school.

Draco's questions kept coming like water from a tap. He eagerly probed for more about their time together as rivals in class, what their schoolmates had been like, and their professors. All of it fell happily into his head.

By the time they finished a dinner of ham and cheese sandwiches courtesy of Chef Hermione and her beaded bag, Draco thought he had something of a handle on his Hogwarts years. He still didn't know anything about his friends or Slytherin house as Hermione was not privy herself. Still, he knew enough to get a grand picture, and that wove beautifully with the scraps of memories his brain had managed to summon.

They changed into their pajamas—her that same faded red set, him stripping to his boxers—and fell asleep talking about the Yule Ball held during their fourth year. There was something cosmic and romantic knowing she'd been there all along—however long it had taken them to find one another. Draco drifted to sleep, imagining himself and Hermione dancing and twirling at the ball together.

The next day they rose, had breakfast, and went for a stretch around the block once Draco took his memory restorative. It felt as though he hadn't seen the unobstructed sky in eons. Even through gray cloud cover, the daylight was cleansing.

The Wribbleton—their quaint, cream-coloured hotel—was situated at the back of a small business quadrant in magical London that melted into an even smaller working-class neighbourhood. Hermione steered them in a small rectangle around the grocery, hotel, Apparition point, and an overstuffed corner shop that supplied confections, potions, and overpriced butterbeer. The war had affected more high-visibility areas like Diagon Alley, but Hermione was pleased to find this area spared.

After their walk, they waited side by side at the foot of the bed. Hermione was resigned to staring at her nail beds, her lower lip captured between her teeth. Eventually, Draco reached over and laced their fingers together, giving a reassuring squeeze. She let her lower lip go free, though her fingers were like iron in his hand.

A soft knock came at noon on the dot. They both jumped. Hermione hurried over with her wand in hand to check the peephole before she stepped back and opened the door for their visitor.

A middle-aged beanpole of a man entered wearing a tan trench, his face equal parts tired and kind. His eyes crinkled something like acknowledgment at Draco as he removed his coat and sat on the chair in the corner. His rusty, homemade-looking jumper echoed a messy head of hair, a tweed flat cap gripped in his hands.

"How are we finding ourselves now that the dust has settled?" the man asked gently and attentively. His voice was cozy and gave Draco the impression of nights shared around a fireplace. Still, he couldn't summon a name for this familiar, gentle soul.

"We've been better, but we easily could’ve been worse," Hermione said in a voice tinged with sadness.

"Kingsley said something happened to the lad," the man gestured at Draco as he spoke to Hermione. "Were you there?"

Hermione took a deep breath before proceeding.

"I'm not sure how it happened. The killing curse grazed Draco…it was like it fizzled out and glanced off him or something. I saw him fall, but when I got to him, he still had a pulse. He was out for a while, and when he woke, he didn't remember who he was." She looked so tired.

"You don't remember anything?" the man asked, addressing Draco this time.

Draco shook his head, holding the older man’s compassionate gaze.

"Nothing. But Hermione is helping loads. Some stuff is becoming familiar again. Hogwarts mostly…and her." He broke eye contact to shoot a smile at Hermione. The man gave a sad smile of his own.

"Well, if anyone can help, it's Hermione. St. Mungo's is bursting at the seams, stitching everyone back together. Never mind the added security, with half the surviving Death Eaters needing treatment before trial. The Ministry will be auctioning Death Eater estates as part of its immediate cleanup and good-faith efforts—that's Friday, and everyone is scrambling to make it a go. It's a zoo…" the man trailed off, reaching into his trouser pocket and unfurled a folded letter.

"…Which reminds me." He handed Hermione the letter and flashed a smile at Draco. "I got an offer for you, Hermione. If you're up to it, that is. How would you like a job in the Department of Magical Artefacts? As zoos go, it's quite a fun gig. Bernard wants to snap you up for his Dark Artefact Discover Team. Merlin knows you've got the experience."

"Are you serious? Arthur!" Hermione exclaimed, gawping at the man, Arthur. Before Draco knew it, Hermione chucked herself across the room into Arthur's enveloping hug.

"I always promised I'd do what I could to get you a Ministry job, didn't I? Magical Artefacts was beating down my door to see if you might be interested. With a formidable resume like yours, who could deny Hermione Granger," Arthur hugged her with familial practice. They didn't look alike, but Draco tried to work out if there was any relation.

“I’d love to! I accept! When can I start?" Hermione responded as she stepped back from Arthur and sat back down beside Draco.

"Whenever you want. Bernard said he wants you settled first—he's heard how adept you are at overworking yourself. Find a place to live and all that. Your desk will be waiting. Bernard said to show up whenever you're ready. He seemed right confident you'd accept. Harry was offered a space at Auror Training, but he’s adamant about needing a little time first." Arthur looked down at his shoes, his face suddenly racked with grief. "We all need a little time," he echoed.

"Arthur… Arthur, I'm so sorry." Hermione's face now mirrored Arthur's in a crumple of loss.

"You heard about the boys then," said Arthur's hollow voice. Draco saw a fat teardrop fall and splatter the toe of his shoe.

"I was there when Ron—wait, boys?! No, who else?" Hermione's face contorted with horror.

Arthur's tears began to fall in an even rhythm between his feet.

"I'm afraid we lost Fred, too. He was caught in an explosion," he choked. "We're still getting used to his and Ron's clock hands remaining on 'LOST' ever since..." he trailed off, crumpling his hat in his hands.

"No… No…" Hermione choked on her shock and tears. She clutched her knees hard. "Arthur, I don’t know what to say."

Arthur struggled to compose himself, using a large, embroidered kerchief to mop his face from top to bottom.

"Thank you, Hermione. You know how special those boys were. Always getting into trouble, but always with the best intentions. Ron really did love you, you know. Fred, too. He thought of you as more of a sister than Ginny most days."

Hermione smiled weakly at Arthur and he returned the gesture.

"I'd best be going. I have three others to check on today. It helps to keep busy.” Arthur pulled a small scroll from his pocket. He fixed Hermione with sad, twinkling eyes as he handed it over. "It's good to see you, Hermione. Please do keep in touch?”

Arthur sniffled loudly and rubbed at his reddened nose as he showed himself out with a nod and closed the door behind him.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Hermione seemed to deflate where she sat. Unrolling the scroll, her eyes scanned the parchment. It seemed to be a roster of names. They sat in observant silence as Hermione worked her way down the list. When she finished, she seemed resolved. She eventually let it bounce back into its rolled shape, her red-rimmed gaze possibly even heavier than before.

 

"I don't think we'll need to stay here much longer," she said at last, gaze and expression lifting. "I'm working on a surprise for you. I'm hoping we'll be able to get out of here by the weekend."

Draco nodded. This was great news and he felt a stab of affection. A surprise for him? And not just a surprise, but she spoke of them as a unit, as though she planned to stay with him. He stepped between her knees and leaned down, wrapping Hermione in an embrace with her head nestled against his ribcage.

"Thank you, Hermione," he said, and he hoped she knew all he meant.

She hugged him in response, arms sliding around his middle as if she'd done it a thousand times before. They held one another like that for a while.

"How do you know Arthur?" Draco asked, his curiosity a bubble needing to pop.

"I've known him for ages. He's Ronald's father, but the whole Weasley family essentially adopted me and Harry—especially once we were all dragged into the war." Hermione's eyes filled with a storm of happiness, sorrow, and nostalgia.

"They call their house The Burrow, and it's pretty much the definition of Home: a singularly confusing structure held together with pure magic and love. It truly must be seen to be believed. Birthdays, holidays, all our important days were spent at The Weasleys." Hermione continued, affectionately describing The Burrow's rickety walls that refused to let wind in, its rambling garden filled with gnomes, and its bumpy orchard where the family played quidditch with their own set of rules.

Hearing about it all put Draco in a beautiful trance. He could practically feel the warmth radiating from Hermione's heart as she reminisced about time shared with the Weasleys. Draco knew how adrift Hermione had felt. She'd told him the horrors of erasing her parents’ memories and sending them away to live out of Voldemort's reach in Australia.

Draco could imagine the solace and safety she'd found with her adoptive family. He could practically see the gatherings she described. Like a phantom, he could almost feel what it would be like to have so many people love him so completely, to be part of something so nurturing.

Draco pondered his own family, his parents. What had they been like? Was his forgotten childhood filled with gatherings around warm fireplaces and groups of caring, smiling faces? He thought not.

Hermione had said both his parents were awaiting trial. Apparently, neither had ever attempted to resist or remove themselves from Voldemort's cohort. Hermione didn't seem hopeful for their release. In fact, she did not attempt to hide her glee.

The knowledge of their willing crimes made him enraged and deeply ashamed. That had been the path prescribed for him, the path much of the public still assumed he had eagerly followed.

Draco found he craved belonging, love, and protection. Had that been part of his motivation for betraying the Death Eaters? He might never know. He certainly would not visit his mother and father's cells to ask.

Draco hoped beyond hope that he and Hermione could be family for each other. He was quickly growing desperate for it.

Chapter 4: Return

He closed his eyes and reclined, the sun-warmed bench kissing him through his thin blue shirt. With his arms stretched across the bench's back, ankles crossed before him, and an empty plate abandoned in his lap, he felt like a king.

On a gorgeous day like today, his smiles were broad and frequent. For the first time in months, his heart felt light.

He didn't need to look to know where she was in the garden, to picture her easily from where he relaxed. Feet bare and toes dirty, Hermione navigated the narrow paths of the sprawling garden with a flat basket held in the crook of her elbow. She bent and wove between zealous vines that reached out to brush her hair and trace her cheeks. The garden was unruly and boisterous, just as she was.

He had followed her through the maze of rambling rows countless times. She always started in the far corner with the herbs and work her way to the bench for a rest. He cracked his eyes open, admiring a staggering row of broccoli and their neighbouring turnips and carrots. She had always been systematic, sometimes frustratingly so; why would garden chores be any different? But he loved her passion, her predictability, how she could find an optimum way to do anything as if part of her very nature.

It was one of those stunningly perfect summer days when the sun crawled across the sky, giving the illusion of time slowing down. He cherished the feeling, inviting the warm rays to chase away his worries. The afternoon was saturated with unobscured sunshine. A steady profusion of sweet peas flanked his bench to the north. Their soft pink and purple blossoms lent the air a thick floral aroma that pulled the hum of bees all around him.

"Now you're finished with lunch, you can help!” Her voice was teasing, but it met his ears like a song nonetheless.

He cracked an eye open in time to see her cloud-like bun pop above a robust line of broccoli plants. The next moment, she plunged back down to her knees and kept working. The mature broccoli leaves obscured her face, but he could see her deft hands pulling long, fat carrots from the soil by their feathery greens.

She hummed happily to nobody in particular. It was a sweet, nonsense melody he wanted all for himself.

 

 

Draco drifted out of the dream with a grin splitting his face in two.

He’d started having dreams like this. They were vivid and realistic and left him simultaneously digging through his foggy past and gazing hopefully into the future. Vibrant tableaus of happiness, like the garden from the night before, were his favourites.

Compared to Hermione's frequent struggles with bad dreams, he felt quite fortunate for his lack of nightmares since the accident, knock wood. There were mornings she awoke with a scream or sobbing, but he could always soothe her with gentle back rubs and simple affirmations.

His one constant was Hermione. Just like his time in the waking world, dream Draco was always accompanied by her. She was often laughing and happy, effervescent and glowing, her honey-brown eyes riveted to him, chocolate hair a bouncy halo around her.

They both looked healthier already: eyes brighter, faces gaining the elasticity of nourishment, sunken stomachs beginning to fill out thanks to rest and regular meals. Hermione seemed happier, too, her spirits higher. Some of her exhaustion seemed to have lifted for good. She had lost much of the melancholy from their first few days in the hotel.

Mornings were getting better for Draco. Now, when he woke, he knew his name. He still felt like he was borrowing someone else's skin. Often, he had to scour around for a train of thought, but he was beginning to take the shape of the person he'd been. He assumed it was the monotony of the hotel suite making him antsy; this morning marked ten consecutive, conscious days cooped up. Ten days of reacquainting himself with himself.

Still, he often felt like nobody. His internal dialogue felt empty and lacking.

He knew loads of facts and figures about himself, but there was a disconnect, an incohesion… or at least that's what he thought. He tried not to let on to Hermione. He just needed more time to get back to normal. He did his best to reassure himself.

Draco looked down, Hermione’s curls splayed against his chest as she continued to sleep. They had inched closer and closer during the night until their feet began to overlap. Two nights ago, when Hermione finished writing in her journal, she had slipped beneath the sheets in a pair of gray shorts and a loose red shirt, and Draco made his move.

Slipping his fingers slowly around her ribcage, he tugged her to his chest. Her hair was a riot of curls against him, and he was thrilled to feel the curve of her arse whisper against his crotch. He was in his customary charcoal boxers, the rest of him bare. He forced his arm to relax there, wrapped around her middle, and his fingers fanned across her stomach.

She hadn't said anything that night, but she had neither complained nor pulled away. As her breathing deepened, her hand had slid up to lay over his own.

They had slept that way since. Hermione had been twitchy and unsure in his arms the first night, like a deer that might startle and bolt. After that, he awoke with her settled in the exact same position. She hadn’t said a word about the evolution of their sleeping arrangement, just happily crawled to his chest after she slunk beneath the covers. He noticed her nightmares had lessened as well.

Today she slept with her back pressed to his chest. He stroked her hair, luxuriating in the feel of soft curls that wound around his fingers. He caught in a snarl, and she groaned a complaint.

“Shit, sorry,” he muttered into the top of her head.

“I was having a lovely dream,” she grumbled. Her voice was thick with sleep as she stirred in his arms. Draco relished the way her backside subsequently rubbed against him.

“Oh? And just what were you dreaming about?” He purred into her ear. What he would give to know.

“Har-har,” Hermione mocked before she yawned wide. “I’ve got to go check on a few things this morning. And before you can ask: yes, they're for your surprise,” I should have everything ready in a few days.” She knuckled sleep from her eyes and stretching against him. Merlin, he loved how she pressed into him.

Draco desperately hoped they'd expand their intimacy to more carnal acts soon. The Hermione bug had definitely bitten him, so insatiable was his itch for her. Sharing a bed had been bliss, pure torturous bliss. Especially now that she'd made occasional, experimental contact with his morning wood. A brush here, a nudge there… enough for his cock to throb mercilessly, painfully hard in his boxers until he could stumble to the shower.

Over the past week, he'd imagined every single way to appreciate Hermione Granger. Draco's morning showers were dedicated to working himself up to fantastic visions of her: bent over the writing desk as he pounded into her; falling to her knees, mouth open and drooling as his cock bounced in anticipation; riding him until her moans reduced to wailing nonsense; sprawled out on the bed, one nipple teased between his fingers as he thrust down her throat; against the shower wall, legs wrapped around him as he pushed into her slowly and nibbled at her neck. That last one was often how he usually finished, imagining them both beneath the spray of the shower as he ruthlessly pumped himself with his hand.

He realized she was still talking. Hermione's arse drifted away from his erection, and he snapped back to the present. She stood, gathered her neat stack of clothes, and headed into the bathroom to change. Her voice raised to carry around the corner.

"…I expect I'll be gone until late this afternoon. You know how the telly works. There’s food on the desk if you get hungry. I'll bring us something back for dinner." He found he had a hard time listening, preferring to devote his brainpower to imagining how her breasts might lift and settle when she removed her shirt or how she might shimmy her hips into a skirt. He'd felt much of her body under the sheets but hadn't dared sneak a peek.

"Alright," he called back to her in a weak voice.

A moment later, she emerged fully clothed and radiant. The sky blue top set off her olive skin beautifully, tucked into a navy blue pencil skirt that ended just above her knees. Her hair was pulled back into a puffy bun. She smoothed down her front in a lame attempt to tame the rumples. Giving up, she cast a charm, and the wrinkles vanished.

After he had drunk his memory restorative and a glass of water, Hermione kissed Draco on the lips like a good luck charm and headed out the door.

Draco took an extremely long shower and wrapped his pruned skin in a white robe. He amused himself for most of the day, grazing on snacks while the telly showed a delightfully goofy man in a suit and his various misadventures. This "Mr. Bean" fellow was atrociously bad at avoiding absurdity, and Draco found it all too hilarious. He didn't even mind the loud interruptions of irrelevant products that dotted the programme.

When Hermione finally arrived home, she burst through the door with a humongous smile on her face and enough carry-away food to feed a family. She refused to share any details with Draco while she unpacked their feast. They ate, happily allowing "Mr. Bean" to entertain them until it was time for bed.

 

Two days later, Hermione told him that the surprise was ready. She poured their belongings into her bottomless bag and hummed a little tune as she brought out a pair of boots for him.

Once Draco'd run his fingers through his hair in front of the mirror, Hermione took his hand, and they stepped through the front door together. It felt odd to be in the outside world. The brisk air was biting and uncomfortable after the banal coziness of their temporary abode. Outside the hotel, the streets were silent. Draco clasped Hermione's hand tightly as they walked to the Apparition point.

He'd tried to imagine this mythical surprise. Of course, he had. Given the context clues, he assumed the surprise was directly related to their living situation. But now that the day was here, it felt so real. He didn't feel comfortable with the unknown. Draco was nervous, even if he didn't want to admit it, and leaving their hotel room had taken more courage than he cared to admit.

When they arrived at the Apparition Point, she turned to face him. Her smile was infectious. Bag slung over one shoulder, she held both of his hands in hers.

"You've been very patient. Are you ready for your surprise?" She beamed up at him.

Her words made his heart melt, but he could not find any of his own. All he could do was nod and mirror her colossal smile.

With a loud pop, they Apparated away.

If his stomach had been in a knot before, it didn't compare to the horrid intestinal snarl of their instant transport.

They landed on a grassy hill in the countryside. The field before them danced in windswept patterns, and the sun debated emerging from behind cloud cover.

One hundred yards away sat an old and stately manor. A plethora of symmetrical wings gave the massive estate the appearance of a small castle. Across each of its many faces marched tall, multi-paned windows.

Vibrant, formal gardens surrounded the manor and formed a lush moat. A pale gravel walk marched straight up to the front doors. In the distance, a verdant forest fanned out towards the horizon.

"Welcome home," Hermione said proudly.

His mouth had popped open at the sight of the sprawling grounds. Despite its undeniable beauty and centuries-old decorum, the manor and surrounding land were awash with an odd stillness akin to grief.

"Come on," Hermione said, tugging at his wrist. "I want to show it to you."

Draco's boots were cemented to the earth.

"You can't be serious," he gawked, eyes alternately taking in the staggering estate and her comely face.

She hooked their arms together, and they picked their way through the swirling grass towards a fastidious yew hedge that ringed the formal grounds.

Hermione began explaining his magnificent surprise: she had secured Malfoy Manor, his childhood home. Draco staggered as they approached, and he clutched her arm affectionately as she explained her accomplishment.

To Hermione's great glee, Kingsley Shacklebolt had been instated as Minister for Magic as soon as the dust from the battle at Hogwarts had settled. He was a clear pick that put the wary wizarding world at ease. Shacklebolt had rushed to organize a government auction of convicted Death Eater properties in a bold move to simultaneously improve the office's public image and fund the rebuilding effort.

Once their occupants were detained, had their day in court, and been sentenced to Azkaban, the estates and family homes of the guilty had been seized by the Ministry. The Department of Magical Artefacts had efficiently combed through the properties before the goblins of Gringotts prepared the deeds and wards for new ownership. Bank accounts had been released to next of kin, or if there were none, added to the massive fund needed to repair and correct the past few years of destruction.

Hermione had received a letter the day after Arthur's visit. She’d immediately drawn up a few lengthy letters of her own in response. Draco's parents had both been sentenced to Azkaban earlier that week, but a bureaucratic miscommunication was preventing the family’s assets to pass to Draco.

Lucius, his father, had received a life sentence suitable for his lifetime of dedicated service to Voldemort.

Narcissa, his mother, had apparently been so violently distraught when she learned of Draco's defection and war-ending contributions that her forty-year sentence would be spent within the walls of St. Mungo’s.

Good riddance, he'd thought after Hermione gave him the news. They sounded like absolute monsters.

The newly seated Minister Shacklebolt had been instantly receptive to Hermione's letters. She had appealed, representing Draco as his temporary caretaker, and all but demanded Malfoy Manor be granted directly to him as rightful deed-holder. She'd argued it would be an essential gesture of good faith from the Minister for Magic and would hopefully relieve Draco of some public heat.

Shacklebolt had agreed and began the paperwork immediately, even going so far as to apologize for the obvious oversight. A team from Magical Artefacts had removed or neutralized every dark or dangerous object, creature, portrait, and ghost unfit for the general public, and Hermione herself had demanded the house elves be freed. Malfoy Manor had been the first property the Ministry cleared.

Hermione held the final report from the Ministry now, a lengthy parchment he'd seen her peruse the night before. She chuckled darkly when she told him about a line item on the report: the mirrors. Apparently, the manor's many mirrors had been cursed to reflect Muggle-borns and Muggle-sympathizers as desiccated corpses. She explained that the mirrors and a few other items would be returned once their curses had been broken. Hermione might even perform some of the spellwork herself once she claimed her desk with the Dark Artefact Discovery Team, she added with glee.

They reached an elaborate pair of wrought iron gates curled and twisted together to form an "M." Hermione held up her hand, and the gates glided silently open, welcoming them up the pristine gravel walk. The manor stood imperiously ahead, guarded by a regimen of budding rose bushes flanking the path. As Draco and Hermione passed through the manor gates, he felt an affectionate thrum of magic crawling up his spine.

"I grew up here?" Draco asked, head swiveling from side to side to take in the sumptuous gardens with their geometric rows. Around one flank of the behemoth manor sprawled a pond dotted with lily pads being enjoyed by a pair of swans.

"Yep. Pretty nuts, isn't it? I know you don't remember it now, but it's a place for us to live, and I hope it will help you find your old self again."

"Well, it's certainly a place to live," Draco laughed.

"I hope you're okay with it. It has a complicated past, I know, but there is so much beauty here, too."

"I don't care where I go so long as you come with me," he said. "What about you? Have you been here before?"

Hermione paused before she answered, her gaze falling to where his arm overlapped hers.

"Just once, not too long ago," she answered finally. "I'll tell you about it another time."

He didn't want her to wallow in the past on such a glorious day. Draco dropped his hand to grasp Hermione's elbow and graciously guided them up the shallow steps to an absolutely massive front door. She held up her hand again, and the front door swung in on silent hinges. Inside, sconces bounced to life in a mesmerizing chain reaction that stretched down the manor’s long hallways and out of sight. A family of chandeliers cast their perfect crystalline light over the austere entry hall.

Hermione slid her fingers between Draco's. Together, they took a breath and stepped inside.

The manor was spotless. Dark woodwork gleamed, smooth expanses of stone and marble shone spotless. Not a speck of dirt or mote of dust could be found.

Draco and Hermione wandered through the halls together, peeking into vast ballrooms with dramatic parquet floors and innumerable sitting rooms. Paintings, portraits, and fine art adorned the walls. Everything was tasteful and luxuriously appointed. The Malfoy family seemed to have a considerable affinity for velvet.

Now and then, they stumbled upon an area whose magic felt hollow and scabbed over: the floor of a large drawing room Hermione quickly pulled them from, a grand table in one of the formal dining rooms, the corner of a sitting room in the east wing, one of the sparse guest quarters tucked along the back of the manor. These places felt stripped and ravaged like something had been forcibly and quickly removed. If either of them pondered which rooms the Death Eaters had inhabited most, neither vocalized the thought.

Eventually, they located an upstairs hallway whose ceiling was an enchanted fresco of the heavens, complete with pulsing constellations and galaxies. A couple of heavy, wooden doors guarded two rooms. Dark stain smartly set off the cold silver of their handles. The larger room sat at the front of the hallway closest to the stairs. Its handle was smithed in the shape of a posy of jonquils, stunningly intricate and delicate.

The door swung open to reveal a dour, sedate bed chamber decorated in soft grays and charcoals. A gigantic bed sat sternly facing the door with an artful pile of pillows arranged against a black headboard. Its conjoined sitting room was centered around an impressive fireplace. A staggering vase of yellow narcissus served the room a slice of colour from the coffee table.

Double doors led to a walkthrough closet still laden with clothing: the left side was a uniform of black while the right side wandered through moody spectrums of blues and greens, purples, and deep reds. Beyond the clothing through another set of doors lay an expansive bathroom. A row of sconces burst to life above a humongous vanity. The wall was bare where a mirror ought to hang. The sunken tub could have hosted a party. Its veined marble was drained and flanked by elaborate-looking taps on one side. The suite felt guarded and imposing, and Hermione was quick to steer their exploration onward.

The smaller room stood at the end of the hallway. It had an intricate dragon serving as its door handle. The dragon brandished its teeth as it reared back, belly on display and wings clamped tight to its sides. Its segmented body served as the handhold, and its tail was embedded in the wood. The door opened silently to reveal a room swathed in green, its layout a reflection of the first room.

Damask wallpaper stamped flourishes around the room in sage and emerald. The furniture gleamed the same rich brown as the doors. Against one wall stood a large four-poster bed dripping with verdant silk sheets. A pile of moss-green pillows of every texture added to the feeling they had just entered an intensely posh forest clearing. The plush carpet was so dark green that it was nearly black. Overstuffed armchairs of charcoal gray sat on either side of a massive mantle. Through the double doors hung another macabre sartorial: bespoke formal suits, sharp button-ups, crisp trousers, all in the same impossibly rich black.

Draco looked down and noted his clothing was a perfect match.

"This is my bedroom, then?" He asked, thumbing the cuff of a shirt.

"It must have been, right?" Hermione replied, looking around in wonder.

They finished their cursory exploration of the manor before Hermione parked Draco in an utterly gorgeous Library that could have belonged to a university. She kissed him on the forehead and popped out for some food. He settled himself on an overstuffed chair and happily closed his eyes, enjoying the sound of light rain against the enormous windows. The timeless scents of leather and parchment wafted to his nose.

Not an hour later, Hermione returned with lunch. Draco was again delighted to see her laden with enough food for a small party. Soon, they were sat on the floor around a low table, tucking in to steak, fluffy rolls, mashed potatoes with gravy, and roasted carrots. Another large bag of food was placed in stasis for dinner down in the kitchens.

They finished their day exploring the grounds, chasing each other between immaculate rows of spring flowers and even getting entangled against the sturdy wall of the hedge maze. They discovered that the gazebo was built in a perfect location to overlook the pond. The two swans seemed bound to its bucolic waters and floated contentedly back and forth. As the first touches of periwinkle painted the western sky, Draco reclined on one of the chaises with Hermione pulled close. He pressed an appreciative kiss to her soft lips.

"Thank you," he breathed when their lips broke apart. "For the surprise, for everything."

Hermione answered by rejoining their mouths, her tongue slipping against his. Her legs automatically wrapped around his hips. He could feel her warmth pressed against him, her knees high and her legs spread wide to cradle his pelvis against hers.

Draco's fingers quickly found their way beneath her blouse to kneed at her breasts. Soon, his hands weaseled under her bra entirely to palm them and tease at her nipples, pulling them gently into hardened points. Hermione clutched the front of his shirt, hands unmoving as she started to writhe and arch beneath his hands. Her kisses had become less measured, more passionate, wilder. He liked this side of her. He wanted more of it. He wanted to wave a hand and unlock her just as she had done to the manor's front door.

Hermione was particularly fond of her nipples and breasts being fondled. The soft fabric of her bra was pushed up as Draco's fingers prowled over her perky tits. When he spread his hands over them, her nipples landed perfectly between his index and middle fingers. He experimented with rubbing and pinching them before settling into a rhythmic rolling motion.

He had no idea what he was doing, but it seemed to be working. He felt himself expanding with want, his cock aching against the fabric of his boxers and trousers. Within a matter of minutes, he had her panting into their vigorous kisses until she broke away to whine into Draco's neck. He continued his new routine and was rewarded by her breathy moans. Draco bucked his hips against her, and at the same time, he pulled her nipples straight out, feeling her breasts lift slightly to follow. Hermione let out a tortured whimper, and he felt her shudder beneath him. His cock twitched against the heat of her arousal, and he thrust against her. So badly he wanted to keep rocking into her until they both fell over the edge of pleasure.

Not a moment later, she pulled herself away from his hands with a gentle twist of her upper body. Her cheeks were bright pink, and she was still out of breath. He planted a kiss on each warm cheek before they stood, both straightening their clothing. Draco felt his erection slowly receding and tried to tamp down his disappointment. He hadn't wanted to stop.

Hermione steered them back inside, where she gave him his memory restorative. They ate a late dinner at one lonely end of the formal dining table, admiring how many hours they had spent cavorting outside.

That night, Draco fell asleep under his own roof in his own bed with his arm snaked affectionately around his girl. Hermione was already fast asleep. One shirt-covered breast pushed against his ribs while their legs entwined.

Despite everything, that terrible niggling feeling returned to him.

It had been a fantastic day, filled with the best kinds of surprises and some pleasant firsts. But he felt like a horrendous understudy improvising on stage. He would try harder tomorrow.

 

And he did try harder the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. At Hermione's encouragement, Draco began a daily routine of reviewing all that he'd learned. He usually sat alone in the Library, meditating on himself and walking through everything he could muster.

The practice was comforting—if not actually helpful—to the remembering process. Draco was still terrific at retaining everything Hermione shared with him. Still, he had only managed to call forward a few actual memories of his own accord: arriving at Hogwarts for the first time, sitting in a garden with Hermione, and the vague blur of racing a broom.

He was ecstatic when Hermione brought him to a room off the back veranda. There, a set of gorgeous broomsticks hung neatly on one long wall. The room also contained various flying equipment and a few large chests. All he could focus on was finding the broom that suited him best. His magic hummed like a bumble bee as he reached out to touch each one.

It didn't take long before he was astride a flawless piece of art: a sleek Nimbus model with an ink-black broom head. The grip was a supreme match for him, and its seat was placed so perfectly for the broom's weight that Draco had no doubt it had been built just for him.

Flying helped. Sometimes, when he felt lost or stuck on a loop, he would hop on a broom and whiz around and around the grounds, flying gradually higher and higher. When he got high enough to feel the electric hum of the wards that formed a vast bubble around the property, he would swing his broom to a halt. Draco loved the feel of the ancient magic brushing against his skin. It was old and comforting and sent waves of goosebumps through him. Eventually, he would pick a spot in the manor lawn and dive straight down, pointing his broom handle at the earth. As the ground came up to meet him, he would pull his broom in an effortless 180-degree sweep. He usually flew once or twice a day and could already perform the maneuver with a dismount, casually stepping off his broom onto the lawn. The move horrified and delighted Hermione all at once. Her face scrunched with worry, but her sparkling eyes stayed locked on his.

Hermione decided to begin work one week after they moved into Malfoy Manor. Always the go-getter, the war had done nothing to temper her persistence. Though the dust had settled merely three weeks ago, he knew his witch: Hermione did best with a challenge in her hands, a task before her. Working on the Dark Artefact Discovery Team certainly seemed like it would provide her with an adequate challenge.

That morning, she had donned her most "adult" outfit. She babbled nervously through their eggy toast, reminded him to take his restorative, and practically skipped to the Apparition point on the hill after a quick kiss. Her trusty beaded bag in hand and a look of determination across her delicate face, he watched her go.

Draco was quite content to lounge around most of the day. He walked himself through his memory routine, flew his broom, and catnapped on a sun-kissed couch in the Library.

Hermione looked invigorated when she found him that evening, still stretched out comfortably across the cushions. Strands of lively hair had freed themselves from her bun and tickled him as she leaned down to plant a kiss on his lips.

"How was work, love?" He grinned up at her and was rewarded with a twinkly laugh.

Hermione kicked off her work flats and hopped into his lap, diving into a regalement of her day.

After she'd gotten horribly turned around trying to find the Department of Magical Artefacts—whose clever idea had it been to put a department door in the stairwell?—she had been greeted with warmth and vigor by her boss, one Mr. Bernard Flisk. She described him as a bubbly, round man whose black combover did a little dance whenever a particularly exciting idea found him. That was apparently quite often, as magical artefacts frequently had him in an absolute tizzy.

Upon setting one foot through the department door, Flisk had shot over to Hermione, clasping his warm hands around one of hers, and warmly welcoming her to the Department of Magical Artefacts. He then walked them through a narrow hallway past a few offices and a small meeting room. A giant vault door complete with a wheel and safety glass observing window waited at the opposite end of the hall. The shiny brass plate labeled the formidable portal "Dark Artefact Discovery Team."

Flinging the wheel to the left and hauling the large door open, Flisk beckoned Hermione to follow him inside. Within lay a large and well-lit testing laboratory. Massive workbenches lined the walls, and solid platforms held court down the center of the room: one wood, one stone, one steel, and one solid glass. Flanking the door were a pair of desks. A young man was leaning over something at one of the far workbenches but tidied his station and promptly came over.

"Welcome to your new office! I hope you don't mind sharing."

Flisk introduced her—or rather reintroduced her—to Theodore Nott, her one and only teammate. Nott attended Hogwarts with Draco and Hermione, an attentive and astute Slytherin who threatened Hermione's class standings on numerous occasions. Apparently, he had been an acquaintance and friend of Draco's since childhood.

Mr. Flisk and Nott toured Hermione around the lab, going over the basic processes and procedures. Telling Draco about everything lit her up like a firework. She parroted the instructions for safely investigating dark artefacts, team protocols for determining cleansing solutions, some basic curse-breaking techniques, and decontamination. When she was done, Draco was certain he could have given the spiel himself.

Nott had been onboard for a few weeks already, and Hermione said he was immensely helpful in getting her up to speed. By the afternoon, they were investigating the gilt hand mirror Nott had set up into when she arrived. Flisk, beyond pleased with his team's progress and chemistry, had taken them to lunch before he was stuck in meetings the rest of the day.

Hermione and Nott seemed to have a natural rapport at the workbench. Draco couldn't ignore her excitement to return the following day, her eagerness to untangle the endless backlog of dark objects confiscated during the war.

Draco's heart sank.

Less than three weeks since his accident, and it only took one day of work to begin unraveling what they had. Draco felt the cold pit of jealousy forming low in his stomach. His lips twisted into a grimace. Hermione had continued talking, rattling off a list of objects she'd seen. Her words stumbled when she noticed Draco's sour countenance.

"Draco... what's wrong?"

"You two seem awfully close already, is all," Draco spat.

"Oh, come now. We're coworkers," Hermione replied. Her voice had risen to match his, ever the fiery Gryffindor. "Besides, he's not about to ask me on a date."

"How can you be so sure, little miss doesn't know how great she is?" Draco rolled his eyes.

"Draco, you can't be serious. You clearly don't remember Theodore at all. He's gay!”

"But that doesn't—oh." Draco's argument instantly deflated.

"You can calm down now. We live together, I love you. You don't have to worry about anyone whisking me away." She was frustrated and firm, and his worry vaporized.

Draco's face relaxed and he chuckled like a fool. "You love me."

"You know I do, you prat." She slapped his chest and stood, pulling him to his feet and leading them towards the dining room.

"I knew this Nott fellow, did I?" He asked.

"Yes, he said your families were quite close when you were children. His father was a Death Eater, but Nott went into hiding instead of taking the dark mark. He laid low way out on the coast. All he had in the world to keep him company was a telly and an angry gull. The day he saw the Profit article declaring the war over, he came straight to the Ministry and asked for a job."

"I don't remember him," was all Draco said in reply.

"That's okay, he understands. I caught him up on your situation. Theo asked after you when Flisk hired him. He seemed to know you were a double agent for the Order. He wondered if he could visit when you felt well enough. No rush, of course."

Draco nodded. He was curious about meeting an old friend but needed more time.

"I saw Ginny Weasley on my way home. She was picking up a portkey for her and Harry to visit Charlie in Romania. They've both insisted on taking time to grieve Ron and Fred and rebuild a life for themselves. They're even beginning to turn Grimmauld Place into a home they can actually enjoy." Hermione's eyes were alight. Draco was thrilled to see her so happy. He was curious to meet these people again, to assimilate back into her life.

"Harry plans to accept a Junior Auror position this summer when he feels ready. He and Ron always planned to pursue that career together. Ginny's studying for her NEWTs at the end of summer. She couldn't go back to Hogwarts after losing two brothers. I think everyone can understand that."

They arrived at the dining room, where dinner waited on silver serving trays. They ate a delicious meal of chowder, turkey breast, green beans, and butterscotch pudding. Hermione filled the air with joyful thoughts about her new employment. Draco ate in virtual silence, happy to hear anything and everything she wanted to share with open ears.

As he ate, the jealousy that pierced Draco earlier dissipated. Although she was his, the reality was still new to him—one more thing he just needed to remember.

After dinner, they sat together in the Library. Hermione floated around the vast shelves and gathered an armload of books for herself. The vast space boasted an impressive collection of texts on all subjects. She quickly was balancing a stack of a dozen books on memory healing and dark artefacts.

She then pulled a few books for him: an etiquette primer, a book of Malfoy family history, and a thin photo album. Hermione set them by his favourite sofa.

"I figured these might be helpful," she said, straightening the spines.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt." Draco sighed. If he was honest, he dreaded the idea of more homework.

"I'll tell you what. Let's make a deal: you get through these three and keep doing your daily meditations, and I'll get you another surprise."

Draco's eyes snapped up. "You already got me a mansion, witch. What kind of surprise are we talking here?" He certainly had a few ideas if she came up short.

"What if I convinced Theo to install a telly?" Hermione said, her eyes twinkling. “If you want, we could get Mr. Bean on tape so you can watch whenever you like."

Draco nodded eagerly and swiped the top book from the stack.

That was it. There were only two people on this earth who could motivate him: Hermione Granger and Mr. Bean. He would do anything for those two.

Draco pressed a soft kiss to the hinge of Hermione jaw and cracked open the etiquette book. Its butter-yellow cover was adorned with graceful cursive, and he began to read about the proper posture a posh scion such as himself should employ at all times, lest the attentions of the fairer sex catch him unawares.

Hermione had slipped from the Library to change. When she returned in a loose set of sweats and a tank top, her face was brightened with an excited smile.

"Are you that excited to get me up to bed, Hermione?" Draco teased.

Hermione's smile grew, but she shook her head.

"Come see what I found," was all she said, holding her hand out to him.

He stood and hopped over the sofa back, using one arm for balance. The etiquette primer snapped closed on the cushion. Hermione led him across the expansive hallway to a study.

Like many rooms in the manor, the study was outfitted in rich mahogany. In the center of the room, a heavy desk greeted them, and behind it sat an ornate chair that aspired to be a throne. Shelves lined the room, bragging an aesthetic curation of trinkets, preserved animals, and finely bound books. Behind the desk stood a few large armoires.

It was a gorgeous room, but the reason for Hermione's excitement escaped him. Noticing his disconnect, she pulled him around the large desk to the first armoire.

"There was a note regarding a memory device in the Ministry's report. I didn't understand what it meant until just now. The report said it was in the study near the Library and…" Hermione tugged the silver knobs, and the doors opened.

Glittering proudly in the armoire atop its stone pedestal sat a Pensieve.

Notes:

A Pensieve?! And they're at Malfoy Manor now? Let's gooo!
I hope you enjoyed a little taste of smut this chapter... don't worry, there is certainly more to come soon.
I couldn't resist Mr. Bean. Who could? I don't want to know.
- mephi ☽☿☾

Chapter 5: Transplant

Winter, Second Year at Hogwarts

The page corners of her Charms text flutter wildly as a set of blurs—one emerald, one sapphire—rocket past. The rare winter sunshine that warms Hermione’s face is interrupted for an instant as the two players hurtle across the pitch. Today’s match seems like a lively one, given the waves of commotion that continuously erupt around her. The grandstands are quite well-occupied.

She would much rather enjoy her book in the Great Hall, but her friends had dragged her along today. In the absence of their own team, Gryffindor had unanimously chosen to cheer for Ravenclaw. Ronald and Harry sit to Hermione’s left, Fred and George on her right. Ron and Fred jostle her as they stand to holler encouragements at Ravenclaw and snarl rude remarks at the Slytherins.

A booing chorus explodes from her friends as the announcer declares another goal for Slytherin. Today’s match will determine who plays Gryffindor next week, and that winner will decide the semi-semi-finals—Hermione interrupts her own train of thought. Her brain always feels like it’s pickling itself when she thinks too much about quidditch. However, the sport is dear to her friends, and they are dear to her, so here she sits.

Ronald stands and hurls another schoolyard insult, knocking into Hermione’s elbow. The rough movement forces her book to snap shut before she can mark her place. Hermione shoots the redhead a few choice words of her own, though too quiet to be heard. With a huff, she succumbs to the crowd’s insanity and the pull of the match waging before her, finally paying attention.

A Slytherin Beater swings their short bat to knock a Bludger at break-neck speed towards a Ravenclaw Chaser. The targeted player performs a hurried looping maneuver at the last possible second but drops the Quaffle. Instantly, the large ball is snapped up by a player in green as they sweep underneath. How could anyone—on or off the pitch—tell the players apart?

Blue players rush to intercept, but they’re far too late. The Quaffle is already down the pitch being chucked neatly through the middle goalpost.

Her friends whinge and offer words of encouragement to the Ravenclaw players as they fly by. She glances over at the scoreboard and sees the source of their frustration: Slytherin is glaringly in the lead. Hermione’s attention snaps to the most easily identifiable player: Draco Malfoy. He streaks across the pitch in her direction, his hair a white-blonde beacon. Normally when Draco points her way it’s to deliver a slur, bigoted arse he is. But on the pitch, he is almost like any other boy. He must have noticed the Golden Snitch, she thinks, and she watches him hug low over his broom handle and scream up the field.

Hermione sees it now: the golden ball flitting not thirty feet above their heads. Malfoy’s pace continues to quicken, boy and broom blurring like an arrow. The Ravenclaw seeker takes notice and barrels down after from their surveilling orbit.

With less than one hundred feet remaining, the Ravenclaw seeker levels out, easily matching pace half a broom-length ahead of Malfoy. The two players are both fully flattened out on their brooms, vying for whatever final edge of speed they can.

With fifty feet remaining, both players angle their brooms up slightly to aim directly at the golden ball. Hermione sees premature pride on the Ravenclaw boy’s face while Malfoy remains coiled and calculating. The ferocious wind slicks Draco’s hair back and emulates his current style off the field. Maybe one inspired the other?

Hermione looks up and sees the Snitch still mid-air. Delicate, metal wings catch the sunlight. For a silly game, she has no trouble appreciating a Golden Snitch’s beauty. Its wings go virtually still, a mocking reminder that it doesn’t need them to fly at all.

With ten feet remaining, the Ravenclaw seeker stretches out their right arm to line up a winning snatch. Malfoy, still half a broom-length behind, has both hands firmly on his handle.

The Snitch makes its move. The tiny golden orb tucks its wings in tightly and drops straight down. The Ravenclaw seeker’s eyebrows shoot up in panic as they scramble to pull their broom into a steep dive.

They’re nowhere near quick enough.

Malfoy, glued to his broom, twists his weight cleanly so he’s flying upside down. In the same motion, he wields his momentum expertly to throw the broomstick around him in a tight arc. In the blink of an eye he’s aimed once more at the Snitch, now free-falling towards the bleachers. He catches up to the delicate orb. The blonde waits until the last possible moment to reach out, gloved fingers closing tightly around the golden ball before he effortlessly pulls to a halt ten feet above the stands.

Malfoy hovers above Hermione and her friends, chest heaving and eyes locked triumphantly on his closed fist. Pale cheeks and nose glowing pink from exertion and the January wind, he seems almost human on the quidditch pitch. His hair is a platinum mess without the wind whipping it back, but he pulls it off. His dashing effortlessness is the perfect balance to his sharp features.

The moment shatters when his eyes focus beyond his hand. He recognizes Hermione in the stands and his face instantly pinches into a cruel sneer. Malfoy narrows his cold eyes and flits them between Harry, Ronald, and Hermione.

“Managed to convince the wretched mudblood to watch me win, did you? How very thoughtful. Who knows, Potter? Have her take notes on my flying, and you might even have a chance to beat me next week.”

Hermione looks away at the slur, choosing to stare at the clouds on the horizon and consider what might be served for dinner rather than validate Malfoy with eye contact. Her friends hurl insults, but she can’t hear anything over the low roar in her ears. She clutches her Charms text and stares at the clouds until she’s sure he’s gone.

When her friends finally fall quiet, there is an awkward silence. The group stands and heads towards the exit. Nobody speaks for a while, but she feels the protective bubble they form around her.

“He’s wicked on a broomstick, but that doesn’t make him any less of a cunt,” Harry mutters as they shuffle out with the crowd.

“A right pointy cunt, too,” Ronald throws over his shoulder at them as he descends in bouncy steps ahead.

Hermione remains quiet, head tilted down.

 

 

The memory concluded, and Draco drifted up out of the Pensieve. The basin’s silvery surface rippled once before settling back to languid, pearly undercurrents that caught the study’s moody lighting.

Draco reached to clutch the back of the chair. The memory was jarring, or more specifically, his behaviour had been.

Hermione had brought him to the Pensieve in his father’s old study less than an hour before. Giddy with excitement once he clocked the rare object before them, he’d immediately begged her to share a memory from Hogwarts. After a little shameless pleading, she agreed and used her wand to draw a strand of silver, honey-like liquid from her temple.

Draco was delighted to learn he had tried out for the quidditch team—he’d even made Seeker their second year. The new knowledge made his chest brim with pride. He had been quite skilled; even her friends, in their understandable rage, had acknowledged this. That winning move he pulled had been clean and calculated, flawlessly executed.

Seeing himself zoom around the pitch decked out in Slytherin green was glorious. It was the other part that made him chew painfully on his lower lip.

Hermione had told him quite candidly how vile he’d been to her at for most of school. She was frank: Draco had frequently aimed his nastiness and bigotry at her. He’d believed her, of course, but seeing was vividly different than believing. Draco couldn’t reconcile hearing himself slur so easily at Hermione. The image of his face shifting from victorious to vindictive looped through his mind.

A brew of opposing emotions swirled and left him adrift in an instant, once more disconnected and dissociated from himself. These were some of the growing pains he’d have to get used to. But facing such realities made him want to hide.

Hermione stepped in front of him.

“How was that?” Her eyes were concerned and searching as she gathered his hands in hers.

“Mm,” he hummed noncommittally. He couldn’t look at Hermione, choosing instead to stare over her shoulder at a glittering inkwell displayed a shelf behind her.

“It doesn’t bother me anymore,” she said, accepting his non-answer. She rubbed the backs of his hands soothingly with her thumbs. “I don’t expect I’ll hear that word much anymore,” she finished with a weak smile.

Draco let his head slump forward, eyes open and unblinking. It had bothered her. He had bothered her. Was he the last person who’d called her that awful word?

As if conjured by his prickly thoughts, something faint caught his notice on Hermione’s forearm. Without thinking, he gently lifted it to take a closer look.

Faint scars were just visible across her warm, tan skin. The offensive injury had healed smooth and even, her skin only betraying the thin, silvery scarring in the low glow of the study. The word “MUDBLOOD” tracked jaggedly down the middle of her slender arm.

Draco gasped and dropped her wrist as if burned. His stomach ripped out, seeing that word etched across her perfect skin. Hermione hardly reacted. She looked up at him, eyes wide like a doe.

“The scars should keep fading with more time,” she said in a voice hardly more than a whisper.

“D-Did I…” Draco couldn’t bring himself to finish asking the question. He couldn’t live with himself if he’d done that to her.

“No.” Hermione’s voice was firm, though her eyes were wide and glassy. “But you were there.”

Draco swallowed and nodded almost imperceptibly, a pit of fear still yawning before him.

“Your Aunt Bellatrix…” she began, quiet again.

Draco was frozen. He grasped blindly for how such a thing could have occurred. He couldn’t fathom watching her hurt; in what world had he stood by while it happened?

Hermione shrank into herself as she recalled the harrowing details.

Voldemort’s snatchers had caught Harry, Ronald, and Hermione nearly two months ago. They’d been on the run since fall. Hermione and Draco hadn’t seen one another for over half a year. A taboo on saying “Voldemort” and one bad day was all it took. Ronald had been the one to say it. Some small, twisted part of Draco was glad the redhead was gone. He knew Ronald had been one of Hermione best friends, but the oaf was a liability—Draco knew it in his bones.

She told him the snatchers found them almost instantly and brought the trio to Malfoy Manor for Draco to identify. When Draco said he couldn’t be sure who they were, his enraged and unhinged aunt had taken matters into her own hands.

Harry and Ron were locked in the dungeons while Bellatrix tortured Hermione for information. In her attempts to break Hermione, she used the Cruciatus curse, Legilimency, and finally a cursed blade. It had torn her apart in more ways than one, but she hadn’t revealed a thing. She’d somehow held out.

While Hermione was under Bellatrix’s knife, Draco faced his own unique torture: undercover for the Order still as Bellatrix’s protege, he was forced to watch, pretending to admire and drink in his aunt’s depraved techniques. He’d only managed to stay sane by Occluding himself so deeply that Hermione’s screams couldn’t pull him to action and compromise everything. If her friends hadn’t managed to intervene and Dobby hadn’t Apparated them to safety, the war would have ended much, much differently.

Hermione trembled from the harrowing recollection. She took in a rattling breath. Her eyes were hollow, and tears dribbled past her chin.

It had been mere weeks. If not for the Order’s careful healing magic, her flesh would still bear an angry, weeping wound. Draco couldn’t find a response. He was still frozen with one hand white-knuckling the ornate desk chair. He could feel his self-hatred viscerally as it lashed his conscience with abandon. Unblinking, he wondered if his heart was even beating. Hermione seemed so far away, even as their bodies practically touched.

She darted her hands out and caught his elbows. Draco could hardly feel her touch in his untethered state. All he knew was crushing sorrow. She stepped into him, tilting her head to rest over his heart and draping his forearms around her waist. She then slid her hands around his ribcage and up to rest on either side of his spine.

Slowly, he became aware of the easy rhythm of her breathing, the expanding and releasing of her chest against his. Draco’s thoughts began to settle further, and he noticed the light flutter of her pulse against him. All at once, her smell enveloped him. It was sweet and floral; perhaps honeysuckle? The angelic aroma drew him back down to earth. He clutched at her and breathed her in, admiring how right she felt wrapped up in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he finally choked out. “I’m so, so sorry, Hermione.”

“I know, Draco, I know. It’s not your fault.” Hermione’s voice was muffled and gentle as she spoke into his clavicle. “I should have told you sooner, I just didn’t… You don’t remember, but we talked about it all—before. When you finally caught up with us at one of the safe houses, you almost killed Harry and Ron. I’ve never seen you so furious. Harry understood, but you and Ron wanted to tear each other to bits before I could finally pull you away.”

Draco nodded and squeezed her tighter. He ached at the idea of her pain and suffering. But she was safe now—home and healing. They had one another, and life felt like it was just starting to unfold anew.

He continued to cling to her as though he might osmose more through their shared contact. What other horrors had happened? Hermione slowly pulled away and looked up into Draco’s silver-gray eyes.

“Are you alright?” She asked, her voice steadier now.

He marveled at her resilience and couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the question. He reached down and lifted her forearm, planting a tender kiss on the diminishing scars.

“I should be the one asking you,” Draco smiled, though the gesture couldn’t mask the pain in his eyes. His fingers slid down and entwined with hers, and he maneuvered them around the desk and out of the study.

Draco was getting used to living at Malfoy Manor again. It was still difficult to imagine growing up in the infinite estate, but the outlandish manor with its opulent decor had begun to adopt a sense of belonging as time passed. Despite still not feeling entirely at home, it was much better than the hotel room. On the vast estate, under the protection of dozens of wards, Draco felt safe and ironically free. He felt no urge to leave.

 

Draco and Hermione had a steady routine when she wasn’t at work.

After breakfast, they read together in the Library. Sometimes, he just sat there holding a book open and watching her, and she’d chastise him with a wide smile when she noticed. Then they’d explore the manor, finding all sorts of artworks and personal effects of a family he didn’t remember.

At mid-day, they would break for lunch.

Afterward, Hermione would dig about in the gardens or sequester herself in the potions lab. Draco would nap, sit in the gardens, fly brooms, or continue exploring on his own. Before dinner, he would find someplace quiet to sit with his thoughts and gently coax his past to the surface. After dinner, they’d use the Pensieve before retiring to the Library to snuggle. She would talk, or they would page through their respective reading.

Eventually, tiredness would find them both and they would pad up to bed. The next day they’d start all over again. Their days were essentially the same during the week, except after breakfast Hermione headed into the Ministry and left Draco to his own devices.

Even if she wouldn’t fly with him, he loved it when he and Hermione were both outside. On fair weather days, he would catch glimpses of Hermione bent over in the manor’s many garden beds. It made Draco’s stomach buzz happily whenever he felt Hermione’s gaze on him as he whizzed around the estate. She had taken the verdant garden’s upkeep upon herself. From the air, the meticulous geometric layout appeared like a prize-winning green quilt freckled with the whites, yellows, pinks, and blues of spring’s blooms.

To his utter amazement, Hermione chose to garden the muggle way. She said it reminded her of her mother. They had always gardened together in the summers, and she made it her goal to add a few personal touches to the staggeringly formal landscape.

Marigolds, she said, were one of her mother’s favourites. It was the flower for the bereaved: their heady, relaxing scent said to encourage deep, calming breaths. During the war, Hermione would sometimes transfigure a large, orange blossom in times of stress. She planned to put some by the main gates.

 

It was Friday evening. Draco hurtled across the field, slaloming low and leaving sinusoidal trails in the damp grass. Hermione popped into existence on the small hill that served as the manor’s Apparition point. She threw him an exaggerated wave as she walked across the field and up the manor walk.

No matter how much she loved her new job, Hermione demanded time to unwind by herself when she got home. She would find him for dinner after an hour or so, once she’d sorted through her notes from the day, put some time in the garden, or devoured a few chapters of a book.

Today was a garden day. Within minutes, Hermione popped out the back door, her navy blue work outfit for the day replaced by an old set of denims and a ratty gray shirt. She trotted into the greenhouse, and Draco continued practicing his weaving drill.

By the time he’d switched to rollbacks, a tricky maneuver wherein the flier rears their broom handle around in mid-flight to accelerate quickly back the way they had come, Hermione emerged with a garden tray held before her. He watched her carry it to the front gates, plop down on her knees, and begin to dig. Marigolds, Draco thought with a smile.

 

However, when they met in the dining room an hour later, Hermione was not smiling. A furrow knitted her brow, and her eyes bore a certain tightness.

“Good fly?” She asked as they tucked into divine-smelling noodles.

“Yep. Good garden?” Draco echoed back. He fumbled slightly with his chopsticks.

“No, actually,” Hermione said with a huff. “I waited too long on the Marigolds and their roots are too big to have a chance. I cast a warming charm, but…”

“Aren’t big roots a good thing?” Draco had never been a fan of Herbology.

“Not always. The seedlings have these beautiful long roots, but they’re just too far along to reestablish.”

“I bet you’ll figure it out, Hermione,” he smiled and popped half a soft-boiled egg in his mouth.

“Thank you, Draco.” The corners of Hermione’s mouth lifted into an encouraged smile, but it never reached her eyes.

They’re just flowers, he thought to himself. Worst-case, she’ll plant more, right?

Hermione and Draco continued through their noodles, discussing her day at work.

She and Theo were working tirelessly on a cursed fireplace bellows. When it sensed heat, it flapped like a pointy moth to a flame and would wield its antique self at whatever heat source it found. It made no discrepancy about body heat, and routinely interrupted Hermione and Theo’s research by aiming blasts of air into their faces. The bellows must have been a nuisance to all but perhaps a vampire. Hermione laughed particularly hard when she recalled the bellows showering Theo’s notes across the office when he’d brought in hot tea after lunch.

After dinner, Hermione and Draco collapsed together in a tangled heap on a Library sofa. The enchanted fireplace sparked to life at their presence despite the mild May evening. Draco gazed contentedly at the fire as he subconsciously twined his fingers through her hair. She was absorbed in a book on cultivating common English plants for potion making.

The dancing flames quickly teased forth a puckish idea. It had been nearly four weeks since he had awoken in crippling panic back at the hotel. Avoiding his magic, as Hermione suggested, seemed prudent. But flying offered him stability, and he’d found the magic that coursed through him grew more and more reliable. Where before it tore through his bloodstream like a hound on the hunt, now it was soothing and invigorating as if a ribbon of cool silk wound through him.

Draco didn’t give himself a moment to doubt. He glanced to the left of the fireplace and couldn’t help the impish smile that fractured his hard features. He didn’t have a wand, but as he raised his hand he felt the magic’s willingness bolster his confidence. He focused his intent, concentrated on the brass and leather object, and tugged at it with his magic. When it twitched slightly, he willed himself even harder.

Laying in Draco’s lap, Hermione was eagerly turning the pages of her book. She flipped past the section on astringents in search of the section discussing common plants useful as thickeners and flavoring agents. Her concentration was second to none, and the quest for knowledge pulled her through the book towards what she sought.

Suddenly, a torrent of cool air slapped her in the face. The familiar gust riffled the pages of her botany book and sent the curls framing her face flying back. Her eyes snapped up, met with the business end of an ornate fireplace hand-bellows.

She shrieked and covered her face with her arms, the book sliding to the floor.

“Not again, noooo!” She squealed, but her panic was cut short by an earthquake of laughter at her back.

“Oh, you git!” She wrenched herself from his shaking grip as the fireplace bellows clattered to the floor, Draco’s concentration finally broken.

He continued to laugh, relaxed and fully at ease on the sofa. Hermione’s frown softened to a smile as she took him in, his silver eyes catching the firelight as his pale features crinkled in pure idiotic joy.

“You ought to be careful, Draco Lucius Malfoy,” she said with teasing imperiousness. “I am the brightest witch of our age, you know.”

Draco merely winked at her and was pleased to see her eyes glitter in response, his fit of laughter trailing to a natural end.

Notes:

I was an organic flower farmer for a few years. Giant Marigolds were one of my favorites. Even in deep moments of deep grief or sadness, their unique aroma and vibrance always pulls me back down to earth. I still keep a garden and eagerly await the giant marigolds.
The story is starting to move, but I promise we've got some fun coming down the pipeline very soon! The next chapter will be called "Seek." Any guesses? Throw your thoughts or guesses in the comments. I'd absolutely love to read them! See you next week.
- Mephistophelass

Chapter 6: Seek

Spring, Seventh Year — Shell Cottage

Hermione sits on a postage stamp of a bed, blankets rumpled messily beneath her. She is absolutely knackered. A gap in the curtain reveals absolute darkness outside. The safe house is quiet aside from the occasional snore of a certain red-head down the hall. Hermione hunches with her sleeve rolled up and a jar of chestnut-coloured salve in her lap. A hateful word glares red from where its carved into her arm.

As she delicately works the red-brown paste into her tender flesh, the salve shifts to match her tan skin tone, doing its best to stave the slow weep of blood and begin to coax the wound closed. The lacerations sting horribly, agitated skin protesting as she gingerly applies the ointment with trembling fingers. Hermione tortures her bottom lip between her teeth as she works across her marred forearm.

Three days ago Dobby rescued them from Malfoy Manor, Apparating them all to the beach with a knife embedded in his chest. As devastating as it was to lose him, it was a blessing that Bellatrix’s knife could be recovered. Without access to the nasty object, the vicious injury would never have stopped bleeding. It refused to charm closed like a typical cut, became unbearable in the presence of achillea or equisetum poultices, and didn’t respond to any of the potions from the Order's vast stores.

Only adding fine shavings of the goblin-wrought blade to a werewolf bite salve had managed to staunch the bleeding. The foul words only now were starting to consider closing.

Hermione smoothes in a final dab, releasing a guarded breath as she reseals the small jar. Just as she places it back on the windowsill, a loud crack followed by a house-shaking bang sounds from downstairs. Before she can process, she is on her feet. Panic courses through her as she scrambles to brandish her wand.

“Where is she?!” a crushingly familiar voice demands downstairs, the speaker’s rage slicing through the beach cottage’s thin walls.

Muffled words reply before the heavy thump of boots hurtles up the wooden steps and around the landing. Hermione’s heart pounds with the rhythm as she wrenches the door open. Her closet of a room is situated at the end of a cramped upstairs hallway. Just as a peek of blonde emerges over the top step, the other bedroom doors burst open.

“The hell is going on?” Harry is first to stumble out of his room, voice and wand grip firm. Ronald emerges a moment later, rubbing sleep from his narrowed eyes. Hermione tries to swallow around the knot forming in her throat.

“More like what the fuck was all that, Potter!” Draco roars. He stands, dark-robed chest heaving, on the top step.

“Fuck you, Malfoy. Not like you did anything to save her!” Ronald’s words fall like acid onto the creaky floorboards. Oh, hell.

Standing in her doorway at the end of the hall, Hermione has a front-row seat as her two best friends hurl through the air and slam into the narrow wall before her, held inches off the ground. They both gasp in pain as air is forced from their lungs.

“Don’t you start with me, Weaselby,” Draco growls from the top step. “You miserable hand-me-down, you couldn’t protect your own right bollock.”

The magic pressing Harry and Ronald to the wall increases, their breathing shallow as they desperately try to pull in air. Hermione stands frozen in shock, staring at the pair. Something akin to gratitude swells low in her stomach.

“Now, what's this about, Malfoy?” comes Remus Lupine’s placating voice.

“I need Granger. Where is Granger.” Draco’s tone is clipped and beyond terse. “These two imbeciles nearly got her killed if you somehow missed the news.”

“Why don’t you let them down off the wall? We can discuss this like adults.” Lupine creeps up the stairs. Hermione, still rooted in her doorway, hears Nymphadora Tonks shove her way up after him.

“Cousin, what are you doing?” Tonks’ tone is scathing and a bit mocking. “As if it’s going to help anyone but your false master if you asphyxiate the Boy Who Lived! Get yourself together.”

Hermione finally is able to gather her wits and persuade her body to move into the hall. She hears a faint gurgle and thinks it comes from Ronald. Draco stands halfway down the hall, twisted to look back at Lupine and Tonks. Hermione's heart ignites like Fiendfyre at the sight of him.

A few days ago was the first she’d seen or heard from him in months. Their forced lack of proximity was the hardest part of being on the run hunting horcruxes, exacerbated by Ronald’s endlessly snide comments about Draco. He was set on convincing Hermione that Draco wouldn’t wait for her, that she was just a distraction, a perk of siding with the Order. His words reeked of jealousy and wormed under her skin, provoking Hermione and her wand on more than one occasion. When Ronald had abandoned them to return home briefly, Hermione was relieved. Even if he had been encouraged by that insidious Slytherin locket, his words and actions had no excuse.

Now, seeing Draco just feet away, Hermione’s exhaustion deepens. She survived the most taxing ordeal of her young life, and now he is finally here. For her. Why couldn’t everyone leave them in peace?

She stumbles forward, and the thump of her socked foot on the bare wooden floor catches Draco’s attention. Whirling, he aims his adrenaline-fueled wand at her for a fraction of a second before recognition takes over. He rushes to her, wrapping her in an embrace. Carefully, tenderly, he pulls away to scan her with appraising eyes. His face is soft and open, but his brow furrows with concern.

Hermione can’t find words. She crumples against him, comforted as his solid chest obscures the rest of the world from sight. Another gurgle bubbles behind her, and almost casually, Draco lifts his hand and swats at the air to release Ronald and Harry. Loud thumps and heaving lungs inform her of their liberation, but Hermione can’t relax her iron grip around Draco’s middle.

“Scar-head, Weasel. We’re done here.” Draco’s voice is hard as he bends and scoops Hermione into his arms. He carries her the few steps to her tiny room, shouldering Ronald as he forces past.

“Oi! Where do you—” the red-head's hoarse objections are cut off as Draco kicks the door shut behind them.

He sets her on the bed with the utmost care, and already she feels herself anchoring back to earth. How is it that someone can make her feel so purely seen, so cared for, and so wanted? Nobody else knows her like she wants them to. They only see Hermione's sterling qualities: her bravery; her intelligence; her loyalty. But never the rest of her, never all of her. Nobody but him. Draco makes her strive to know herself better.

“Hermione… I’m so sorry. I lost it. I didn’t know what to do—I didn’t know what to do that wouldn’t have made it worse…” He kneels on the ground in penance before her, all anger and ego thoroughly abandoned. “I didn’t know what to do… I didn’t… Hermione, how can you forgive me? I’m so, so sorry…” Draco’s sorrowful mantra trails off into anguished puffs of breath.

When Draco's gaze finally meets hers again, the silvery depths of his irises are soothing, icy pools. The surrounding skin is red, and the tension in his jaw bone-splintering. The raw pain of Hermione's torture still burns her nervous system. In his gaze, she finds a solace nothing else on earth can provide.

In reply she takes one of his hands, placing a kiss to his middle knuckle. As she draws her lips away, a single tear races down Draco’s nose.

“I know. I know you are, Draco. It’s not your fault. You managed to do the only thing you could have. Only Dobby could save me, and that’s just what he did,” Hermione says.

“But Potter, Weasel… You three shouldn’t have been caught in the first place. You shouldn’t have been there at all.” Pain digs deep furrows in Draco’s brow.

“Then it’s Ronald’s fault. Nobody else’s,” she says in a small voice. “He knows that.”

“Weasel—”

“Is an idiot, yes,” Hermione interjects. She is tired of hashing this out over and over. Why is everyone else permitted to burden her with their guilt? The last thing she wants is Draco’s, too.

A yawn overtakes her, and she begins to succumb to the tired ache radiating through her bones. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Can you just… be here with me?”

Hermione lightly pulls on his hand. Draco instantly abides, stepping out of his shoes as he kneels and crawls around her, laying them both on their sides with his back pressed against the flat chill of the wall. He drops perhaps a dozen kisses to her fingertips before nestling their clasped hands over her stomach.

Draco kisses her neck, breathing her in for the first time in months. Her heart erupts. She is alight, so grateful to have him there. Hermione relaxes fully into his embrace, relishing the tide-like sureness of his breaths as they swell and recede against her.

She willingly surrenders as sleep claims her more easily than it has in months.

 

 

Draco didn't regret begging to see the memories. Hermione had spent some time prepping a handful of them in long, elegant vials. Each was labeled with her efficient, loopy handwriting noting the memory’s date and location.

The night before, he had woken from his first nightmare since the accident. His mind had conjured images of a vague and faceless aunt tormenting the woman he loved piece by piece. She used ever tool and weapon imaginable, taking her sweet time tearing Hermione apart. Sweat soaked the sheets and his body shuttered at the vivid images he’d conjured.

Before he even woke, Hermione had been there, drawing soothing circles over his back and shoulders, breathing rhythmically to help him regain his sense of calm.

When he had finally been able to string together syllables, he begged her. He knew the torture would be devastating to take in but felt the crushing weight of his mind extrapolating every possible scenario. It was worse not to know.

So she had shown him.

Now that he again knew what transpired in the drawing room downstairs, Draco felt both fresh sadness and startling relief.

She is here, she is safe, she is mine. He repeated the mantra over and over as he sunk back to the present in his father’s old study. Hermione was waiting in the ornate chair a few feet away. She often joined him in the Pensieve, but it was quite obvious why she’d chosen to abstain from this memory.

He sank to the plush carpet before her, clasping her hands between his.

“Thank you,” was all he could manage to choke out.

She merely nodded, eyes clouded, lips pulled into a tight grimace, and stood.

“I need air. Breakfast on the patio?” Her words weren’t a question.

Draco trailed behind her, stewing in blame and rage. They were both lost in their thoughts as they entered the kitchens. She made tea, piled a platter with fresh fruits, and fixed toast. He carried the lot to the pavilion, and they sat together on a chaise with the platter between them.

Hermione swallowed a bite of melon before speaking.

“I don’t blame you, you know.”

“I know you don’t.”

“Good,” she said with finality.

With that, they were done speaking of that day, of its torture, of its scars, of its pain.

His thoughts were caught more on Ronald Weasley than anything else. Draco knew he was possessive and had overreacted, but the redhead’s ill-placed temper and jealousy had clearly been a hurdle for him and Hermione. Draco realized with glee that the git was gone. He felt certain he could offer Hermione something better than the friendship she’d lost. Draco watched Hermione crunch the last of her marmalade toast, swimming in affection for the tenacious witch.

They finished breakfast, and Hermione headed upstairs to get ready for her day at the Ministry. Draco guzzled down a vial of memory restorative, polished off the grapefruit juice, and returned the dishes to the kitchens. He attempted a wandless Scourgify, but it had very little effect. It merely cleared the crumbs away but left smears of jam and grease untouched. Just one more thing he’d need to practice. Hermione insisted on casting the day-to-day magic for them both while he continued to heal, and though Draco was grateful, it made him itch to wield his own magic.

He had seen the easy strength of his wandless abilities in Hermione’s memory, but his thrum of magic still felt abuzz with uncertainty. Perhaps it was time to take a page from Hermione’s book and head to the stacks. There was an entire section in the manor’s extensive collection dedicated to the fundamentals of various magical systems—even the requisite texts and scrolls from Hogwarts.

Draco headed to the Library, his black trousers swishing with each long stride. The manor’s main wing had begun to feel familiar, and his legs automatically carried him past his favourite portrait. He arched a coy eyebrow at the young woman in black and hoped to Merlin she somehow wasn’t his distant relative.

As he reached for the sweeping handles on the Library’s beautiful double doors, Hermione—semi-formal robes on and wild tresses barely restrained in a tight bun—burst out. She was slightly out of breath, a few small texts clutched to her chest. Her eyes swung to his, scleras wide like a child caught pilfering chocolate frogs.

“Oh! Er—Draco!” Hermione said as she smoothed her already-styled hair with one hand.

He pulled her into an embrace. The corner of a book poked his sternum as he planted a kiss on her forehead.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, love,” he said into her hairline, arms wrapping around the low of her back. She wriggled against him and he pressed himself into her.

“I’ve got to go, Draco! I can’t be late today. Theo and I have a budget proposal to present!” She pulled away from him as he planted more kisses on her cheeks and hair. “I’ll see you tonight with curry from that new place I told you about.”

She reached up to kiss him sweetly on the lips before she darted down the hallway towards the front entry. He watched her dove-gray robes swirl around the corner before pushing the doors open and stepping into the crackling warmth of the huge Library.

Within a half hour, he’d located six books and primers discussing wandless magic: from a contemporary tome on wandless casting theory to a beautifully illuminated volume from the 17th century with foiled depictions of hand flourishes.

Draco made a small pile by his favourite sofa and cracked the cover of the smallest—a worn and faded manual breaking down basic spells and charms by order of ease. He checked the grandfather clock before committing himself to the first section on Levitations.

Ten minutes later, he burst out the double doors with a deep sense of frustration.

Despite the fireplace bellows the other night, wandless Levitations weren’t coming as easily as he hoped. The white quill he had attempted to lift now sat abandoned atop the stack of books. He vowed to try again tomorrow and the next day and the next.

Everything felt irritating and difficult. Draco noticed a frustrating pattern, too: his brain felt like it shattered and reformed whenever he sat still too long or tried too hard to pry memories to the surface. Any progress he did make felt like an isolated bubble. He had little context to string the smaller memories together. All he could do was try to appreciate what little came to him.

It was often short bursts of everyday things: struggling through dueling practice, beginning a scouting mission, countless hurried meals in countless places, even watching Hermione walk down the hall at Shell Cottage.

The memories weren’t what bothered him. The problem began with him: he couldn’t remember anything about himself. It was as though he was simply the nameless, faceless narrator. His memories had yet to yield much of significance that Hermione hadn’t explained or shown him already. He held hope one day more memories would come, some that could flesh out the parts of himself she couldn’t help with.

Hermione was right. This wasn’t going to be easy. His magic felt languid and irksome. When he tried to funnel it into spell work, it crackled and wavered. The harder he pushed to access his magical core, the more elusive it became. His attempts at lifting the quill had his temples pounding from exertion.

Feeling viciously defeated, he committed to flying the rest of the morning. Despite still feeling miles away from himself, Draco knew he would feel infinitely better on a broom. His short meditation routine could wait until after lunch. He hurried to the east wing.

Draco was mad about quidditch. He flew every day, even when late spring rains plastered down his hair and robes. When he grasped a broom handle and swung aboard, his magic sang. The sluggishness, the stickiness, and the discombobulation fell away, leaving him strong and self-assured. The wind could whip any concern or frustration away as he tore back and forth across the field, looping and swooping with vigor. It was a respite he was often desperate for.

Today, he came to the room of brooms hoping to uncover something new. He began digging through the large trunks. The first trunk was a great, hulking thing of dark wood with brass edges. It was filled to the brim with warm, black layers. Jumpers, scarves, and jackets, all dark as night, were folded neatly into the trunk. It was enough clothing to easily outfit a dozen witches and wizards in the dead of winter.

Draco had the sleeve of a particularly soft jumper between his fingers when he connected the likely purpose of the trunk. The Ministry had stripped away any glaring evidence of Voldemort’s tenure at the manor, but some of the more innocuous clues remained. These clothes, these brooms, this room… he wondered darkly how many times Voldemort’s Death Eaters had suited up for dastardly missions here.

With a grimace, he wondered how many times he’d joined them.

How had it felt, taking to the skies with his hateful, fake comrades? Had he grown up flying these brooms? Had his parents forfeit his favourite room when they conceded the manor to the Dark Lord?

He dropped the jumper sleeve and shoved those thoughts into the trunk with it.

The second trunk was a lighter colour, banded with wide strips of copper, and held closed with two heavy latches. He swung the lid back and his breath caught.

Before him, resting in special wooden cradles, sat a regulation set of quidditch balls. A pair of Beater’s bats were held in leather slings in the trunk’s lid. Without thinking, Draco reached out to brush his fingers over a hollow of the Quaffle. Its leather-stretched surface was cool and smooth. His magic hummed in contentment.

Draco’s fingers walked their way to the Golden Snitch—a perfect, delicate thing holding dragonfly-like wings around an intricately engraved body. He lifted the beautiful ball between thumb and forefinger. Slowly, its wings unfurled and began to lazily stretch. It was enamoring. As the little thing seemed to shake preposterous sleep from its small form, it broke his grip and flitted around the room.

Draco beamed at the shimmering ball. Without taking his eyes off it, he reached for flying robes and grabbed the closest broom—the gold engraving in the dark wood of the Nimbus 2000 echoing the glittering Snitch/

Smiling at the small orb, he opened the door and watched it shoot outside like a delighted terrier where it promptly disappeared in the morning’s warm glow. Draco mounted his broom and rocketed into the sky, leaving the door open in his wake.

Flying in a huge arch around the field, he kept his goggled eyes peeled for any hint of gold. He saw nothing. Draco kept flying, sweeping methodically back and forth across the field. He dove, spiraled, and wove around the informal pitch, straining to see slightest flicker of movement. He hovered at the peak of the wards, his eyes slightly unfocused. He flew the perimeter of the field. He combed its length and width, scanning for any sign of the Snitch.

After the fifth pass, he still saw nothing.

Draco scowled in frustration, blowing a rush of air quickly through his nose. The clear morning seemed to mock him, pristine practice conditions with unrivaled visibility. So why was he having such an impossible time? He hadn’t caught one glimpse of the stupid golden ball.

Occasionally, one of Draco’s hairs would catch the tenacious morning light, throwing a little twinkle of silvery gold across his vision. Thinking it was his prize momentarily, he would whip around in a frenzy. His broom would vibrate and hum at the sudden demand for agility as if expressing the same annoyance he carried.

Draco was being daft, and he knew it. But damnit, he just wanted to catch that sodding Snitch. The longer he was at it, the more monolithic his goal became. Back and forth, he flew, again and again and again. He promised himself he wouldn’t quit until he succeeded and reclaimed this one facet of himself.

After three hours of flying, Draco’s thighs began to shake. Feeling defeated, he pointed his broom back at the manor. He hung up his equipment and turned to shut the door just as the Snitch skittered through. The cheeky sphere flitted before him in challenge before settling into its tiny cradle.

Draco rolled his eyes, feeling thoroughly teased by the tiny thing. He had been Slytherin’s Team Seeker, damnit! It was as though the Snitch were trying to prove something. It reminded him how far he’d fallen due to his accident.

Stomach rumbling, Draco slammed the heavy trunk shut with a loud thump and headed to the kitchens for some lunch. His face pinched in frustration. He just wanted something to come easily, but that was apparently far too much to ask.

In honesty, he needed to get his magic figured out if for no other reason than to make himself a hot lunch. After pulling together a pathetic plate of untoasted bread with jam, raw carrots, and half a bag of crisps, he found himself back in what he had affectionately started calling the “broom room.”

Crossing his arms with determination, he gazed down at the heavy trunk once more. With the late May sun now squarely overhead, Draco wanted another go at the Snitch. The enchanted ball could recognize the bounds of a quidditch pitch. He knew it wasn’t cheating him, it was just a matter of honing his skills again, of finding an opening and seizing it. He would catch that damned thing, he just had to. He was a Seeker, and he would prove it to himself, even if it took all week, all month.

He flung the trunk lid open, and the golden ball sprung to life and darted up by his left ear. The metallic sound of its intricate wings sliced through the air as it hovered. It seemed to wait for him this time.

Draco pulled a different broom from the wall, hoping the Cleansweep 11 would be a better partner this time. Slipping on flying robes and goggles once more, he beckoned the snitch out the door in front of him before swinging his leg over and kicking into the skies.

He wouldn’t give it a chance to escape him this time. He flew in a frenzy, chasing the gold mote flickering ten meters ahead. The Cleansweep was fast, but it lacked the maniacal twitchiness of the Nimbus he’d ridden that morning. Before he knew it, the shiny smudge faded from view. He cursed loudly, flattening himself even further as he willed the broom to go even faster. But it was hopeless. The Snitch had well and truly vaporized into the afternoon air, disappearing again before Draco could have a proper go. But he wouldn’t let up. Draco leaned low from side to side, throwing the broom into a sloppy slalom that trailed after where he’d last seen the Snitch.

When he reached the end of the pitch, Draco let out a growl. He surveyed the field another dozen times, eyes snagging on wind-blown cowlicks of grass or small birds searching out worms, but still no Golden Snitch.

He kept at it the rest of the afternoon, obsessively sweeping his broom back and forth around the field. Sweat soaked the back of his flying robes, and his goggles were speckled with tears from refusing to blink. His hands felt like stiff claws where they clutched the broom’s grip.

When he’d finally had enough, Draco aimed his broom back at the manor and landed, staggering to catch himself. He’d been flying most of the day, and as soon as his boots met solid ground fatigue overwhelmed him. He stumbled and dismounted, his limbs heavy and disobedient from sustained flying and windchill.

He threw the door open and stomped into the broom room. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the telltale stutter of metallic wings flickered in behind him. The fucking Snitch. He let out a vexed roar as it sunk into its wooden storage cradle like some holy figure descending from the heavens.

Draco glared at the tiny ball, unmoving now in the trunk. It felt like a cruel game. He slammed the trunk lid shut, hung up the Cleansweep, and stalked into the shower before Hermione returned home.

Draco leaned against the smooth stone wall and let the hot water wash over him. His muscles were tight from overuse, and the persistent chill permeating his arms, legs, cheeks, and forehead had yet to ebb away. He felt lost to himself, empty.

The hot water and suds did nothing to ease his frustrations. Like everything else in his life right now, this piece of his old identity felt shattered and broken. Flying was the ultimate liberation, yet it felt today like a cruel chore, a reminder of how far he’d fallen. Was this how it was always going to feel? The best pieces of him tarnished and wronged?

At last, he cranked the taps off and stepped out of the shower, fragrant steam filling the large bathroom. Draco grabbed a towel and began to dry himself roughly, water pooling around his feet on the wide slate tile.

The manor was still without mirrors. In the interim, Hermione had used a Smoothing charm on the wall above the vanity. It provided a serviceable view, but he still missed mirrors. One day, she’d be able to bring them back, though. Hermione had assured him.

He gazed down at the floor, his sopping fringe hanging low. His eyes were distant, even as they locked onto himself in the puddles. Draco still found something fascinating about his reflection and wondered if it was a side effect of his accident or if he’d always suffered this curious vanity.

He crouched down, eye contact firm. Draco knew it was him staring back, but there was a displacement, a disturbance swirling low inside him he couldn’t ease. Without thinking, he brushed his fingers through the shallow water, sending ripples across his face. Draco knew his name, but he still felt like nobody.

As these precious weeks had ticked forward, he continued to feel the astounding relief that Hermione provided. But it was counteracted by the shadows of doubt that plagued him. He felt ashamed by his instability, pitifully weak in the face of this final hurdle between himself and Hermione. Something felt dramatically out of alignment.

The distant “thud” of the massive front door signaled Hermione’s return. A shadow of a smile flickered across his face. Hermione. This was all for Hermione. She is here. She is safe. She is mine.

Draco pushed off the floor, hoisting himself up to his full height and padding to the closet to dress for dinner. At least it was easy to go through the motions in the lavish comfort of Malfoy Manor. Draco could only hope the rest would fall into place one day.

Notes:

This chapter has one of my favorite Pensieve viewings, which I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing. We're gaining momentum bit by bit, and I can't wait to show you where the story is heading. Any ideas? Any guesses? Next week is Draco's birthday, and as a treat for us all there shall indeed be smut!!
- Mephistophelass
P.S. My co-editor CostcoGlizzy started calling the Pensieve viewings Hermemories™ and I wanted you to know.

Chapter 7: Celebrate

Fall, Sixth Year at Hogwarts

Hermione stormed through the dark corridors of Hogwarts, muttering furiously as tears streamed down her face.

"Stupid, selfish git… Why did I even like him? It's not like he's put an ounce of thought into our bloody friendship. I'd be a fool to think dating might be different… He’s just a stumbling prick. Give a selfish boy an encouraging push, and what does he do? Muck everything up and snog Lavender fucking Brown! Daft cunts, the lot of them!"

Harry had done his best to calm her down, but the Boy Who Lived could only manage to pull off feats of unwise heroism, not emotional hurdles; he’d sat with Hermione until her breathing relaxed a bit but hadn't done a damned thing to put her splintered heart at ease. In fact, Harry hadn’t offered her a single soothing word—just empty platitudes and weak parallels. That was why she was so urgent to lock herself in the Room of Requirement for a good cry. It seemed nobody could assuage her. Nobody wanted to know all of her.

Hermione's pace increased to a near-jog as emotion got the best of her. Tears prickled the corners of her eyes, another reminder of just how out of control she was. Moisture fogged her vision as she rounded the corner to an empty stretch of hall. The door to the Room of Requirement was here, disguised as just another patch of wall.

She hurriedly paced, concentrating wholly on unlocking a quiet, familiar space in which to isolate. She usually loved the door’s little ritual, but today, it was just one more thing between her and solace. Her curls whipped around, and tears pinched her aching eyes as Hermione pivoted on her heel for the third and final time. Predictably, a door materialized in the stoic stone, and Hermione wasted no time hurrying forward.

The door flew open just as her shaky fingers reached for its handle. Hermione happened to be just out of reach of the heavy wood. Something else solid and hard careened into her, throwing her backward with a groan. Firm hands like iron vices grabbed her upper arms. Hermione was spun around and shoved roughly against the hard stone wall. Her curls obscured her face as the air was forced from her lungs. She tried to shake stinging tears from her puffy eyes, but it was hopeless. Everything was a teary blur.

”Granger? You shouldn't be here," hissed a familiar voice from much too close.

How many times could she be reminded of that today? Turbulent anger boiled within Hermione. First Ronald, then Harry, and now—Merlin help her—it was apparently Draco Malfoy's turn to have a go. She choked out an acidic laugh.

"Have you been following me?" Draco shook Hermione, and her head wobbled.

"Why are you here, Malfoy?" Hermione spat back, though she didn’t much care. Despite Harry's recent paranoia around their cruel classmate, she just wanted to be left alone.

"You first, Granger," he growled out. Then his voice lifted to an almost human tone, "Hang on, have you been crying?"

"What do you care? Please leave me and my perfectly horrid evening in peace," Hermione retorted, arms still trapped in his crushing grip. Her tears couldn't be stopped. A trail of moisture paraded down her face and chin.

"You weren't following me then?” Malfoy said, his voice suspicious.

"No!" Hermione threw back at him. "Not everything's about you."

"Didn't Gryffindor win today’s match? Shouldn't you be sloshing butterbeers and celebrating with Scar-head?" He was sneering now. "What about that ginger dolt of yours?"

That was all it took. Hermione couldn't reply. Her sobs stole her breath and caused her to deflate, eyes fuzzing down at the floor. She was almost grateful for his grip. Without it, she might be crumpled in a heap by now.

”Seriously? The Weasel? What did the idiot do now?" Malfoy cautiously released his grip on Hermione's arms, rubbing circles where his fingers had clutched her. As if the night couldn't get any more upside-down.

She hiccuped and took a few deep gulps of air, attempting to calm herself. Hair still covered her face, stuck there by a fresh varnish of tears. When Malfoy reached to wipe the curls back, she flinched.

"Calm down, Granger. I won't hurt you." He reached down again. This time, and she didn't flinch away. "Whatever the dunce did, he's not worth fretting over." Draco teased damp tresses from her tear-stained face with dextrous fingers.

"La-Lavender," was all Hermione could manage to sputter out, eyes still locked on the floor.

"As in Brown? And the Weasel?" His frown was audible. "As if I needed another reason to lose my appetite."

A small laugh escaped Hermione.

“That’s better," Malfoy said with a chuckle that lifted her chin.

Even in the dim light, she could see the red outlines of Malfoy's eyes standing out against pale, sallow skin. His face was tight; stressed. He looked utterly knackered. Hermione began to reciprocate his concern. She flicked her eyes over him and only found tension.

"Malfoy…" Hermione asked carefully with a sniffle. "How do you know about this room?"

"That doesn't concern you, Granger." He replied tersely, averting his eyes.

"Does this have to do with—"

"I said it doesn't concern you.” His words had hard edges. "Just drop it."

Hermione remained silent, her tired brain reeling with possibilities.

Malfoy lightly tapped her temple. "I see those big gears turning. Don't bother."

Something was eating at him, literally carving him away. He was thinner, and Hermione wondered if he really was having trouble eating. Draco Malfoy was slowly becoming a ghost. Her mouth opened, but he continued.

"I don't have any choices left, Granger," he said, shaking his head in surrender. “Something I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"That's where you're wrong," she challenged, shaking his hand from her arm. Seeing him like this hardened her resolve, and her volatile emotions began to settle. She didn't even know what she was talking about, but the context seemed to loom in the dark hallway with them like a dementor.

"You can always do the right thing, Malfoy. There is always another choice."

Malfoy shook his head slowly, a sad smile pulling at his lips. "Not this time. Not for me at least."

“But you're better than that, I know you are!" Hermione felt stupid now. She and Malfoy didn't know one another. He bullied her, and she ignored him; they had a routine they’d followed perfectly for years. But this evening seemed to be getting the better of them both.

"I'm really not. There's only one thing I'm good for, and that's whatever I'm told."

"Alright…" Hermione felt feverish. What was she doing? A rash idea flitted into her mind, so tempting and foolish. She was suddenly desperate to keep Malfoy from slipping further down into whatever pit he was digging, even for a moment.

"If that's all you think you're good for…” she hesitated before bowling through the knot in her throat. “…Make me forget about Ron tonight."

At that, Malfoy stilled. His pupils were blown wide in the dark hallway and locked on her.

"Is that what you really want?" His voice was even and unreadable.

Hermione nodded slowly, and a predatory smile spread across his pale lips.

"He'll be nothing when I'm finished with you," Malfoy said as he leaned in much too close. Something deep in Hermione reared its head and clawed at the low of her stomach.

Malfoy was magnetic. Despite the brightness of his striking features, he seemed perfectly at home in the darkness. The curl of his lips was inviting, and for once, his attention on her wasn't cruel and disdainful. If anything, he seemed as lost and desperate as Hermione.

“That might not be so bad.”

Experimentally, Hermione reached out and pushed his blonde fringe to one side. The soft strands felt like silk between her fingers. He closed the space between them, and her chest pressed against him automatically. His arms slithered around her waist, and before she knew it, he plunged them backward into the Room of Requirement.

 

 

"Happy birthday, Draco!"  Huh?

Draco awoke to a vigorous peppering of kisses. When he cracked open his eyes, Hermione greeted him with a bombastic smile and summoned over a small chocolate cake bearing a single fizzing candle the shape of a goofy dragon. He looked up at her in confusion, and she beamed back.

She proceeded to cover every exposed inch of him with fast kisses and told him to make a wish and blow out his candle. After a moment of sleep-riddled thought, he inhaled deeply before blowing a column of air at the sparkle-spitting candle. After a few seconds, the flame relented, and a small trail of smoke twisted towards the ceiling.

He'd wished for a happy, long life with the stunning witch beside him, and immediately wondered if that counted as one or two wishes. His mouth popped open to ask, but Hermione instantly clapped her hands over her ears and made an adorable noise of protest. Apparently, in Muggle tradition, sharing the wish jinxed it to never come true.

"How old am I again?" He asked in his best impression of an wizened old man.

Hermione giggled. "How old do you feel?"

"Dunno," he chuckled back. "I had no idea it was my birthday."

"You're eighteen today."

“Right,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “When's your birthday, Hermione?"

"Not for a few months. I’ll be nineteen on the nineteenth of September," she smiled. Draco would have to remember that.

Hermione summoned a fork and fed him the first bite. The little cake was divine. Its shiny chocolate frosting was rich and decadent. His eyes closed, and a hum of contentment rumbled in his chest. Draco pulled Hermione into him, stealing the fork from her hands and taking a massive bite before feeding some to his perfect witch.

"I have to head to work soon. What can I bring home for dinner? Anything you want. I've got more cakes hidden, but I figure we should have a proper meal before your presents."

A glowing smile lit Draco's face. Cake, dinner, presents? How did he get so lucky? He twined his fingers in hers as his mind whirred. Anything he wanted?

"Bacon-wrapped scallops, candied yams, roast chicken, asparagus… and some fire whiskey.” It felt delightfully odd to make such a request, but Hermione didn't bat an eyelash. She jotted it down dutifully before looking at him with a cheeky smirk.

"Is that everything?"

"Well, not everything…" He had long since devoured the cake, the silver-edged plate now on the bedside table. Draco lunged for Hermione, and she squealed in delight as he pulled her bodily into his lap. Hermione’s sleeping shorts left her legs bare, and she straddled him over the sheets.

Whatever you want. The words rang through him as he crushed his lips to hers. He felt emboldened by Hermione's words and shamelessly ground against her as he claimed her lips. A moan slipped from her, and Draco felt his erection twitch in response.

One hand cradled the back of her neck, burying his fingers in her thick hair. The other wrapped around her lower back to grasp her hip, pressing her deeply against him as he thrust against the warmth between her legs. Her tits smashed against his bare chest, just a thin t-shirt between them. Gods, she was so utterly perfect and gorgeous and his.

She deepened their kiss and bit lightly at his lips they parted. Her tongue delved into his mouth, exploring every inch of him with abandon. Soon her hips were grinding against his pelvis, dragging across the length of his hardness. Draco’s hand skated down to wrap around her shoulder, rocking her hips against his until their kisses were feral and wanton.

Draco found the hem of Hermione's shirt and broke their kiss as he tugged at the over-soft fabric. Hermione lifted her arms overhead, and soon, the faded red cotton yielded a most hypnotic sight: one at a time, her soft breasts seemed to fall into view. The shirt was quickly discarded, and his hands were instantly kneading and groping her chest.

With Hermione tilted back to allow his urgent ministrations, Draco found his tumescence had found an even more tantalizing position nestled against her. He felt the heat radiating from her cunt, his mouth watering as he pressed against the thin layers of fabric that separated them. His cock was impossibly hard against her, and he longed for nothing more than to bury himself deeply inside her pulsing heat.

An odd noise sounded from his left, filtering weakly into his ears through his stifling state of arousal. Hermione groaned and went limp in defeat, slumping her head against his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"I knew I'd need an alarm today with you. I have to get ready or I’ll be late!”

He gripped her tightly around the waist with both arms and rubbed himself deliciously into her, thrusting the head of his cock devilishly against her opening. He was so close to exactly where he wanted to be…

"Draco…" She tried to push off his chest, but he held her in place. "Draco, I really have to go."

"You do?" He whined into her riotous curls. She huffed out a laugh at his petulance.

“Let me go! When I get home you’ll forget I ever left.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Draco released her from his hold reluctantly and pressed a soft kiss to each of her nipples. He stood, peeled off his boxers, and walked straight to the shower as she pulled a set of hunter green robes from their hanger.

 

When he emerged—reluctantly sated for the morning—he saw Hermione through the large bedroom window, curls bouncing as she hiked to the Apparition point. Draco couldn’t wait for her to get home. Screw dinner and presents, he wanted to feast on her. He just needed to fill up the rest of the day without losing his mind.

Draco decided he deserved to skip reading and magical practice. It was his birthday, after all. He took his morning memory restorative before fixing some tea. He poured a large mug and slid on his boots to enjoy it out in the gardens.

It was the fifth of June. Golden rays illuminated his blonde hair. The rose bushes were already flush with profusions of new growth. He meandered along a path through the tidy plantings, distracting himself with the myriad of ornamental trees, tidy hedges, and dramatic flowers.

A row of bountiful blooms along one side of the greenhouse struck his fancy, their robust, coral blossoms larger than a Bludger. He cautiously bent to take a whiff, distantly remembering the plethora of dangerous plants they’d studied at Hogwarts. With relief, he found the rotund blossoms offered only a sweet, citrusy scent with no negative repercussions.

Continuing his aimless journey, he tentatively smelled as many flowers as he dared, eager to chew through his day before Hermione’s return. When the sun was firmly overhead and he’d walked the entirety of the gardens, Draco headed inside.

To his great relief, it was already past noon according to the grandfather clock. He headed to the kitchens and fixed a large bacon sandwich before figuring out his afternoon. He stacked his dishes in the large sink basin and strolled through the manor. He was starting to feel a comforting sense of belonging in the sprawling estate. Draco’s feet brought him automatically through the broad, twisting halls. He drug his fingers along the intricately carved Library doors as he drifted along to the east wing.

He allowed his mind to wander. All he seemed capable of thinking about was Hermione. If he stilled his thoughts he could practically feel her writhe against him. Echoes of her moans rippled across his nerves. Draco’s cock twitched, tension building low in his abdomen. He shook his head. It wasn’t even two in the afternoon. He had hours before Hermione would return.

Gratefully, he arrived at the door to his beloved broom room. Despite his apparent inability to catch a Golden Snitch, Draco still got an immense thrill out of flying. There was a great joy for him in rotating through flying styles. Practicing a variety of drills throughout the week, he pretended he was an entire quidditch team in one person. He stood admiring the long wall laden with broomsticks. Draco had challenged himself to match-make different brooms with different purposes.

He preferred the twitchy eagerness of a Nimbus 2000 for Seeker drills, appreciating the way the smart broom seemed to anticipate his daring aerobatics. When trying his hand as a Beater, he admired the gritty boldness and unflinching commitment of a Cleansweep Six. As Chaser, he enjoyed the delightful bounciness of a custom broom with the Comet Trading Company’s stamp. As Keeper, Draco was limited by what drills he could accomplish solo. Regardless, he found the unrivaled steadiness of a Cleansweep Eleven met his needs beautifully; the Spanish oak grip was perfect, and he loved how understated and classic the broom was compared to the dark wood and pompous engravings of others.

Among the few dozen brooms the manor boasted were a few antique numbers, brazen with polished filigree or etched in silver and fitted with long, trailing broom heads reminiscent of horse tails. Those weren’t appropriate for drilling, but he did hop aboard them occasionally for leisure rides.

Unwilling to feel the sting of defeat on his birthday, Draco opted for some easy pleasure flying. The sun was shining with only a gentle breeze nudging at the clouds. He donned his go-to flying robes and lifted one of the antique brooms from the wall, its elaborate silver inlays sparkling.

Once outside, he kicked a leg over the bespoke broom and shoved off into the air. The old broom responded beautifully, even if it possessed a fraction the speed he was used to. Crafted before the advent of Cushioning Charms, it was a much more visceral ride. It flew straight as a pin and was shockingly refined, reacting to even his finest adjustments. The buff broom head swept behind him as he flew and made a satisfying swish. Humming over the sunny field at a steady pace, he admired a murmuration of starlings pulsing in the distance.

Draco poured himself into flying the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening. It was a great distraction, but his mind was persistently drawn back to fantasies of Hermione. As the hours marched on, he found himself glancing at the Apparition point more and more often.

 

Draco was leaning off his broom, tracing his name in the grass with a long stick as he flew. He had just looped around to form an “a” when he heard the crack. Head whipping around, he saw Hermione’s familiar form, laden with bags and parcels, picking her way down the hill.

Without thinking, he threw himself low over his grip, heels pressing hard against the elaborate crossbar as he urged the broom to its top speed. He needed to get to her, to be with her. Now.

Draco careened across the remainder of the pitch, streaking over a corner of the gardens and pointed in a straight line at his witch. The antique broom shuddered at his demand, matching his palpable excitement.

Hermione had already taken down her work bun, and her proud mane waved around her. She noticed Draco and shed her burden in the tall grass. He was nearly ten meters from her. Her brown eyes caught his and a feline smile parted her lips. She was breathtaking. Her dark green robes clung delicately around her shoulders and swayed around her knees.

When he was close enough to hear her bubbly laugh he threw the broom into a rollback. The silver-work in the broom’s handle gleamed in the evening’s orange glow, and Draco stepped off the crossbar onto the soft grass in one smooth motion. In his haste, he released the broomstick, not bothering to turn his head as the antique shot a few feet and landed somewhere in the soft grass.

“Draco!” Hermione scoffed, her smile still huge. “Don’t you realize how special that broom is? It must be worth—”

His witch’s adorable protests were cut short as Draco crashed their lips together, sweeping her into his embrace. His flying robes curled around them and he plunged his hands beneath Hermione’s hem to palm both arse cheeks. He hadn’t let his thoughts linger on her since his shower, already overeager for her return. Draco merely hoped he could manage something vaguely romantic, but the ache in his stomach made him feral.

His kisses had become less measured. When Hermione hopped up and wrapped her legs around his hips, a groan rumbled from him. Without breaking their kiss, he sunk to his knees, leaning over and pressing her back into the soft grass. She responded instantly, a soft whine puffing into his mouth. He felt heat blossoming beneath her knickers, a hypnotic warmth that drove him wild. He bucked his hips against her, his erection like iron. His hardness pressed against her and Hermione let out a little whimper, pulling his lower lip between her teeth.

“Draco, please,” she whispered, releasing his lip and breaking away to stare at him with limitless, honeyed eyes. “I need you.”

He was poised to explode, urgency doubling down. Draco’s cock couldn’t have been any harder, pulsing painfully with arousal. He bent lower to nip and tease her neck while fumbling at the front of his trousers. Hermione let out a small gasp that spurred him on further. She performed a short series of swishes with her wand before disappearing it again into the folds of her robes. Draco only vaguely recognized it as a contraceptive charm.

When he’d conquered his zipper, Draco eagerly shoved his trousers and boxers down. His hands darted to Hermione’s knees, caressing the soft skin there briefly before sliding up her legs, bunching her robes above her hips. Draco stared down at her, his desire growing unbearable. She wore a pair of lacy, light gray knickers. His breath caught when he saw her arousal soaking through the flimsy fabric.

It felt like he was balanced atop a precipice. His magic snapped greedily in his veins, and his cock was impossibly hard in his hand. But he had to make sure they wanted the same thing. Draco ripped his eyes from her steaming cunt and found Hermione gazing at him.

She nodded, her eyes aglow with the same explosive want.

Without thinking, he waved his hand in a sharp snapping motion and vanished her soaked knickers. Her glistening slit was instantly bare and exposed. Hermione gasped and her eyes widened. The sound made Draco’s cock bounce with anticipation. He could feel her heat without even touching her. Hermione was spread open for him, ready to take him right there in the grass. He needed to know what she felt like, needed to sink into her mesmerizing folds, needed to pound into her and take everything she could give him.

Stroking up his length with one hand, he caught a thick bead of precum. Draco relished its slickness as he spread it across the head his throbbing cock. He shoved the heavy black flying robes out of the way and bent down over her, driven by pure desire. He eased on top of her, erection pressing against her as he did his best to align them. At the brush of contact, Hermione keened and arched her back. The slight shift pushed her opening against him, and he groaned as he canted his hips forward, sinking slowly inside.

They both groaned, and he felt the harmony echo through his bones. This fucking witch! Hermione’s silky walls fluttered around him, pulsing as she adjusted to his welcome intrusion. She gasped in choking breaths as he continued to sheath his length inside her.

When Draco had buried himself as deep as he could, his cock twitched. She felt like utter heaven, and the noises she made were unbelievable. He knew he couldn’t last long, but he didn’t care.

Experimentally, he pulled his hips back, feeling her tight cunt drag around him. He leaned lower, arms bracketing her in the grass. She pulled his face to her, pressing a sloppy kiss across his lips. He was desperate for more. Their tongues skated across one another as he began to set a punishing rhythm, sliding himself in and out of her dripping opening.

An impossible tension like he’d never known built inside him. He was soon snapping his hips against hers, hearing the tantalizing slap of her arousal as it coated him with every thrust. Draco couldn’t believe how worked up she was. He wanted to drink her in, to eat her up, to claim every inch of her.

With a particularly deep thrust, Hermione let out a tortured moan and dug her fingertips into the his shoulder muscles.

Hermione was perfect beneath him: rumpled and eager, her legs bare and robes shoved up to take him. Draco felt her walls clenching and spasming around him, dragging deliciously at his foreskin, and the the sensation quickly became too much. The pressure he felt grew and grew, overtaking his thoughts entirely as he slammed into her.

Draco let out a long groan, spilling ropes of cum inside Hermione in bursts until he collapsed. He barely managed to hold his heaving chest off her. Hermione breathed heavily, too, her fingers loosening their grip to rub small circles into his robed shoulders and chest.

After a moment, he pushed himself up, pressing a slow kiss to the hinge of her jaw before he lifted fully off her. He pulled out slowly, a trail of their juices sliding out. Draco rocked back on his heels, cleaning himself with a kerchief from his pocket before pulling up his trousers. Hermione looked stunning, properly ravaged and fucked in the grass before him. He couldn’t help but beam down like a fool at her where she lay exposed from the waist down.

“Happy Birthday, Draco,” an adorable flush blooming across her cheeks.

“The happiest,” he grinned like a sodding idiot as she reached for her wand and cast a cleansing charm on herself, smoothing her robes down. She reached up for his hand and he pulled them both to standing, bending to collect her many packages as she fetched the abandoned broom.

They walked to the manor side by side, Hermione’s hand in the crook of his elbow.

He laid everything on the table while Hermione ducked upstairs to change. She returned a few minutes later in a fresh set of periwinkle robes that left her graceful collarbones exposed.

She had procured everything he’d asked for that morning. The scallops, yams, roast chicken, asparagus… all of it was accounted for and smelled magnificent. His mouth watered as Hermione set out plates for each of them and grabbed a set of tumblers from beneath a rounded sideboard. She poured them each a firewhiskey, setting his glass at the head of the table before settling down in the next chair.

They ate without speaking, only hums and groans accompanying the glorious spread. Hermione summoned a tray filled with chocolate cakes and he let out a throaty laugh. He would never admit to her how much time he’d spent searching for them that morning.

 

By the time they retired to the Library, they were both absolutely stuffed. They wobbled down the hall holding hands, wide smiles painting both their faces. Once he’d collapsed on his favourite velvet sofa, Hermione brought over their current readings and took a spot curled close against his chest. A low fire crackled in the hearth. He couldn’t help but feel utterly complete. The day had been perfect, even if it had been a subtle form of torture waiting for Hermione. He smiled, about to crack open the Malfoy family history. Hermione pulled something wrapped in brown paper from her robes pocket and handed it to him. His eyebrows shot up and she smiled at him sideways.

“Did you forget about your present?” She teased.

“I guess I did,” he said, running his fingers inquisitively over the flat package. It felt too light to be a book, he thought with relief. He looked up at her before plucking the twine and tearing into the paper.

In no time, he held an elegant silver picture frame. Turning it over, a photo of Draco and Hermione beamed up at him. Photo-him stood behind photo-her, his hands wrapped protectively around her. His expression looked reserved and fierce, an occasional sneer pulled his lips taut as he glared out of the frame. Hermione, in contrast, glowed with obvious joy. Her smile was broad and infectious, and she kept reaching back to stroke Draco’s jaw. Steam billowed from their lips as giant flakes of snow fell on the street behind them. In the background stood a few snow-capped store fronts, their windows rimmed with frost and glowing lights.

The edge of a name itched at the periphery of his mind. He teased at it, trying to conjure a name for this familiar place. Swinewood? Bogmeade? Hog’s Head? Those weren’t quite right… He let the thought drift away.

Draco squeezed Hermione’s hand as he stared at the enchanted photograph. He didn’t realize he was smiling until he felt his cheeks begin to ache.

“I love it. Thank you, Hermione,” he said.

Hermione smiled and shook her head slightly.

“I’m taking you to Hogsmeade this weekend,” she said. “I got us a room at the Three Broomsticks.”

Draco shot her a glowing smile, fingering the edge of the silver frame. Hogsmeade. The idea of returning to Hogsmeade made his heart soar. He couldn’t wait to visit the storybook town again. If his murky memories were to be believed, it was one of his favourite places. The idea of strolling arm-in-arm with Hermione—window shopping and exploring their old haunts—excited him to no end.

He set the picture frame down and scooped her to his chest.

“Love, I can’t wait.”

Chapter 8: Dislocate

Fall, Third Year at Hogwarts

Hermione hustles past her seated classmates as they grudgingly open their texts. She is a few minutes late despite the Time-Turner tucked beneath her robes. The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom windows are shuttered; a slide projector stands ready in the center of the room.

Grateful for the dim light, Hermione finally releases the Notice-Me-Not charm after settling into a seat beside Harry. She wipes a shimmer of sweat from her brow and hears a droning voice that normally belongs in the Potions dungeon. Looking up in confusion, she frowns at Professor Snape residing at the head of the classroom. Professor Lupine is nowhere to be seen. Hermione shrinks slightly, noticing Snape’s glare directed at her best mate.

"Suffice it to say that your professor finds himself incapable of teaching at the present time. Turn to page 394." Snape practically spits the words at Harry. Without breaking eye contact, the intimidating professor flicks his wand, and a few seats away Malfoy's book flips open to the appropriate page.

”Werewolves?" Malfoy gawps as he stares at his now-open text. Hermione, locating the page herself, stills at the word.

"But sir," Hermione tries to reason with the Potions master. "We've just begun learning about Red Caps and Hinkipunks. We're not meant to start nocturnal beasts for weeks."

Malfoy turns his still-open mouth in Hermione's direction, seemingly the only one to notice her sudden appearance.

Snape drones on, wholeheartedly ignoring Hermione's plea.

“And what might the different be between a Werewolf and an Animagus?” The class remains appropriately silent, unaware of content from weeks ahead in their syllabus.

Hermione, unable to leave the question hanging on stale air, proffers the answer without raising her hand. She dives in, explaining that a Werewolf's monthly transformation and undiscerning ferocity are not a choice. Animagus, meanwhile, have full control of their shifting.

A few rows back, Ronald lets loose a mocking howl. A few nearby classmates chuckle.

Snape chastises Ronald briefly before snapping his attention back to Hermione. The coldness of his stare claws into her, and she can’t drag her eyes away.

"That is the second time you've spoken out of turn, Miss Granger. Are you incapable of restraining yourself? Do you take pride in being an insufferable know-it-all? 5 points from Gryffindor."

The class holds its breath. Snape continues with the lesson, his drawling voice the pinnacle of dismissal.

"You asked us a question, and she knows the answer! Why ask if you don't want to be told?" Malfoy's gray eyes twinkle as the words fall easily from his lips, a roguish look across his pale features.

Hermione's heart stutters before clamoring in her chest. Eyes wide, she chances a look at the side of Malfoy's face. His stormy eyes remain locked on the front of the room, unaware of her attention.

Snape whirls, his black robes flaring out. He approaches Malfoy slowly with an unblinking stare and drifts much too close. Face stopping quite close to Malfoy's, his voice coos, cruel and silky.

"Detention, Malfoy. And if I ever hear you criticize the way I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed."

 

 

Draco enjoyed watching himself stand up for her. He had been slowly rediscovering the framework of his and Hermione's relationship: how it started, what drew them closer together. He was still so upset he couldn't piece these things together for himself. There were things he could remember, but none of them were what he hoped for. None brought him any greater sense of peace.

He remembered the glorious sensations of flying, the immaculate pitch, the packed stands at Hogwarts, and flickers of time spent in class, but so much felt like a dream rather than a memory. It upset him. He wanted to find himself for her. He just wished it were easier.

She said it had always been hard for them. Socially and logistically, at times it had been like pulling teeth to be together. But now it should be easy. The war was over. The Order had won, they had won. Why did it feel like he was still losing something?

The rest of the week followed their typical routine. Excitement and trepidation built within Draco. They were set to leave for Hogsmeade as soon as the weekend began. Draco was enthralled about going away with Hermione, but a nagging nervousness remained.

The two incorporated Pensive sessions into their daily flow, and while he was infinitely grateful for the clarity it offered, it was often overwhelming. Hermione seemed to notice his fatigue and had been offering more banal memories of late.

Watching memories from simpler times was a relief. They were easier to digest, but a stubborn dissonance remained. Some memories tugged the back of his mind or caused pressure at the base of his skull. Sometimes he came out of the Pensieve in a fine sweat, a hot prickling sensation washing over him. Some days, everything felt within reach, as though he might burst through some membranous barrier and suddenly remember everything. But it was never enough to do any good. It felt like sprinting up a sandy dune. He could never gain enough ground, enough traction. Draco was infinitely grateful he had Hermione.

 

Come Friday, he was desperate for a break. His mind was an overcooked custard.

Once Hermione had headed up the hill to work, Draco busied himself with some light exploring. He wandered towards the east wing, waggling his fingers at his favourite portrait.

Draco headed down the stately hall, appreciating the bucolic landscapes adorning the stone walls. The manor had a heaviness that couldn't be ignored, but the countless works of art were a dramatic and precious breath of life.

He paused before an enormous rendition of a sun-soaked field. The magnificent, wildflower-strewn mountainside was dotted with sheep, fresh lambs at many of their sides. They chewed bright spring grass as fluffy clouds rolled across the sky. Not far behind the flock, the strong shoulder of what he assumed to be a shepherd dog poked above the waving grass.

Draco dragged his eyes across the many strokes of the painting, admiring the multitude of layers that made it so striking. As he turned and continued on, a pair of pointed ears flicked forward above the grass, eyes locked on a wandering lamb. The shoulders rose, and a wolf eased into view as it stalked forward.

He continued, passing suits of armor, countless more paintings, and a row of marble busts depicting every Malfoy man that had come before him. Draco's father was last, his stern scowl gazing empty-eyed at the opposite wall. He wondered if he ought to commission his own bust as the newest Lord Malfoy. Draco scoffed at the thought and continued on. Soon he arrived at a door he hadn’t yet entered. Stepping into the airy sitting room, Draco began to rummage around.

 

By the time Hermione returned from work, Draco had gone through the entirety of the sitting room. The space was well loved and lived in, with apricot wallpaper and a few heavily laden bookshelves. They were mainly lined with popular romance and adventure novels. There wasn't much in the room he cared to consolidate.

He gathered an unbelievably soft crimson blanket and a pair of edge-worn Muggle books titled "The Intimate Male" and "The Intimate Female" that left his jaw on the floor. Draco wasn't sure what he would find in the cheap paperbacks, but couldn't deny his curiosity. He carried the lot to the Library.

As Draco walked back across the massive foyer, Hermione stepped through the front door. He strode towards her across the expansive space.

Beaded bag slung on her elbow, her raspberry robes complimented the slight flush in her cheeks as she beamed at him. The bag had become a security blanket for her, its extended depths still carried a staggering range of supplies she could survive off for weeks.

"Are you ready?" Hermione barely had the words out before he got to her.

Draco's arms snaked down around her, hands cupping her bum in a heartbeat. She squeaked, a slight noise promptly swallowed as Draco stole a deep kiss. Merlin, he couldn't wait to spend the weekend with her. When he finally released her soft lips, she was panting, her eyes large with want.

“Ready as ever," he replied with his favourite smirk.

Ever the planner, Hermione had already sent their weekend bag ahead to the Three Broomsticks. Everything was meticulously accounted for. Draco scooped Hermione into his arms, tracing small circles across her leg as he walked them over the manor's dramatic threshold.

He loved carrying her. Whether held against his chest or with her legs wrapped around his waist, she made him feel powerful, undeniable. Hermione was the prize he'd somehow managed to win, and he would never let her go. She leaned her head on Draco’s shoulder as he carried her past the rows of budding roses. He set Hermione down gently on her feet when they were beyond the manor gates.

She gathered up his hand and smiled before they headed up the hill. A whole weekend away together. No Library, no Pensieve, just the two of them and a beloved town they'd once shared in secret. He hoped this weekend would bring them even closer. Now that Draco had had a taste, he found himself starved for Hermione’s affections. His normal smirk grew to a wide smile as Hermione lead him to the Apparition Point.

His mouth fell open as they popped into existence. The High Street of Hogsmeade Village was postcard-worthy. It was warm and familiar, as if someone had plucked out one of his threadbare memories and painstakingly restored it. The nostalgia was palpable, and he gasped like a flounder out of water.

Evening sun lingered above the tree line, and a few spires of Hogwarts Castle were visible in the distance. Neat rows of shops chaperoned the wandering cobblestone street, their inviting windows heaped with all manner of enticing goods and kitschy wares.

The shop closest had a loudly painted sign parked outside that boasted “Scotland’s Superior Scone!” The small storefront overflowed with enough sweets and treats to last a few lifetimes. Floor-to-ceiling glass canisters filled with all manner of confections crowded the window display.

Across the way, Pygmy Puffs cavorted in a large display as shimmering smoke and peels of laughter rolled out the open door. A fresh sign reading "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes" wobbled whimsically from the awning.

Though Hogsmeade still exuded a charming ambiance, a few shops remained boarded up. The street was sparsely packed and easy to maneuver. The village's normally indelible hubbub had been muted by the final battle.

Hermione told him the remainder of the school year had been forfeited. Students still in attendance were sent home while the castle repairs began. Hermione and those involved in the war had opted to complete their NEWTs remotely come Autumn. With the students absent, Hogsmeade was eerily serene. While it mainly appeared unscathed, something about the town was indescribably changed.

He turned, mouth still agape. Hermione's eyes shimmered with delight, her attention on a dark green storefront ahead. Gold and black lettering identified the establishment as "Tomes and Scrolls." Indeed, the store's large window was filled with stacks and stacks of impressive spines and a veritable mountain of tidily rolled papyrus.

Hermione and Draco strolled distractedly along the brick thoroughfare, hands laced and swinging between them. He felt a startle whenever he noticed something familiar. Deep wilds of his broken memories flickered as they passed the boisterous joke shop and again outside the Hogsmeade Post Office, though nothing new came to him.

Hermione yanked him from his thoughts and into the mouth of an alley. Stepping backward into a rough wall, she tugged him against her and crashed their lips together in a burning kiss. Hermione clawed at the front of his oxford, pulling his hips against hers and pressing them both into the cool brick. In an instant, his hands slid across her body, one finding the back of her neck and the other her hip.

Draco shifted his body, pinning Hermione's back to the wall and forcing his thigh up between her legs. She moaned into his mouth and was soon grinding against him. He tilted her chin to access the soft column of her neck. Instead of leaning into him, Hermione took the opportunity to pull her head away. She took a breath to collect herself.

"Anything?" She asked with swollen lips, peering up hopefully. Hermione was referring to his recollection, not the erection fighting against his zipper.

Draco's cock twitched in his trousers as the pressure there began to wane. He so wanted to know the answer she wanted to hear. Draco dug through his mind. The alley felt vaguely familiar, but it was the same general recognition he had for the whole town: another place he'd seen or walked past dozens of times. But the way she looked at him felt like a test.

"Don’t you remember the photo? It was taken right here. We'd sneak off here to snog each other senseless." Hermione smiled as her eyes flicked from his eyes to his lips and back again. "We had to glamour ourselves before finally returning to our friends."

They'd snogged in this alley countless times, and he'd forgotten all of it. He was furious. Draco’s temples throbbed as he delved into the darkest, foggiest pits of himself. He trawled for any scrap of memory, any shred of them from before his accident.

But he found nothing.

He still felt like nobody deep down. Without knowing his past, Draco felt like some sort of benign Bogart: a mere reflection of the man Hermione wanted him to be. He was empty beyond that, vacant and static.

Hermione had fought so hard for him. She had moved mountains so they could finally share one another in peace. He vowed he would try just as hard to resurrect himself. He'd figure out how to be the Draco she remembered.

She was watching intently when he finally pulled himself back to the present. She waited for him to speak, her soft lips quirked as she continued to appraise him.

"I wish I could remember," Draco eventually said. If he felt defeated before, it was nothing to how it felt to voice his failure. "I want to remember us so badly, to know everything we've said and done and been through. I want to remember who Draco Malfoy is.”

"You will," Hermione said as a genuine smile broke her lips. "I'm here to help you remember, remember?" She coyly tilted her head.

He nodded and reached for her, but Hermione twirled away, only letting him grasp her fingertips as she lead them back onto the street.

"C'mon, it's dinner time, and I am famished!"

He allowed himself to be dragged all the way there, unabashedly watching the outline of her hips sway beneath her light summer robes.

The sun dipped behind the hills just as they arrived. Hermione had booked their room at the Three Broomsticks in advance, and their bag was already upstairs. They entered the ground floor of the establishment and soon scooted into a booth at the back corner. The pub eatery was rustic and well loved, a frequent haunt for most Hogwarts students. Exposed beams and the smells of a bustling kitchen made it feel almost like a second home.

The feel of the worn leather seats shot a tingle of familiarity through Draco. He looked up at the menu board more out of sentimentality than need. When large steins of butterbeer appeared, his fingers knew instinctively how to grasp the handle so the overfull vessel didn’t slosh.

Hogsmeade hadn't thus far bestowed him with a shower of remembrance as he had hoped. When he recognized a shop or predicted a sensation, Draco felt like he was climbing back towards his lofty goal. After the confusion in the alley, it made his confidence swell.

They stuffed themselves to the gills with chargrilled ribs, smoked chicken, roasted corn and potatoes, and enough butterbeer for four. After declining dessert, it was time to retire upstairs to their room.

The wooden stairs were as sturdy as they were creaky, and twisted around the perimeter of the Three Broomsticks. Hermione and Draco were brought to the beginning of a warped hallway. She navigated them to room 206 and inserted the brass key.

Their room was nothing like Malfoy Manor, but it was clean and comfortable. A bed sat in the center of the room, flanked by small tables. A plain chest of drawers stood under a window on one side of the room. Opposite it was a small bathroom. Their bag sat next to the dresser.

Hermione retrieved his memory restorative, handing him the mossy green vial. She then plopped onto the bed and began removing her shoes. Draco tossed back the potion and stepped out of his boots. He loved the natural rhythm they had together. They complimented one another, and that made part of him glow.

He sat on the foot of the bed, and as soon as Hermione stood back up, he pulled her onto his lap. She melted against him, thighs bracketing his hips as she dropped slow kisses down his neck. Still worked up from their kiss in the alley, Draco's excitement built in no time. A steady heat bloomed in his bollocks, and his fingers roamed over Hermione's curves, desperate to feel more of her.

Draco's hands plunged beneath the hem of her robes. He found the delicate edge of her knickers and relished her small moans as he began to tease the fabric. His arousal was like iron. It sent shivers of pleasure racing through him when she began to rock her hips.

He unfastened the small buttons of her robes. As he did so, Hermione's fingers found the front of his oxford and started undressing Draco in kind. As she went, she pressed kiss after kiss to his creamy skin as more and more was revealed.

Pulling the robes over her head, Draco tossed them to the floor in a heap. A moment later, his shirt joined it. As Hermione removed her knickers, he shoved off his trousers and boxers. She straddled his lap again and drew his lower lip into her mouth.

Her skin was heavenly against his. Draco's arm snaked around Hermione, holding her hips to his. They began to grind against one another, awkward initially but soon building to a steady rhythm. He was desperate to be inside her. The heat radiating off her cunt made Draco groan.

He lined himself up with her steaming entrance. This position was new to them, and it took him a moment to find an angle he thought would work.

"Please, Draco. I need you," she whined into his ear.

Using his hand he pumped himself once before pulling her down, feeling his erection slide between her folds. The friction was incredible, slowly dragging down his length.

Draco seated himself fully inside her dripping cunt. The way she gasped and grabbed his shoulders told him to start slow, but he could hardly contain himself. Draco slowly pulled back out, and the head of his cock nearly emerged from her. When he thrust back in, he felt his bollocks slap against her arse with surprising force.

Hermione let out a scream, muffling it as she bit down on his shoulder. They'd had sex a few times now, but this was the first time with her on top. He set a punishing pace, relishing the feel of her bouncing on top, grateful for the street lamp illuminating her perky tits.

She seemed to adjust to him, another stream of moans and words of affirmation trickling from her lips. Her mouth was agape as he slammed up into her. He snapped his hips faster, feeling his pleasure mount as Hermione reached up to fondle her right breast.

"Love when you touch yourself for me," he said in a husky voice.

"Yes, Draco," she begged, "I need you, please!"

His fingers dug into her hips as he pounded mercilessly into her fluttering sex. A moment later, his orgasm tore through him, eyes rolling back with a grunt as he coated her from the inside. She collapsed forward to rest on his chest, her curls lightly tickling his ear.

After a minute, she eased off his softening cock and stepped into the bathroom. Out of breath, Draco scooted up the bed and pulled a blanket over his nakedness. When Hermione returned, she crawled under the covers and nestled into him with a contented sigh.

Draco fell asleep quickly, fuzzy thoughts bouncing with lewd visions of Hermione.

 

He awoke to her stroking his already-hard cock. In minutes, she was on top again, riding him to completion. They got dressed and started the day at a familiar-feeling cafe. She wore a yellow sundress, and while it was reasonably modest, Draco couldn't keep his eyes off her neckline. His face would be sore from smiling when they got home.

He washed down the memory restorative with a large glass of pumpkin juice and a few scones. Hermione read the paper over tea and toast. Occasionally, Draco noticed a few people watching as they ate. Admiration and appreciation were cast Hermione's way, while Draco received scalding looks of disapproval or all-out hatred. It smarted.

He remembered what Hermione told him and found solace in his own truth. He had contributed almost as much as Hermione had. Part of him wanted to shout at the onlookers, demanding they also acknowledge his sacrifice. But what would that possibly accomplish? At the end of the day, Hermione knew. She was all that mattered.

The two of them spent the day meandering through Hogsmeade. They walked into nearly every shop in the village, visited the Shrieking Shack, and even brought a picnic lunch to enjoy on a hill. The Black Lake distantly shimmered. The perfect summer weekend, the foggily nostalgic shops, the ripples of cobblestone…the whole weekend seeped warmth into his bones.

By dinner, Hermione steered them towards the fancier corner of town to "Ton Monde," a small French restaurant, for their dinner reservation.

They were brought to a small, intimate table towards the back. The restaurant glowed with candlelight as a string quartet entertained the room with lively renditions of music through the decades.

As they sat, their glasses filled with a delicious-looking ruby wine. It would be the only time their glasses sat empty the entire meal.

“How are you liking Hogsmeade?” Hermione asked him after a bite of escargot.

“I’m loving it,” Draco said around a large spoonful of Soupe à L’oignon.

Hermione’s fork paused. Her eyes flicked to his and held them as she raised a single eyebrow. Remembering himself, he swallowed before answering her more fully.

“I like all the shops. It’s all very happy. I know I’ve been here dozens and dozens of times, but nothing new has come up… But it feels something like home. Maybe better.”

“Better than home?” She smiled at him, still prompting him to continue.

“Yeah, a bit,” he admitted. “All the people and shops, it all feels connected. I couldn’t be happier to have you, but sometimes I think I get lonely at the manor.” He shook his head lightly, “I didn’t know I needed this.”

She nodded, and Draco knew she understood.

“Maybe we can visit Theo soon or something. Shake up that routine of ours once in a while, huh?” Her voice was gentle. “Harry and Ginny are still flying under the radar, but they should emerge soon, too.”

“Don’t they hate me? Maybe we ought to stick with Nott,” his fingers tightened around his spoon.

“I never said they hated you. Things got touchy when you and I began openly seeing one another. If anything, Ronald was the reason they had trouble embracing you. Accepting you would have been like hexing him in the foot.”

Draco nodded into his half-eaten soup bowl. He couldn’t imagine Hermione’s best mate or the youngest Weasley letting anything go easily, but he trusted Hermione.

“You’ll see. Things are so different now. A galleon says they love getting to know you now that the dust has settled. They both admired you during the war, timing just wasn’t right.”

Draco relaxed, already feeling more hopeful about integrating in some way with Hermione’s surviving friends. Recognition wasn’t something he had in spades. To hear that Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley thought highly of him made the bubble of doubt pop in his chest.

The night passed in a delightful blur. They were served plate after plate of exquisite food, and their glasses responded with a different wine pairing for every course.

 

After sharing a divine crème brûlée and paying the bill, the pair found themselves quite sloshed. Draco and Hermione stumbled arm in arm from the booth and found the walk to the Three Broomsticks four times longer than either remembered. The sky was growing dark, and only dim light from the shops guided their way.

By the time they got to their room, Draco's cheeks burned. Hermione hiccuped as she sank onto the bed. She let out a teasing sigh that reverberated through his already pulsing cock. Though the room was dark, he saw her eyes hooded with want.

He was on top of Hermione in a second. Draco's lips slotted over hers. He tugged the straps of the sundress off her shoulders and peeled the fabric down to free her breasts. His hands squeezed and kneaded them in tandem, grateful she had foregone a bra that day. He deepened their kiss, thrusting his tongue between the seam of her lips. Hermione was feral as she opened for him, running her tongue over his with a groan.

Draco groped at her with little finesse. He reached one hand down to bunch the skirt of her dress up around her waist and shove her knickers aside. He fondled her and was rewarded by a writhing, bucking Hermione. Draco's cock swelled in response, his growing erection a sharp tent in his trousers. Needy, nonsense noises fell from her lips when he finally released her. She leaned forward, shucking off his trousers and boxers as he tugged his oxford straight over his head.

Clothes discarded, he practically tackled her. Hermione let out a squeal of delight as he rolled on top. Her lips quickly found Draco's neck, beginning to kiss and suck there as he shoved her knickers aside again. He tried his best to shove inside her.

It took a few tries. Maybe a handful of tries. Wine-fuzzy and over-eager, when Draco finally sank inside her, he exhaled in relief and ecstasy. Their chests pressed together, and he frenetically pumped into her.

Draco became vaguely aware of something roiling within him. His stomach twisted. It wasn't necessarily painful, but the sensation was off-putting. Still sheathed inside her, he slowed his thrusts as the feeling washed over him for what must have been a full minute. Hermione nibbled at his neck and pouted something about "faster." Drunkenly, he chastised himself for his foolish alcohol consumption.

When the sensation finally passed and he felt assuredly like himself again, he began to pound into her once more. He slammed into Hermione relentlessly as she canted her hips against him, helping him fuck her deeply. No matter how he shifted, he just wasn't hitting that spot she loved quite as hard as before. Eager for inspiration to return, he rolled her nipple between his fingers. His cock twitched in response, and he moaned into her hairline.

Hermione's eyes shot open. Her movements stilled, panic skittering across her glassy face. “Gonna be sick," she muttered. One hand shot to cover her mouth, and she shoved him off with surprising force.

With confusion, he looked on as Hermione lunged to the bathroom. The thin wooden door slammed shut but did nothing to muffle the sound of her retching into the toilet bowl.

He collapsed on his side, cock shrinking sadly against his thigh. When Hermione finally stopped hurling, she called weakly through the door.

"Did you take your memory restorative?"

Shite. No.

"Shite. No," he replied.

He groped for a dose on the side table. Hermione had set out a little row of vials for him the night before. He choked it down, not appreciating the oversweet, grassy aftertaste. Not a moment later, his stomach rebelled again, and he doubled over.

Whether it was the wine or something they'd eaten, he tried to distract himself from the odd quivering that racked his body. He began muttering the Chudley Cannons' theme song into his knees.

His fourth time through, the "Boom! Boom! Boom! We are not pirates!" had some oomph. He pushed himself up to sit as Hermione opened the bathroom door.

"Well, that was awfully romantic,” she said in a small voice.

He reached out to her, his hand still swaying slightly from the wine.

"I nearly lost it too, I think," Draco replied with a smirk. Their fingers linked. "Are you feeling alright now?"

"I think so," she replied tentatively. "Not well enough to continue. Maybe just a cuddle?"

Draco nodded, peeling back the covers. Hermione carefully arranged herself against his chest, her knees tucked up against his thigh. She breathed him in deeply, planting a soft kiss on his neck. His fingers drifted into her hair. Sleep found them swiftly.

 

The morning of their last day, sunlight cracked through his lids. Draco let out a long groan. His bladder thrummed with urgency. Rolling away from the light onto his side, he felt Hermione's legs slide off his.

Head lightly throbbing, Draco’s throat was dry from sleeping mouth open. He hauled himself out of bed and padded to the bathroom for a piss. Once he'd relieved himself, he stepped to the sink and filled one of the glasses. He felt casually awful. Looking up, Draco caught his reflection. His blonde hair was tousled and tumbled partially before his eyes, but he looked much better than he felt. He chugged the water before returning to the main room.

The small carriage clock on the table read 7:56. Perfect. Draco crept to the small table and grasped the last full vial of memory restorative before moving to Hermione's beaded bag on the dresser. He reached in, digging past her brown journal, folded blankets, and survival gear to retrieve a few biscuits. After popping its cork, he tossed the potion back and shoved a biscuit in his mouth.

Pleasantly, his stomach remained steady. He finished the second biscuit and returned to bed, pulling Hermione's sleeping form against him and falling back asleep.

 

A little before eleven, they finally stirred awake. Hermione's curls had tumbled around both of them. Draco yawned, stretching his arms wide. Gratefully, he felt much better after a few more hours of sleep. When Draco noticed her honey-brown eyes blinking at him, he smiled and playfully puffed a curl into her face. He kissed her nose in mock apology, and she scrunched it.

"We need to be out by eleven thirty," she grumbled.

"Breakfast?" Draco asked, noting he seemed much less affected than Hermione by their rambunctious evening.

She nodded, rubbing sleep from her eyes with the heels of her hands.

 

After checking out and sending their bag to the manor, they shuffled to a bakery around the corner. The smell of patisserie floated to them on the warm morning air as they approached. Hermione got a blueberry scone, a gigantic croissant, and a large cuppa. Draco got a raspberry Danish and orange juice.

They ate at a little table outside, watching birds pick between the cobblestones. Hermione sighed into her tea, looking knackered but content. Draco couldn't grasp why, but this weekend felt huge for them. Like some kind of recital, it felt like all that he'd learned and practiced had been put to the test. He might not have dredged up any prominent memories on their trip, but he felt closer to her. Exploring the village together, shopping, dining, drinking, sex—even with last night's interruption—had been charming.

Hermione sipped the last of her tea, and Draco popped the last bite of Danish in his mouth. Hoping to earn a few points for later, he stood and stacked their dishes. Clearing them to the little cart by the door, he ignored the glare an older witch shot at him.

When he returned, Hermione was smiling up at him. He held out his hand, and they walked to the Apparition point together. As much as he enjoyed Malfoy Manor, he had missed some of the vibrancy and variety of life. Hermione wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him close in a way that felt both claiming and comforting. With a swirl and a pop, she Apparated them home.

Chapter 9: Dissociate

Summer, Before Seventh Year — The Burrow

A lavender marquee overflows with cheerful, bubbly guests. The tent is full of friends—some who may as well be family—and many cordial strangers. All are in attendance for Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

With war bubbling across the country, it is a relief to celebrate, even for just a few hours. Broad smiles and laughter are plentiful. The collective mood practically lifts the tent off The Burrow’s lawn. She wishes Draco could be here, but he’s away on a mission tonight. Never mind that most in attendance would draw their wands at the mere sight of him. Even their fellow Order members have a tough time maneuvering in Draco’s presence. And that didn’t begin to cover their opinions about her around Draco.

Hermione smooths the front of her dark red dress as she shakes those thoughts free, reluctantly returning to the present. Deciding she needs something to occupy her hands, she heads to the champagne table.

The phalanx of coupe glasses shimmer, each half-full of pale bubbles that pour themselves. She quickly throws back her first and looks around for almost any familiar face to distract her.

Arthur and Molly Weasley are both gushing to a trio of older witches. She’ll let them be.

Bill and Fleur are attempting to extract themselves from an endless line of nagging aunts, uncles, and cousins. She won’t interrupt them, either.

Harry—Polyjuiced as Cousin Barney—sits talking with an older gentleman wearing an absurd number of shirts. They are deep in conversation, and Hermione can’t bring herself to interrupt.

Her eyes glide to Lupin and Tonks standing in a corner opposite the band. Hermione sets her empty glass on the table and reaches for another as the enchantment refills her first. Champagne in hand, she drifts over to, arguably, her two favourite Order members.

As she picks her way through the mass of guests, there is a quick count and the quartet behind her suddenly bounds into song. Instinct causes her to whirl at the sound, and a trim smudge of black catches her eye in the sea of colour.

Hermione’s mouth falls open.

Draco’s stare is warm, and the faintest hint of a smile tugs his face as their eyes meet. Her mouth morphs into a toothy grin. In an instant they are moving, each quickly weaving between guests to meet at the edge of the dance floor.

When Draco is just a few feet away, he speaks. “That colour was made for you.”

Hermione blushes, her body unable to ignore him.

“No more mission tonight?” She asks with hopeful brows raised.

“Change of plans. I have more important places to be.” He reaches for her hand and tugs her close, planting a chaste kiss to her forehead.

“Dance with me, Hermione,” he whispers into her ear.

“Please, Draco?” she says, wrapping her arms around him and drinking in his smokey scent.

Draco gravitates them to the heart of the dance floor, infectious music floating through the air. At first she feels tight and nervous against him. What will everyone think when they see them together? Many guests are civilians, but all know about the Malfoy family’s allegiance to Voldemort. Some might even know about the tattoo that mars Draco left arm. Few know anything close to his real story.

Her thoughts flit to Harry, milling about as Cousin Barney. Part of her wishes Draco had gone a similar route.

As if reading her mind, the blonde shoots her a cheeky wink. It is then that she notices. The faintest shimmer of a Disillusionment charm is just visible around them, effectively concealing them. Whether it’s the champagne or the music, Hermione throws back her head and laughs. There’s nothing to worry about. She should enjoy herself! She should enjoy Draco. He is here for her tonight.

The song shifts and he pulls her fully against him and into the moment. The tempo increases, and Hermione is shocked as he effortlessly bounces to the beat. With a grin, he leads her into the rhythm. She twirls and her dress gathers and fans in his captivating orbit.

They fit so easily, seamlessly melding together. Even the way they dance holds a certain mutual magnetism. Hermione and Draco make sense. Everyone else might be another story, but they are irrelevant.

No matter how many people cycle around them, the Disillusionment charm holds. There isn’t a single nasty remark shot their way all night. It’s a relief she’d forgotten. She was quite accustomed to deflecting Ronald’s lunkish insults about her blonde beau.

The night whirls on, one song bleeding into the next. Fast songs, slow songs, silly songs, songs they aren’t sure how to dance to. Hermione loves every minute of it. Draco looks happy, almost relaxed. He constantly sends her little sideways looks that make her stomach flutter. Her cheeks strain from smiling the night away, and her heart is levitating.

Hermione wishes she could bottle their night together, them together.

 

 

Draco hadn’t wanted to leave, but they could always go back to Hogsmeade. One of the Malfoy perks was their seemingly bottomless Gringotts Vault. He was grateful Hermione had defacto access to the account. It was another burden off his shoulders.

They immediately settled back into their comfortable routine. Having finished his most recent reading, Draco found a navy hardback with worn gold letters on his reading table.

Hermione had babbled on about some muggle science thing when he cracked the cover. Instead of listening, Draco’s mind had wandered without prompting to recent Pensieve sessions. His magic bucked and sizzled as flashes of the memories cascaded across his consciousness. He focused on his breathing, but only caught half her words.

Hermione in turn giggled tremendously at the worn copies of “The Intimate Male” and “The Intimate Female” Draco had found. She leafed through the former of the two and made an assortment of faces ranging from twinkling curiosity to abject horror.

After a moment she held up a passage extrapolating in quite fine detail how to perform cunnilingus with a woman’s highest needs in mind. Hermione threw him a salacious smirk and waggled her brows, thrusting the open passage against his chest.

Much of the book was some measure of outdated or unethical, but there were chapters chalk full of explicit instructions and advice—complete with groovy language and comical abbreviations. He diligently read the passage before moving to the hardback.

Hermione was in excellent spirits. Their weekend away spurred her research on with renewed vigor. She was excited about a new batch of yet-unprocessed artifacts she and Theo found in deep storage. The two had found a wonderful, organic chemistry in the workplace. Draco told himself again and again that he could trust Hermione and had nothing to worry about with Theo, but now and again a bite of jealousy found him.

Draco and Hermione always visited the Pensieve after dinner for a memory session. She continued to select simpler, easier recollections for him to absorb just like before their trip, and he was grateful.

Nonetheless, the memories were disorienting.

Draco began to wonder if each memory had its own nuance in appearance. He swore lately the Pensieve swirled with a delicate blue tinge. He still put his all into their sessions. Prickles of exertion raced along his scalp when he and Hermione would emerge from the Pensieve. She was again accompanying him into the memories, and he wondered if that said something about his progress.

 

The next day he stared blankly off into the distance. It was Tuesday, the nineteenth of June. They’d been back at the manor nearly a week and a half. Draco sat on a lounge in the pavilion. Hermione had left for work nearly two hours ago.

Nothing reached him for countless minutes. The birdsong ebbed away until he heard only silence. He no longer felt the warm morning sun that washed across his face. He was numb, eyes open but unseeing.

Whatever liminal space Draco had drifted to felt infinitely better. Staring off into nothingness was much easier than trying to banish the persistent overwhelm of late.

Held loosely in his hands was the hardbound book, a Three Broomsticks coaster marking his place. Sat beside him was a green apple. Only one bite was missing. His breakfast tray was otherwise untouched on the low table beside him.

At first he’d been insulted by Hermione’s latest reading selection. It was an old children’s book about a chimaera titled, “The Many Tales of Meteora.” After he finished the first chapter though he was hooked. The marvelous woodcut depictions that accompanied its chapter heads were a cherry on top. The book was grand, clever, humorous, and full of adventure. There were even a few violent scenes sprinkled in.

Abandoned as a youngling, Meteora raised herself. Those she encountered declared Meteora’s heads unnerving, her tails off-putting, and all of her dangerous.

She faced the world with gusto. Meteora had the body and fire-breathing head of a lioness. Her goat’s head connected to her chest and shoulders beside it, long horns sweeping regally back. Maroon dragon wings tucked neatly over her body, and five tails from five different animals flowed behind her.

Draco liked Meteora’s serpent tail best; it ended with a fully functional viper’s head that would hiss and strike when agitated. A ferocious set of instincts began to pull at all corners of her being. She wanted to know if there were others like her.

The book followed Meteora’s adventures as she searched far and wide for belonging. It contained stunning descriptions of her soaring through clouds and fantastic landscapes. Those were Draco’s favourite parts.

He was only a quarter of the way through, and he wished the story would go on forever. Every time he flipped the book open he counted its dwindling pages. Draco began rationing, allowing himself only one of its short chapters a day.

Mornings were usually most difficult for him. Once Hermione left for the Ministry, there was a melancholy keening in his chest. The story usually soothed him, setting the rest of his day off to a good note until her return.

But not today.

Draco strummed his eyes over the same line, too distracted to read any of its words. Defeated, he set the book down without a single page read.

Last night’s memory rippled through his mind again and again. He had felt off kilter all morning. Magic buzzed in his veins like a billywig. He tried to relive every memory he’d seen. He hoped accessing them on his own would help syphon more from the kernel Hermione gave him.

He occasionally got fragments of his past with this method: a flash of recollection here, a quick daydream there. It was as if he might shake memories free from whatever stuck corner they’d been trapped. Lately something about the process felt different. The memories felt right in his bones, possibly more so than before. If only his sense of identity were returning.

He had been spinning out all morning. He tried to put a finger on the amorphic and uncanny sensation, but came up blank. When the book thumped to the flagstone from his relaxed hand, Draco snapped from the mental haze. He just needed to keep trying, he assured himself. He had already made lots of progress.

Draco brought the breakfast tray back to the kitchens. He promised himself he would try to eat something later that afternoon. Walking between glossy camellia bushes, he headed back outside and past the pavilion. When the flagstone ended, he continued.

Wandering through the grass in his dark dragon hide boots, Draco tried to hold himself in the present. Random memory fragments from that week swirled without end. He stumbled slightly as he approached the pond, the landscape growing unruly. Compared to the rest of the manor grounds, the pond felt wild and untouched. Something about its rugged beauty beckoned. Draco crouched down at the edge of the pond.

Smooth water reflected the bright, overcast sky. The surface was undisturbed save for the perennial swan pair and a few ducks paddling lazily across its mirror-like finish. The smell of stagnant water and the whisper of bulrushes indeed helped soothe his rumpled thoughts. He got as close as he dared without getting this boots wet, enjoying standing among the swaying reeds.

Draco stood at the water’s edge as a trio of ducks cruised past. The cloud-filled surface obscured their busy legs so they looked effortless. Their wakes sent rolling lines to both shores and caused the waterline to shiver by his feet.

As he looked down, Draco caught sight of his stuttering reflection. Against the gray sky with his borderline funereal choice of dress, gray eyes, and white-blonde hair, his imperfect and quivering self was restrained to black and white. The green of partially submerged bulrushes was the only dash of colour.

As he looked on, the ducks waddled onto land near him, shaking pond water from their feathers. A small rat flushed from the reeds between them, darting towards Draco where he crouched at the pond’s edge. Holding his breath, he didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t want to startle the little fellow. In fact, as it slowed and took shelter in a clump of reeds near his foot, he noticed it was quite cute.

The rat was a warm chocolate brown, but its front half was black. A wobbly line where the two coats met segmented its middle. It cleaned its little paws in the water and Draco noticed its feet were different, too. The front paws were pinker while its hind paws were tannish brown.

Thoroughly forgetting his mental anguish, Draco stared down at the little rat as it cleaned its small face. How did it get like that? Was one parent black and the other brown? He had no clue. Nature was capable of so many marvels.

Hermione had babbled on about the scientific concept of chimerism. She’d been finishing a few muggle texts outlining rare genetic conditions. “Light reading,” as his swotty witch had called it. Apparently, anything could be a chimaera like Meteora in a sense if they, “had cells with more than one set of DNA.”

He hadn’t the faintest idea what Hermione was blathering on about at the time, but now wondered if this rat was a chimaera.

“Meteo-rat? Is that you?” He asked with a dumb chuckle.

The rat scampered off without hesitation, and he fought the sad little sink in his chest. Pushing off his knees, he got to his feet and continued to walk around the calming water.

The pond distracted him for the rest of the day. His thinking had been obsessive; disorganized. Focusing on something external immensely helped. He walked around the pond a half-dozen more times, hoping he would catch more glimpses of the little creature.

That night in the dining room he told Hermione about the bi-coloured rat.

“Two colours? You’re certain?” At first she hadn’t seemed to believe him.

“Definitely,” Draco said with a nod. “The front was black, the back was brown.”

“Where did you find it?” Hermione stabbed a large crouton with her fork.

“I was at the pond watching the birds and it came out of the reeds. I got to watch it for a few minutes. Do you think it’s a chimaera? Like what you were talking about the other day?”

Hermione chewed her large bite thoughtfully, swallowing it down with a swish of white wine. “I suppose it’s possible, yes. Without doing extensive muggle testing, we can’t know for certain though.”

Draco nodded as he worked on his own salad. “I’m going to call it Meteo-rat. I hope I see her tomorrow.”

He migrated his meditation sessions to the pond moving forward. Draco liked its rebellious beauty and avian regulars, but mostly hoped he’d catch another glimpse of the unusual rodent. Chimaera or no, he found himself quite fond of the little rat.

Chapter 10: Reciprocate

The purple tent spills over with raucous conversation and laughter. Stars wink to life in the velvety cosmos as an oscillating orchestra of crickets and frogs perform from the tall grass.

Tonight is the night. He can feel it!

He’s been eagerly waiting for an opportunity to take his and Hermione’s relationship to the next level. Hands in pockets and a grin splitting his face in two, he tugs the hem of his waistcoat and checks the cuffs of his robes.

Straightening his already-straightened tie, he spins on a heel and ducks back into the large tent. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust. He reaches for his tie knot again, only for his brain to stutter. His hands don’t look quite right. They’re somewhat muddy to his transitioning eyes.

Countless enchanted candles bob and bounce through the air in a river of light. A few party-goers show off with sparkling gold and silver showers cascading from their wand tips.

Tie thrice straightened, he takes a huge steadying breath and sidles forward, eyes sweeping the crowd. He’s in a knot of people, but he knows she’s here somewhere. Tonight is all about creating the perfect moment and seizing it.

He edges around a pair of seated wizards when the younger tugs the edge of his black robes.

“Oi. Go easy on her tonight, yeah?” It’s Potter, disguised as Cousin Barney. The wizard catches his eye pleadingly before his fingers slip away and he’s right back to his conversation.

He continues forward, surveying the inside of the tent, hunting for a certain flash of red.

There she is.

Hermione doesn’t notice him across the crowded tent, but he can’t take his eyes off of her. The crimson dress hugs her curves before flaring out. Its bubbly hem stops just above her knee. Hair down, a clip sweeping her fringe to one side, she looks subdued and distracted. Delicate lines pull her mouth into a slight frown as her eyes float around the room.

She begins to drift in the opposite direction. A violin shrieks its first notes, sending her into a startle. It’s a dash of luck he owes purely to the gods. At the sound, he watches her whirl with her wand drawn. Hermione’s eyes snag on him, no doubt feeling the weight of his stare. Her wand lowers, but the look of guarded reproach lingers.

His feet are moving before he can put the final touches to his plan. Hermione’s eyes widen, but her feet remain planted. He weaves between wedding guests, holding her gaze. His smile grows wider, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“That colour was made for you,” he says as soon as he’s close enough, voice a husky rumble.

Hermione blinks her response before continuing to scout the party. He misses her attention on him already.

“He’s not showing up tonight, you know,” he says, already growing frustrated by her easy dismissal. She still isn’t looking at him. He stands close enough to reach out and touch her, but she won’t even attempt to meet his eye.

“Dance with me, ‘Mione,” he says, his voice thick with something resembling regret.

“You know I hate th—”

“Just dance with me, Hermione? Please?” He interrupts. “Tonight’s supposed to be a celebration. Celebrate with me, yeah?”

Hermione’s fiery eyes slide to his with an intensity that could burn him.

The wedding meant she was trapped here tonight. Surely he could maneuver his manners. Just one dance might be enough. Tonight was it, it had to be. He just knew it would be like before. All he had to do was get her dancing.

Hermione scans his face, not attempted to mask her ire.

“Just one dance—”

“Just a dance,” he says in mock seriousness, holding up his hands in placation.

She is contemplating the offer when he extends a hand. Her eyes skate across him again, hunting for a reason to deny him, to blow him off, to continue to grow distant. He remains frozen with what he hopes is his best smirk, hand outstretched.

Hermione throws back her glass, neatly finishing the drink in one gulp. She practically tosses it on the table before reaching for his hand. She doesn’t acknowledge him the whole time, but he doesn’t let it get to him. He can be persistent, too.

Floating one hand over the small of her back, the other grips her fingers almost desperately as he guides her onto the dance floor.

Look at me.

Her eyes remain professionally averted. Her attention is a gossamer thread that clings and catches on nearly anything but him. Her face is strained, and the tendons at the back of her neck are pulled tight.

The quartet in the corner has built up an awesome beat, and the music carries both of them together naturally. Though she keeps a small buffer between them, Hermione begins to twist and bounce closer. He feels the infectious music marching through him, and relishes her nearness.

Anticipating the music as it builds, he coils her tightly into him before unfurling their arms like a tether, sending Hermione spinning so her dress bunches about her hips. He tugs her back towards him and lets out a laugh as she spools into him. Her other hand lands lightly against his chest and she feels as perfect as she always has. He does his best to catch her eye with a thousand-galleon grin, but once again goes ignored.

Look at me!

The dance floor is awhirl: partners sway and twirl, their formal attire fanning and flaring in bold swaths of colour. As the music shifts, so do the dancers. Hermione feels more alive in his arms as they move.

The song suddenly shifts, a slower tempo wafting across the dance floor. Partners pull each other in close, wrapping arms around waists and tucking chins on shoulders. Hermione’s grip turns to ice in his hand.

“It’s just a dance, Hermione,” he mutters into her ear, hauling her closer.

She hasn’t looked him in the eye virtually all night, but her steely resolve seems to be weakening.

He doesn’t wait. He tugs her against him, wanting to bottle the sound of her perfect, tiny gasp as she thuds into his waiting chest. He snakes his arms around her, holding her in an awkward hug.

“What’re you—”

“It’s just a dance,” he repeats. It’s as much for him as to appease her. His heart hammers against his chest, surely slamming into her cheek where she’s pressed into him.

They begin to sway slowly, back and forth. Hermione doesn’t say anything, but the muscles in her neck begin to relax. Eventually, reluctantly, her hands slip around his torso and clutch at the back of his robes. The cello rolls a beautiful melody across the marquee, and the two of them sink infinitesimally closer.

A smile cracks his face. He closes his eyes, tipping his nose into the crown of her hair and wanting to stay like this forever. She relaxes further into him, and it’s a gift. The song carries them in a small circle, swaying and rocking together in the silky harmony. The celebration, the song, their embrace, this moment… it’s all too little too late, but something claws at him.

Looking down at her through cracked eyelids, his smile vaporizes at the sight of her furrowed brow. Shoved against him, Hermione stares off into space. A hollow, bored look is etched in her features, and her disconnection startles him to anger.

“Why won’t you look at me?” He asks before he measures the words.

She seems momentarily startled, pulling her cheek from its home against his clavicle to shoot a nasty glance up at him.

“Why does it matter?” She asks, readjusting to glare over his shoulder.

“I used to mean something to you. Now you don’t even look me in the eye.”

They’d stopped moving, a frozen pair among the swaying forest of dancers. The song winds through an intricate melody, the violin crooning as the cello hums steadily beneath. The viola chips in a dour tune, its voice round and full.

“A lot’s changed. You’ve changed, I’ve changed, it’s just something we have to deal with.” Her words are bitter. She’s always been good at leaving things unsaid.

“You won’t look me in the eye anymore and all you can say is ‘a lot’s changed’?” His voice is still quiet enough for just the two of them.

“Don’t act like this is all my fault. You give me a hard time just because you never gave him—”

“I’m loads better,” his voice rumbles louder, growing furious. “I’m actually here! Or have you forgotten what it’s like? For someone to care for you, to be there for you?”

He doesn’t bother to mask his hatred any longer. He can feel her fury building, her body beginning to tremble.

“When are you going to drop the act? We both know I want you. We’d be amazing together.”

Hermione shoves him away, her eyes locking on his. She opens her mouth, poised to unleash a torrent of words that will surely scald his ears.

The marquee suddenly reels and lurches. Thick, black smoke cascades in from all sides as Death Eaters funnel into the crowded space one after another after another. Black plumes like wraiths race around the packed tent, sending waves of screams and confusion into the night.

He clutches Hermione close and steps in front of her, shielding her from harm.

 

 

Draco woke with a jolt, silk sheets bound around his waist. The large suite was shrouded in night. Hermione didn’t stir beside him on the large bed.

The dream had been quite confusing—taxing, if he was honest—and frustratingly similar to the memory Hermione had shown him the prior morning. The differences were jarring. Minds could be so bizarre, especially when sleep left them to their own devices.

He shook his head like a dog and attempted to slip into his normal meditation practice. Draco hoped filtering through the recently explored memories would help ease the bubbling turmoil, but as he combed through harried thoughts, a vicious tension blossomed in his neck. The pain throbbed behind his eyes in waves, and in no time at all Draco was fostering a headache.

That was quite enough of that. He rolled over and reached for “The Intimate Male.” Its black cover was crisscrossed with bends, and it had either been dogeared enthusiastically or perhaps wildly mistreated.

He opened the book and leafed to the section that caught Hermione’s eye. The chapter began on page 99 and was titled “The Clitoris.” The title alone left him a bit embarrassed, while still altogether too curious about what the chapter might reveal.

Apparently there were many fine details to be observed and admired by a female paramour. The further he dug into the book the more he found himself assessing his behaviour toward Hermione. The outdated language and unapologetic content of the book had brought a bright pink flush to Draco’s cheeks after only a few pages.

The book made it painfully clear one couldn’t simply chase after their own erotic pleasure and expect a female partner to invite them back. Foreplay was especially important, but it went much further than that. Sex apparently went beyond simple physical attraction, and he felt this information wash through him like a flash flood. The book had him properly admonished, considering their routine and his meager contributions to it. Was he that selfish? These things required time and attention, and he’d put in very little of both.

He plowed ahead, soaking up the book’s radical sex jargon from yesteryear and filtered for advice to apply to his relationship. He read through observations and tips, recommendations and suggestions. The chapter was rather informative, and Draco felt confident he could impart some of the book’s wisdom to their sex life.

By the time he reached the next chapter head, he had entirely forgotten about his bad dream. His head still throbbed occasionally, but the pain that threatened him had ebbed away, too. He set the book back on the table, and curled himself around Hermione. The steady rise and fall of her chest helped usher him quickly back to sleep.

 

Hermione left that morning with a huge smile. When he asked about her chipper mood over breakfast, she’d gushed. It was her one month anniversary working for the Department of Magical Artefacts. The day felt like a real milestone to her, not that anyone else would care.

But he cared. After lunch, Draco retired to the Library to re-read the chapter a few more times. When he’d finished, he flipped to the beginning and started the book fresh. Draco didn’t do anything in half-measures.

He was down in the kitchens when Hermione arrived home hours later. Draco was determined to put some of the book’s advice into practice. He wasn’t delusional. Making her dinner wouldn’t be a one way ticket to Page 99, but he’d neglected some of his “lady lover’s” finer needs and wanted to catch up before a real debt accrued.

“Draco? Are you down here?” Hermione called as she wound her way down to the kitchens. She had a small shopper around her elbow and looked slightly disappointed as she stepped through the wide door.

“Hey, love. How was your day?” He shot over a shoulder from his station at the stove.

“It was alright, I supp—Draco, are you cooking?!” Her voice shifted from monotonous to incredulous as she took in the scene before her.

“One month is a big deal, Hermione. You’re always serving us delicious meals, I figured I’d return the favour. Or at least do my best…” he trailed off as he stepped away from the near-boiling pot to peek into the oven.

Draco had dug around in the kitchens and found a whole drawer stuffed with recipes. They were written in a teeny, cramped hand he could only just make out. House elf writing, he presumed. He couldn’t remember any of them, but he distantly recalled Hermione’s extreme stance against elf labor. His magic sluggish from a poor night’s sleep, he had opted to cook everything the muggle way. It seemed to add a massive bonus to the gesture for Hermione.

“What are you making us?” She asked, leaning her elbows on the counter to watch Draco prod at the now-boiling potatoes.

Putting on his haughtiest posh demeanor, he turned to face her and inquired, “How would the lady like to dine on roast chicken and mashed potatoes this evening?”

From her place on the counter, Hermione beamed. Her eyes were aglitter, a lively twinkle in her eye. “I think that sounds rather scrumptious, Lord Malfoy. I picked up some cakes on my way home for dessert. Shall I fetch us some greens from the garden?”

“Cakes? Quite divine,” Draco smiled at her, kicking himself for not thinking of a salad. “And I think a garden salad would be splendid, dearest.”

 

A half hour later, the potatoes were mashed. The salad was washed, tossed, and dressed, and the succulent chicken lay on a platter ready to serve. Hermione levitated the lot into the dining room as Draco set their typical places at one end of the enormous table.

“Theo said he’d like to visit you soon. If you’re up to it, of course.” Hermione said after they’d settled in and taken a few bites.

“Did he now?” Draco said around a forkful of romaine.

“He said it’s about time he dropped in to check on his old friend, and I agree. I know friends haven’t been a priority, but it might do you some good.” Hermione smiled at Draco over her wine glass before taking a generous sip.

“Reconnecting with someone I don’t even remember feels a bit pointless. You sure he won’t mind?” He drank from his own glass, appreciating how the chardonnay swirled across his tongue.

“Not at all. Theo knows what you’ve been through. He’s very understanding.” Hermione stabbed a large chunk of roast chicken with her fork.

“Well that helps, I s’pose.”

“I didn’t know you were going to make such a fuss over me with dinner,” Hermione smiled at him, “but I have a surprise for you—”

Hermione’s words ran dry, her lips parted as Draco held up his forefinger. He carefully chewed his mouthful of chicken before making a show of swallowing, dabbing lightly at his mouth with a napkin. He pinned her with a molten stare and began to speak.

“Not until I give you something first,” he drawled out, trying to melt her with his words. He tucked back into his food with as much poise as he could muster.

They finished the rest of the meal, a silent agreement their surprises would wait until they retired to the Library. The chicken was demolished, the salad and potatoes obliterated, the wine sipped eagerly, chocolate cakes disappeared, and the dishes cleared with practiced efficiency. They headed upstairs hand in hand, exchanging coy smiles.

 

After a quick drop into the Pensieve, they finally retired to their favourite sofa before the crackling fire. Hermione sat in her usual spot, automatically tucking her legs beneath herself. Ticking through his mental notes and running a nervous hand through his hair, Draco perched next to her. After a moment, he took a breath, rubbed his palms together, and turned towards Hermione.

“Can I give you yours first?” His eyes flicked up to meet her molasses stare.

Hermione nodded, looking around discreetly for clues before resting her attention again on him. A smirk slipped across his face as he sank to the carpet, eyes never leaving hers.

A little confused smile perked her lips as Draco’s fingers traced across her knees. Slipping his fingers around her calves he asked, “Do you trust me?”

Hermione’s breath caught. “D-Draco, what—”

“Do you trust me, Hermione?” He repeated, his voice rumbling out the simple question.

“Y-Yes. Yes I trust you, Draco Malfoy.”

“Excellent,” he replied after holding her in suspense for a moment. A salacious grin broke across his face, and Hermione squirmed at his closeness.

Draco grabbed her calves and tugged her to the edge of the cushion. Her soft skin felt heavenly against his quidditch calluses. He pulled her knees flush against his sides, her pigeon gray work skirt tickled his wrists.

Ever the detective, her mind was clearly whirring trying to figure out his intent. Her eyes were wide and glittering, and her lips parted ever to slightly as she watched him. Draco leaned forward and slotted their lips together. He succeeded in pulling her back to the present when his tongue slipped into her mouth.

One hand sliding down the front of her robes, Draco smirked at her before tucking his head under the gray pleats. Inhaling a breath, he took a moment to appreciate her peach knickers and the sweet scent wafting from beneath them.

“Draco, what are you—”

Hermione’s question cut off with an adorable yelp as Draco darted forward and kissed her cunt through the soft cotton. His hands slid from the muscle of her calves slowly up to the outsides of her thighs, guiding her to rest her heels over his shoulders as he planted kiss after kiss to her veiled opening.

He focused his mind and his magic to a pinpoint, jerking one hand and vanishing her knickers entirely. It was easily becoming his favourite bit of spellwork.

They both gasped at the change, and her intoxicating scent intensified. He leaned in to lap his tongue across her waiting slit. A nervous moan escaped her, and the sound sent a shiver of want down his spine. Draco shook his head to focus, enjoying the feel of her lips dragging across his face. Darting his tongue out, he began exploring her folds slowly and thoroughly.

His newfound confidence was bolstered by the book’s advice. He could hear her panting lightly, but her robes kept him blinkered, his full attention on the target of his affection. Once Draco had licked every edge, every fold he could reach, he rocked back slightly. Hermione was glistening before him now, wetness highlighting her flushed vulva. He spotted her clitoris, already slightly engorged.

Words written decades ago flitted into his mind. “If you lack confidence or familiarity with the lady you’re pleasuring, don’t be shy about using your ABC’s: trace your tongue across her clitoris and draw each letter of the alphabet. See how far you get before she’s writhing for you and telling you exactly what she wants.”

Draco took a deep breath before leaning in and beginning to trace across her little bundle of nerves. The effect was instantaneous. Hermione quickly clutched his head and pushed herself against his face. He didn’t let up, continuing to flick his tongue over her most sensitive place. He fought to relax away a smile, and continued to swipe his tongue eagerly over her again and again.

By the time Draco got to letter “H,” she was practically weeping above him, her words a mumbled and indecipherable mess. His tongue stroked upward followed by a short thrust to dot the “I” as he floated a hand up beneath his chin. Draco sunk a long finger into her steaming cunt, loving how she bucked against the sudden pressure with a feral shriek. He curled his fingers, strumming at her slick walls. All the while he maintained a consistent, unrelenting rhythm with his tongue.

Hermione was practically riding his face, her thighs around his head and her ankles quaking against his back. She ground herself against his finger, against his tongue, and he continued to lap and swipe at her clit, following her movements and gradually increasing the tempo.

He slid in a second finger as he was about to trace the letter “P," reveling in the feel of her quiver and shake. Puckering his lips and wrapping them around her clit, he began to suck mercilessly, abandoning the alphabet to focus everything he had on her tight bud.

Hermione broke, a scream escaping her throat as she came apart on his tongue, panting and moaning wildly as she clawed at his shoulders. He slid his fingers in and out as pleasure rocked through her, his lips held in a frozen kiss.

When her raspy breathing began to even out, he slipped his fingers from her, admiring the glimmering strand of arousal that threaded between them. He pressed a kiss to her drenched opening, causing her to squirm in her sensitivity.

Draco flipped the hem of her skirt and drank in a gulp of fresh air. He could feel the foolish smile plastered across his damp face.

Looking up, he caught Hermione’s eye. Her glassy expression was rosy and dazed, a flush of surprise colouring her cheeks. He planted a row of kisses down each thigh, starting at her center and ending by her knee.

“How’d you like your surprise, Hermione?” He asked with a cheeky smile.

She huffed a stray lock of hair away from her face, cheeks flushing further.

“I think… I think I liked it very much.”

Draco tilted forward on his knees and scooted Hermione back to her original spot against the cushions. He smoothed down her skirts and chucked himself in the seat beside her before leaning and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“I expect your surprise won’t be nearly as exhilarating,” she said as she caught her breath.

“You could always change that,” Draco replied with a lascivious brow waggle.

Hermione dropped her head back into the cushion with a tired laugh. She reached for her wand from the side table and flourished it with a quiet “Accio.” A small, long object darted across the Library. Zinging through the air, it whizzed across the spacious room and into Hermione’s waiting palm.

“Your surprise,” she said with finality as she handed it to him. Draco reached out his right hand without thinking to accept it.

Only upon looking down did he realize he was clutching a wand. His blood began to sing, a steady chorus glowing within him as he clutched the simple handle. The warm wood tone glowed in the firelight, its precise length pointing straight ahead.

“It might feel different since your accident, but it’s yours. Your original wand,” Hermione smiled at his hands with reverence.

He stared at the wand, switching it between hands and flexing his fingers around the smooth wood. The fluttering in his stomach enveloped his senses. His magic began to thrum through him, alive like a hive of hornets.

Did she have this the whole time?

The question found him unbidden, and he shoved it away before it could gain any purchase. He knew Hermione always did the logical thing, and in the beginning wrangling his rambling, volatile magic had been the priority. In hindsight, it didn’t matter; waiting to give the wand back was the safest decision.

He shot her a winning smile before returning his attention to the wand in his lap. Hawthorn and heavy, it felt supreme in his grasp. The fingers of Draco’s left hand wrapped around it with habitual ease, fitting together neatly around its smooth grip. Magic raged in his veins, surely as gleeful as he was to be reunited with the instrument.

With an experimental flick, Draco attempted to cast a Levitation charm on a nearby book. It took much concentration for the wand to obey, but soon the old volume stuttered and lurched off the table. He canceled the spell easily, turning his focus on a quill to do the same. Again, the spellwork happened, but the flow of his magic felt congested, almost sticky between his grip and the wand handle. It was… it was… Well, it was utterly disappointing. Another reminder that he was broken.

“You look so right holding a wand again,” Hermione beamed. “How does it feel?”

“Amazing,” he exaggerated. Hermione smiled with glee.

Draco was eager to acclimate to his old wand. It’d been almost two months, surely the longest he’d ever been without it. He rolled the smooth handle between his fingers and remembered when he first honed his wand skills at Hogwarts. With his wandless magic practice, he assumed it would come easier than it had the first time.

After a few similar attempts, he set the wand down and filled his hands with Hermione instead. She seemed to delight in watching him wield his wand. This enthusiasm carried over later in bed when she straddled him, riding Draco vigorously as he pistoned into her. They fell asleep nestled side by side in bed, their wands an inanimate imitation on the bedside table.

 

The following day found Draco itched to practice with his wand. He plowed through breakfast and saw Hermione off at the front door with a generous snog. After snatching up an apple he bounded out to the pond.

He found the bright waters smooth and undisturbed. The resident swans were fussing beside a copse of alder on the far shore. Draco watched them bicker in their brusque, exaggerated way as he settled into the grass, wand across his lap.

He took deep, cleansing breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, as he allowed his eyes to flutter softly closed. The smooth Hawthorn lay between his relaxed hands, inches from his fingertips. He tried to reach out with his magic and feel it, opening himself to the wand’s presence, but found it unyielding.

He wiggled his shoulders and forced himself to relax further. Softening his edges and imagining his magic blurring all around him, Draco willed the wand to reach to him. He breathed in deeply, feeling the wind around him attempt to answer.

Then, there!

A muddy, low hum. Though his eyes were closed, he could see the wand. Its icy blue outline glowed fuzzily as he reached for it, his own magic a rogue river beneath his skin.

As soon as he touched the smooth handle, he forced all his might into aligning with it. Draco tamped down on his magic as it writhed back, attempting to remain still enough to receive what the wand offered in return. It felt quiet, understated. There was a certain strength, an undeniable purity in how its core echoed through him.

Draco sat in the grass for nearly an hour, soaking in the wand’s magical signature and relishing the feel of its wooden handle. When at last his magic eased, he pulled out the apple and set it before him.

Swishing and flicking through the familiar motion, he delighted when the apple rose from its nest of grass. It spun lazily through the air—evidence of the spell being just off center—but didn’t stutter or bounce as his levitations had the night before. He guided the fruit back to the grass, frowning slightly when it jittered the last few inches.

 

Morning practice continued that way, and by lunch Draco was ashamed to admit he hadn’t progressed a bit. At least he wasn’t getting worse. The apple hadn’t been smashed, Draco thought as he tore into its juicy green flesh. He sat in the grass and devoured the apple, cool eyes scanning around him for any hint of rodent. He saw none.

Apple whittled to a core, he headed inside. As he fixed lunch, Draco gravitated back to wandless magic. Whether it was force of habit or that wandless casting was more predictable, he wasn’t entirely sure.

When the sandwich was thoroughly devoured, he prepared a little experiment. Setting two identical plates on the counter, he stepped back.

Reaching out his fingers, he wandlessly commanded one plate to lift. Levitating it, he twitched his fingers to float it cautiously to the opposite counter. Slowing its momentum, he took great care in lowering the porcelain to the smooth marble. Once it landed with a soft click, he released his breath and allowed a smile to lift his lips.

Next, he took his wand from his pocket. Holding the wood steady, he took a few fortifying breaths before repeating the process. The plate hesitated, trembling slightly before shooting towards the ceiling. Mouth agape, Draco tried to relax his grip, to lighten his magical hold, only for the plate to plummet in a free fall towards the unforgiving floor. The fingers of his right hand twitched wildly, deftly catching the plate with another levitation. Concentrating entirely on keeping the plate intact, his wand clattered to the floor. As he floated the plate back to the counter, a huge breath of relief rushed out of him.

Draco picked up his wand, embarrassed he’d dropped it in the first place. He headed back out to the pond. This time he aimed Levitation charms at various stones along the water’s edge and attempted to skip them across the surface. So far each one plunked straight down, but at least he was having fun. Tomorrow was another day to try, another day to practice, another day to show up for himself. Hermione would want him to keep improving.

 

And keep improving he did. His aim was getting better, but like everything it took significant commitment. A week later, having knackered the pebble population surrounding Malfoy Pond, Draco wandered the manor halls with his wand drawn. He felt like a bored child, hounding for something to do in an empty-seeming house.

As he meandered, he found himself practicing wandwork on doors as he passed. The manor was chock-full of them; it made for excellent practice. The repetition felt akin to a quidditch drill, having to prepare himself again and again.

Revelio. Revelio. Revelio.

He wielded the wand, watching a nearly undetectable wash of magic flow against door after door after door. One door crackled and he twisted mid-step, distracted. Stumbling on the runner carpet, his next spell accidentally landed on a patch of wall.

Draco’s jaw dropped as he regained his footing. The door that originally caught his attention showed its true surface: rich wood marred by deep, vicious grooves in sets of four. However, his eyes were locked on a new door nestled in the once-bare stretch of stone. Its pristine wood shimmered with residue from the recently dispelled Disillusionment charm.

Cautiously he moved to the first, stroking its wounded wood. The claw marks were too big to be any dog’s. His mind flittered, and a flash of memory hit him.

A young woman lay on her side, cowering beneath the towering form of an enormous werewolf. A huge forearm swung and pinned the woman to the ground. A scream. Lavender Brown’s piercing scream. Fenrir Greyback’s unyielding claws.

Somehow Draco knew these marks were Fenrir’s, too. He knew Greyback was one of the many Death Eaters who’d invaded Malfoy Manor the year prior.

The door swung open without so much as a creak. Inside was a simple bed chamber, spartan and bare. Just a small bed, a low table, and a chest of drawers inhabited the plain space. Darkly, he wondered if someone was held hostage here or if some stupid Death Eater pissed Greyback off mid-transformation. It didn’t matter now.

Backing out and closing the door, Draco turned to the second. It was innocuous, especially beside the gouges of its neighbour. Pulling the heavy handle, he opened it without hesitation.

Inside was a small storage room. A few coats of arms leaned against one wall, “Sanctimonia Vincet Semper” marching unapologetically across in gold leaf. Against the opposite wall was an absolute horde of paintings. The papery back of one was visible on the end of a long queue of carved wood angled against the wall. Though he couldn’t see them, Draco appreciated their intricate frames from where he stood.

He walked up to the stack and began to carefully totter through them. He was curious about the art that’d been pulled out of rotation. Tipping the first frame toward himself, he was greeted by a dark brown expanse. Leaning the frame out further, it took him a moment to register.

He tipped the next, leaning in close. The third, the fourth, he riffled through the weighty pile, tipping each out in turn. Mirrors, the lot of them. A shout of joy escaped Draco. With its hidden door, Hermione must have missed this room entirely! He set the stack carefully back into place, holding up his hands at them for good measure. This was great news.

 

He trotted off to finish the last chapter of “The Many Tales of Meteora” before Hermione’s return. Like clockwork, Draco shut the book with a satisfying fwip in unison with the front door slamming.

He hopped up to greet her, excited to show off his find. It had been weeks since he’d found anything new in the manor.

“You won’t believe what I found,” he drawled, sweeping her into a hug. He planted a kiss into her curls.

“Oh? What have you found this time?”

“Guess.”

Draco began to tug Hermione down one of the hallways. She allowed herself to be pulled along, an adorable look of confusion crinkling her brow. “I have no idea,” she said dryly.

They neared the gouged door and Hermione began to resist his pull. She said in a small voice, “Draco, I told you I’m not ready to talk about—”

“I found all the mirrors!” Draco interrupted, beaming over his shoulder. “They must have been here all along.”

They arrived in front of the innocuous door and Draco led her inside with a flourish. The room was just as he’d left it. He walked them to the stack of mirrors piled against the wall and began tipping them out to show her.

“Which is your favourite? I figured we could put up a few tonight,” Draco said, excitement bubbling.

Hermione shot him a smirk. “You’ve missed staring at yourself that much? My smoothing charms must not be cutting it for you.”

“Oh shove it, Little Miss ‘I Camped in the Forest of Dean for Six Months.’ Not all of us dream of living out of a handbag. So what? I want to make sure I’m pretty and perfect for you.”

She cast a complicated diagnostic spell over the lot. Small lights and shapes whirred in greens and blues. Hermione swiped her hand, dismissing the lot and looking appeased.

“Well, fine. I can agree we’ve both suffered long enough. Theo made fun of my chignon again today. Apparently I’m an expert at missing this one chunk in the back, and a certain someone is usually too distracted to notice when I leave in the morning.”

Hermione asked Draco to choose a mirror for their bathroom, teasing that he’d get the most use of it anyway. He picked one reminiscent of the windows at Hogwarts. It was rectangular on the bottom with a small golden shelf, sweeping up to an arched top. The frame was delicate with fine vines of gold twisting around its edge.

They chose an entry mirror together. It was intimidating; huge and rectangular and taller than Hermione with beveled glass around the edges that scattered small reflections about. Carefully, Hermione levitated them one at a time and stuck them into place.

When she was finished in the bathroom, Draco stepped up behind her. He enveloped her in his arms and drank in her clean scent. They gazed into the mirror, eyes wandering all over one another’s reflection. She was made to be his, tucked against him so perfectly it was almost undeniable. Draco’s wand jabbed his thigh lightly where he pressed against her, another reminder of how far they’d come, and just how far they would go.

Chapter 11: Reacquaint

Spring, Sixth Year at Hogwarts

Hermione hears footsteps behind her the second she leaves the hospital wing. The crisp click-click of expensive boots immediately gives him away. She delights in the charade, feigning ignorance as she continues to lead him through the slumbering castle.

He follows her all the way down the main corridor and along a short passage before she finally steers them to her destination. Blue moonlight cascades across the stone through broad windows. Paintings and shrouded nooks dot down the opposite wall, cast in deep shadows. Familiar faces watch her from their various frames. She knows each of them well by now.

Her stomach twists into excited knots. Hermione isn’t in the least bit shocked when the footsteps behind her break into a run. It’s no surprise when she’s spun through a tapestry into one of the dark alcoves.

“Good to see you, too, Draco.” Hermione laughs as he steadies her. He smirks, a shaft of moonlight catching his mercurial eyes. A lock of blonde disobediently falls across his face.

“I’d really prefer you spend less time with that git,” he nods his head sharply over his shoulder without breaking their eye contact. Draco’s hands are still clamped around her upper arms. It’s a familiar hold she finds equal measures reassuring, demanding, and exciting.

“He was just poisoned. You can’t expect—”

“I’ve come to expect an awful lot from you, Granger,” Draco bows his head towards her. Hermione releases a breath and relaxes into him.

“You’re jealous of Ronald?”

Draco scoffs, though it comes out a frustrated hiss.

“Jealous of the Weasel? In his dreams. I just wish he wasn’t always hanging around you. Makes me wish that poison he got into finished the job.” Draco’s voice is steely and hard, his typical guarded humor absent. Hermione reaches up and runs the pads of her fingers along his cheek.

“Ron’s nothing more than a friend,” she says finally, her voice softening. “He hasn’t been anything more for quite some time. I’m yours, Draco. You know you have nothing to worry about.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve seen how he looks at you.” Draco pins her with a hard stare and Hermione’s meets it in kind. The silver-gray is so stern, and she can feel herself bending under the realness hidden behind his words. There is so much hanging over the both of them, so much neither of them can or want to dredge up.

Nothing she can say will ease the hardness around his eyes. Hermione is a new layer of danger for him, and they both know it. At a loss for anything to say, she just stares back. Her gaze softens, allowing him to search the depths of her like an open invitation.

Draco raises his wand, pointing it at her temple as he whispers Legilimens. He brushes against the natural barrier containing Hermione’s thoughts. She welcomes him through. He breezes into the front of her mind like a warm wind.

His paranoia grows daily. Lately, everything feels like a badly balanced stack of dishes. One bad move and the whole thing comes crashing down. Offering herself up to his Legilimency has become the fastest way to prove her intention, the surest way to protect the fragile thing they have.

Hermione has come to trust him. She can’t imagine being without him, so she relaxes into his strong arms. Letting her worries pool to the floor, she feels Draco filtering through her mind to confirm everything he already knows. It’s a terribly odd feeling, Legilimency. Despite his gentleness, the spell still feels like a frozen needle sliding into her gray matter.

She feels no pain, but the subtle threat looms. Sometimes she wonders what Draco would do if he found something disagreeable. The thought is always quashed when she remembers the Draco she’s gotten to know. The real Draco.

The moment he withdraws from her mind, Draco’s lips crash into hers. It’s as much a silent apology as it is a statement of his lust. His strong fingers roam across her back and shoulders before threading into her thick curls. Hermione presses up into him, burrowing into the front of his robes as they twine together.

“Over here!” A poorly muffled voice calls out from somewhere in the hall.

There is the faintest clatter from nearby as Draco extracts himself from their embrace. Twisting to look behind him, he puts on his best snooty airs. Glaring at the offending portrait—now crowded with perhaps a dozen blushing ladies from the renaissance era—he haughtily glowers at the gilt-framed oil.

“Ladies, ladies. Must you always interrupt?”

 

 

The weeks flew by with the marvelous continuity of routine. Draco and Hermione usually woke up and shagged until her alarm went off. After she got ready for work they enjoyed breakfast under the pavilion before she headed up the hill to go to work. Since getting Draco’s wand back, he’d begun dedicating entire mornings to magical practice. He was determined to develop a solid rapport with his wand again.

His casting was still shaky at times and he continued to struggle in certain areas, but his form and intent were excellent. Preferring how unfettered and grounded he felt outside, Draco tended to practice by the pond. Sometimes when he caught his breath he would scout the shoreline for little wiggles in the grass, hoping to see the enamoring little rat once more.

Unless morning practice left him frustrated, he would then sharpen his wandless magic while throwing together lunch. Draco was quite pleased with his wandless progress, even trusting himself lately to pour tall glasses of juice as he leaned against the opposite counter.

After lunch Draco would test himself on the spells he’d practiced earlier in the day. Once he had something to show for his efforts, he turned himself loose. Afternoons were for whatever he wanted: broomsticks, books, a walk around the pond, anything he felt like.

Lately he enjoyed napping beneath a large apple tree. Practice was draining, and the days were hot and pleasant. The shady grass felt luxurious, and reminded him vaguely of his murky childhood.

Draco carried his wand always. He wanted to get in the habit of using it regularly again. It felt like a warm talisman, a tangible tie to the wizard he used to be. He frequently found himself turning the smooth wood over and over in his fingers. The hawthorn was satisfying to fiddle with. It calmed his tremors when he pushed too hard. Hermione got them, too. They were side effects from the Cruciatus curse, she had said.

 

One extra hot July day, Draco was sprawled out under his apple tree. He was just about to drift off—eyes fluttering shut to the calming chirps of songbirds—when a silvery shape splashed into sight. His eyelids flew open to the sight of Hermione’s otter Patronus. It looped and twisted in the air before opening its mouth to speak, her voice spouting from it’s sharp little mouth.

“Draco, so sorry for the short notice. Harry’s back! Flisk gave me the rest of the day off. We’ll be at the manor soon. Be sure you’re decent, otherwise nothing to worry about.” Its message delivered, the ghostly otter’s small mouth shut as the critter faded away.

Draco smirked to himself. Last Friday he’d waited for her entirely in the nude on the Apparition hill, arranged in the grass doing his best impression of a Greek statue.

Today he was, indeed, fully clothed. Standing up, he tucked his wand into his pocket and headed into the manor. Hermione’s memories proved Potter had never been Draco’s biggest fan. They seemed to tolerate one another, perhaps even understood each other, but had never been anything beyond acquaintances for the sake of Hermione and the Order. Merlin, Potter had apparently been the one to scar him up before he knew Hermione and Draco were together.

He’d mentally braced himself for this moment. Ron Weasley might be gone for good, but Harry Potter remained Hermione’s best mate. He’d needed to step away and regroup in the wake of the final battle, but Potter was an inevitable appendage that had merely been on sabbatical from Hermione’s life.

Now he was back.

Draco pointed himself towards the kitchens, determined to start himself off on his very best foot. Perhaps this time they could be friendly. Draco had seen how he’d received Potter the first time they shook hands at Hogwarts. While apple slices and cheese never ended any wars, being a polite and gracious host seemed something like a peace offering. Besides, he was already hungry again and could use something to fuss with if the got awkward.

Fanning out the cheese slices on a silver platter, Draco heard voices floating down from the entrance hall. He could hear Hermione’s soft speech bouncing around Potter’s playful timbre. The two laughed, and the sound lit something warm and lost inside Draco.

Serving tray in hand, he bounded up the steps and followed their easygoing banter out to the pavilion. His long strides caught up quickly, and he sidled between the two chaise lounges Hermione and Harry had settled on.

“Never thought I’d see the day. Draco Malfoy serving me a snack? Cheers, mate.” Potter reached for an apple slice with a teasing smile.

Draco chuckled, “Consider this your one then, Potter.” He set the tray down before grabbing a few slices for himself. Potter’s attention still hadn’t left him, and it felt unfamiliar to be so observed.

Draco shuffled past Hermione, bending to place a kiss to her curls. Feeling the pinnacle of awkwardness, he sat at the foot of her chaise and occupied himself with the snack.

“Hermione says you’re still practicing wandless magic?”

Potter’s voice was open and steady. Draco recognized the olive branch for what it was. He and Hermione could have gone anywhere to catch up—Potter had a home of his own, for fuck’s sake—but from the otter’s tone, Potter had insisted they come here. Perhaps it was out of pity, perhaps curiosity, or perhaps Potter was simply checking on Hermione: a surprise visit to get more of an inside look. Draco’s eyes flitted to Hermione out of habit, but she just smiled back, wanting him to carry the conversation.

“Uhh, yeah. I’m still nothing like I was before, but I’m quite pleased with my progress. I didn’t have my wand for a little while—well, Hermione’s probably told you.” Draco sheepishly ducked his head, looking to the pond.

“She did… sorry,” said Potter as he scratched at the back of his neck. “It’s weird when everyone just knows things about you, isn’t it. Didn’t mean to put you under a microscope.”

“A microwha—?” Draco dragged his attention back to Potter, who really did look apologetic.

“Muggle stuff, sorry…” Harry shook his head with an exasperated laugh.

“I’m sure Hermione’s told you. She’s the entirety of my social life these days. Sorry if I have all the excitement of a door knob.” Draco chuckled awkwardly before crunching a bite of apple.

“He’s doing wonderfully,” Hermione chipped in, picking a fleck of dirt from Draco’s Oxford before meeting his narrowed eyes. “What, you have been! You watch my memories every night, you meditate, you read, you’re practicing quidditch again… And your magic is getting solid.”

Draco felt like a child whose teacher just complimented him. A blush crept up his neck as Hermione’s flattering words sunk in. It was Harry’s turn to chuckle.

“Ever played H.O.R.S.E., Malfoy?” Potter asked as he popped a bit of cheese into his mouth.

Draco shook his head as he reached across Hermione for another slice.

“You, Ron, and me used to play it loads, didn’t we, ‘Mione?” Potter shot a cheeky smile at the quiet witch between them, but a second later his face slackened.

“You alright, Harry?” Hermione asked, her voice a bit distant.

Potter’s eye’s flared back to life, but his smile was hollow. “Fine, fine. It’s all still just so… raw. Ginny and I’ve been going through it. We’ve been thinking of you… it’s all just been so much to figure out. And you? Not just ‘keeping calm and carrying on,’ are we?”

“It’s a lot to process, but I’m coping. He’s in the memories Draco and I dip into sometimes… like you said: raw.”

Hermione and Potter intwined their fingers across the empty space. They stared sadly at one another: two best friends who’d lost their third. Draco felt a pang of envy in his chest. The friendship they shared was admirable, and the small ways they supported one another were laced with feelings of familial love.

Be that as it may, Draco felt like a monumental third wheel. He floated on the periphery of their private moment, feeling awkward and eager to pull the situation away from such tender topics.

“What’s this horse then?” Draco asked. “How do we play it?”

Potter laughed, his expression sharpening again as he returned to the present.

“It’s a game we used to play when we got bored in the tent. We taught Ron so we could all play.” He said with a nod and a small grimace.

“It helped us knock the rust off without having to duel,” replied Hermione.

“With the locket?” Harry scoffed. “One or all of us would have been thoroughly dead if we’d let ourselves duel.”

Hermione shook her head with a wry smile.

“Well, what is it?” Asked Draco, growing impatient.

“H.O.R.S.E. is where people try to match spells. Players take turns, each casting a different spell. The other players have to imitate them exactly. Anything legal is on the table. Cast however: wandless, behind the back, eyes closed, anything. No handstands, though—not since Ginny started playing. Fail and you earn a letter; spell the word ‘horse’ and you’re out. First “H” then “O” followed by “R—”

“Potter, I know how to spell.”

“I’m so proud of you, Malfoy,” Potter said with mock sincerity. “Got it then?”

Draco nodded in affirmation. He turned and chuckled at the competitive smirk already across her lips.

“Get ready to lose,” she said, eyeing them both and crunching the last apple slice.

“Ladies first, Hermione,” Draco said with a sharp grin.

The three of them stood, and Hermione lead them down a flagstone path around the manor. Potter trotted up beside her as they went.

“Not ‘Granger’ anymore, eh?” He said teasingly as he elbowed her lightly in the side. “When did that happen?”

 

They found a cracked, urn-style planter and set it at the edge of the quidditch pitch. Potter stepped up first and cast a flawless Levitation charm. After a few moments, he gently set the heavy, flared pot back to earth. He bowed to Hermione.

“Let’s go easy on him the first round,” Potter said as he nodded towards Draco.

She stepped up and duplicated Potter’s spell perfectly. Once the planter had been stably suspended for a few seconds, Hermione added her layer. Swirling her wrist tightly, it spun on a beautifully centered vertical axis, rotating like a broom on display. Hermione set the planter down carefully.

Batting her eyelashes, she turned to Draco. “Your turn,” she said sweetly.

He stepped up, wand hand already sweating. Draco braced his feet with determination and flicked his wand at the large pot. A thrill raced through him as it obeyed immediately, floating smoothly into the air. He adjusted his grip and swirled his wrist in tight circles, concentrating on the floating planter’s center. Hermione let out a small whoop as it began to rotate.

He slowed his wrist an iota and the pot matched. It was a perfect replication of the spellwork Potter and Hermione had accomplished. A smile lit up Draco’s face as he allowed it to spin two more rotations.

He’d been so preoccupied with accomplishing what they’d done, he hadn’t prepared anything. Panicking for a moment, he did the first thing that came to mind. Swishing his wand in a zig-zag, the planter turned from mossy gray-green to the same rusty crimson as Hermione’s robes.

He admired his efficient spellwork before bringing the heavy thing to rest once more in the grass. Hermione hugged him around the middle as soon as Draco dropped the spell. The planter shifted back to its original colour as it ceased spinning and wobbled jauntily to a halt.

“Not bad!” Harry said nodding to Malfoy. “You’re keeping up just fine.”

The next round was harder. Potter skipped easily through the growing routine, levitating and spinning and turning the planter red. He then shrunk the large footed pot down to an awkward goblet with a graceful Reducio. Potter dismissed his spells as soon as the planter touched down, and it popped back to its previous state. So far none of them had earned any letters.

Hermione also brought out more tricks. She swished and flicked her way through the sequence easily and only needed a moment before making her addition. Focusing hard with a crinkle between her brows, she waved her wand precisely and Transfigured the now-small planter into a teacup. Its flared base detached with a satisfying snap before it flattened into a smooth saucer. The red porcelain spun lazily in the air before coming to rest on the lawn.

Then it was Draco’s turn again. Moving easily through the first three spells, he had no idea how the last two would go. These weren’t spells he’d practiced since the accident.

Squaring his shoulders, the blonde focused on the crimson pot rotating in front of him. He swished his wand carefully, channeling all his magic into shrinking the planter. Sweat beaded at his hairline in anticipation. He hated the idea of being first to earn a letter.

The pot quaked for a second before obediently shrinking. Draco released a captive breath, silently congratulating himself. He had technically overdone the charm just a touch, but neither Potter nor Hermione reacted. Either they were going easy on him or Draco had done well enough to pass.

He wiped away the perspiration and focused all his faculties on the teensy planter. Imagining a fine, red tea cup spinning proudly in its place, Draco narrowed his eyes and waved his wand with purpose.

There was a dainty pop as the planter broke itself in two, melting and reshaping as it spun lazily in the air. A moment later, a vermillion cup and saucer glinted before him. He pumped his fist in triumph before realizing he once again had another step to perform.

The cup and saucer reminded him of suffering through Divination classes. Tea leaf reading had been a special form of torture, as far as Draco was concerned. The classroom was chokingly stuffy with incense, and the professor seemed unable to leave a single surface un-draped.

Without thinking, Draco swirled his wand and summoned a black cloth, its edges trailing with fine lace. The square of silken fabric floated down evenly before settling as if in slow motion over the floating cup. Draco inhaled deeply, pleased with his quick thinking and quality spellwork.

The effect was rather striking: a fine, black shroud suspended before them all, the cup and saucer forming an abstract head. It was like a crude puppet of a Dementor, though that certainly hadn’t been Draco’s goal.

Before he could blink, Potter jetted forward a few steps. His chest was heaving like he’d just ran and he braced his hand at the uncanny form and bellowed, “Expecto Patronum!”

Immediately his strained, green eyes were lit with blue-white light as a life-size stag erupted from the tip of Potter’s finger. It shook its antlers and pawed at the earth before bowing and charging at the floating cup and cloth. It bounded straight through, the dark material unaffected.

Hermione was suddenly on his arm. Draco looked down to see her making a hurried slicing gesture at her neck at him before her eyes trained back on Potter. He was pale and tense as he watched his stag skid to a halt and turn back for another joust.

“Dismiss it,” she quietly hissed.

He complied immediately, and the pot thumped back to the ground, returning to its original form. The silk fabric floated momentarily in the air before vanishing.

“That’s probably enough for today,” Hermione said. She detached herself from Draco and walked slowly over to Potter. He was still staring wide-eyed where the material had floated.

“How about we head in for some tea.” Hermione’s tone said it wasn’t a question. She reached for Potter’s elbow and steered him gently towards the manor. As he turned away, the stag shook its head and dissolved. Draco trotted to catch up, feeling once again like a tag-along.

“My apology, Potter,” Draco said as the three of them walked side by side. “I didn’t mean to set you off. It’s a fun game, but it’s hard thinking of what spell to do next.”

“You didn’t mean it. Besides, how could you’ve known I’d react like that.”

Draco nodded, relieved at Potter’s acknowledgment.

“Glad you like H.O.R.S.E. though. Maybe we can all play again sometime.”

“I’d like that. Although I definitely was about to earn an ‘H’ with that wandless Patronus.” Draco bowed his head in respect towards Potter, who smiled crookedly.

“My magic has gotten pretty good at shooting first and asking questions later. How ‘bout a truce: no more dark sheets and I’ll leave my Patronus out entirely. If I recall, you’ve still yet to cast one?”

“Fair enough,” Draco said. “And no… I haven’t tried in a while. I’m told I failed to produce anything corporeal in school. I didn't have many happy memories.”

“Lucky us, Dementors aren’t a concern these days,” Hermione piped in. Draco shivered involuntarily, the unpleasant body-memory of the soul-sucking wraiths leaching through him.

“I guess you’re right,” Potter shrugged noncommittally. “Though you might have it easier without wartime stress hanging over you. Now Voldemort’s gone and your tattoo is just a nasty keepsake, it might be no problem.”

Hermione leaned around Potter to lock eyes with Draco.

“Maybe I should give it another go,” he hummed in consideration. Draco had always been curious what his Patronus might be. Given the dramatic demonstration of Potter’s stag, his curiosity bubbled to the surface.

Hermione let out a small huff, disappearing beside Potter again. “Just don’t forget all the other things you’re working on.”

 

The three of them sat by a large window in the Library. Once cups were in hand, they’d eased back into light conversation. Draco relished their friendly exchange.

“It really does sound cathartic, how you removed Walburga’s portrait,” Hermione said as she chuckled into her cuppa.

“We couldn’t think of any other way!” Potter laughs, “Ginny suggested blowing out the whole wall, and that’s when I knew I’d found the one.”

“The…one??” Hermione’s excited eyes snapped to Potter's.

“Yep. Gave her a ring that very night. We refuse to pick a date. Ginny wants to wait a while and it’s not like I’m in any hurry now.

“Harry! Congratulations, that’s incredible!” Hermione’s face lit up and she hugged her oldest friend.

“She made me wait to tell you in person. ‘Course I nearly forgot… Been a bit hazy since the entire wizarding world isn’t counting on my every breath.” Harry shook his head.
“Speaking of, I should head back. Ginny wants to go out for dinner tonight. It’s great to see you again, ‘Mione,” Harry said as he set down his empty cup.

“It’s been great to see you, too, Harry,” Hermione said, setting down her own.

“I’ll admit we were pretty worried when Arthur caught us up on your situation.” Potter held up his hands quickly as Hermione opened her mouth to retort. “I know, I know! You’ve got everything covered. I just mean you’re always picking up the pieces, always stepping up to do the hard work. We just hope you carve something out for yourself once in a while, that’s all.” Potter shot her a knowing smile, and Hermione matched it with her own.

“I know. And I really am, Harry. Draco keeps improving, and we’re hoping to socialize more again—so I suppose you have excellent timing there.” Hermione bumped her shoulder against his.

“Another thing I nearly forgot! Ginny and I are hosting a get-together at ours. Sort of a… birthday, welcome back, housewarming… thing.

“A bash?” Draco offered, his first contribution since they sat down.

“Exactly, a bash! Grimmauld Place. A handful or two classmates from Hogwarts. 28th of July, be there at seven. And please don’t dress up.”

Potter and Hermione embraced for a long minute before she walked him to the Apparition hill. Draco kicked back and found his spirits sky-high after a wonderful afternoon. He was quite looking forward to the bash the following weekend. Potter had even invigorated his want to practice magic.

Draco found himself daydreaming about his corporeal Patronus. Some witches and wizards could never cast one, but he found himself overly confident that he was not one of them.

“What do you think it will be?” Draco asked as Hermione floated back into the Library.

Hermione looked at him in confusion, a darling wrinkle between her brows. “What are you talking about?”

“My Patronus. What do you think it will be?”

Notes:

We're officially at the halfway mark! I can't tell you how much it means to have you here reading my story.
Plus, I've adding in chapter transitions! The swirly circle comes after a Pensieve memory Hermione extracted, and the spikey comes after dreams and memories from our dear leading man.
- Mephistophelass

Chapter 12: Bash

Winter, Sixth Year at Hogwarts

The Invisibility Cloak lends a misty film to her vision. It traps the breaths pluming from her frozen lips. Only sheer will stops her teeth from chattering. The cold of the deserted hallway had leeched into Hermione’s bones.

Harry—more on edge than she’d ever seen him—had caught her slipping out of Gryffindor common room. After interrogating Hermione, she grudgingly explained her recent… involvement… with Draco Malfoy. Whatever they were didn’t have a name. They never spoke a word about what they did together or what it meant. She feared that asking, putting it to words, would scare him off. Nevertheless, it was obvious that something real was already forming between them. Harry had been shocked to learn that the bigoted blonde had real and honest feelings for her—feelings she happily returned. Being forced to find words for Harry proved Hermione had no idea what she was doing. That didn’t mean she had any intention of stopping.

Hermione diffused Harry's already crippling paranoia and assured him that if Malfoy said or did anything suspicious, anything untoward, she would tell him immediately. After hearing her out and seeing the determined set of her jaw, Hermione’s best friend had conceded his cloak and map for the night.

And so Hermione finds herself stepping from foot to foot trying to keep warm. Her breath puffs before her, and she is grateful for the cloak, which helps reclaim some of her escaping heat. Hopefully, Draco will not be too long. Not that he knows she's waiting for him outside the Room of Requirement.

Lately, Draco's been cloistering himself in the room more and more. She has no idea what he does secreted within its walls, but she gleans enough to guess the context. Hermione assumes whatever Draco is doing has something to do with Lord Voldemort. She knows about Draco’s Dark Mark, having found it with a gasp a few weeks ago when they were fooling around. Shock had slammed into her so fast she quite literally lost her breath. It’s something he’s tried to explain and she’s tried to process ever since.

Both times she’s found him leaving the metamorphic room, Draco was haunted by a look of failure. He wouldn't tell her anything, not about that part of him. He was surprisingly talkative in general with her, but guarded their conversations closely, maneuvering them in lighter territories whenever it came up.

Sometimes after he had kissed her lips puffy, groped and stroked her silly, they talked. When he was in the right mood, Draco peppered Hermione with surprisingly intimate questions:

What was her childhood like? Had she ever driven a car? And if so, how fast had she gone? Did she miss living in the muggle world? What were her favourite books? Foods? Songs? What did she hope to do with her life? What did she dream about last night? What did she want him to dream about tonight?

Draco has successfully stolen her undivided attention, whether that was his original goal or not. With how fast she's falling, Hermione is almost grateful he demanded their developing infatuation remain secret. Despite the layers of vagueness he used for defense, he’d always been clear about this.

To make matters worse, Hermione hasn't been alone with Draco all week. It makes her feel foolish and desperate. Their predicament isn’t the best for her self-esteem. No matter how thoroughly he worships her in private, she never knows when she’ll get to see him next. And now she's gotten an earful from Harry…

The patch of wall flickers before revealing the Room of Requirement’s stout door. Sturdy hinges grind open just enough for Draco to dart out. He eases the door shut, eyes lingering as the door faded into the surrounding stone.

He scans the hallway, checking over his shoulder. Hermione stands a mere two yards away, still cloaked with invisibility. She moves to slip off the cloak, beginning to utter a greeting to sooth her sudden presence in the dark hallway but she never gets to. Draco suddenly jogs at her.

Entirely hidden to the naked eye, he has no way to know she's there. His approach startles a quick, "It's me!" from her before Draco smashes into her. Hermione is swiftly bowled over, and he crashes to the ground with her. The cloak tangles with both of their limbs, and Hermione lets out a grunt.

"What the absolute fuck," growls Draco, wrenching at her exposed ankles.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Hermione cries, holding her arms over her face as he sits up and drags her the rest of the way out from beneath the cloak. Flustered and mussed, she sits on the cold stone before him, feeling like an absolute idiot. She should have removed the cloak minutes before. She'd been preoccupied. Preoccupied and cold.

"Granger?" His tired eyes widen as they look between the fine material and her heart-shaped face. “What are you doing with an invisibility cloak?"

"Confidential, I'm afraid. And I really am sorry about that. I meant to take it off sooner, but my mind floated off, and—"

"Why are you here? Did Potter have you follow me? McGonagall?"

"No, no! I just wanted to see you, is all. You haven't found me all week. I figured I'd try this time." Hermione ducks her head, unable to meet his intense gray eyes. She tugs the cloak from his grasp with a shiver.

"S-sorry about that. I've been rather preoccupied." Draco stands, reaching down to help her to her feet. He looks Hermione over carefully as he brushes her off.

"Walk you to the dungeons?" She grins up at him, trying to lighten the mood.

"Only if we take the scenic route," he smirks back.

She tucks her arm through his and muffles a giggle with her hand. Draco steers them down the corridor. The route is familiar, and Hermione lets her feet carry her, following Draco's pull. He walks them to a balcony that overlooks the Black Lake. Thick stone balusters hem in the moonless night. The lake is an inky puddle in a darkened landscape.

Draco guides her to the massive railing and stands behind her, his hands on either side resting on the stone. After a few minutes, he extracts an apple from his robes. He offers her the first bite, holding the green fruit out for her. She twists her head and sinks her teeth in. The apple makes the perfect crunch, its sweet yet tart juice filling her mouth. He leans into her when he shifts his arm to take a bite for himself.

They stand like that for what feels like an eternity. The deserted school grounds sit coolly beneath a tapestry of stars, bright motes clear and proud against the navy heavens. Warm steam rises from their rosy lips in even clouds. He feeds them bite after bite of apple, alternating between them until its core is picked clean. Hermione's lips quiver from the cold, but she hardly notices anymore. Draco tosses the spindly core which is quickly swallowed by the night. Resting his chin on her shoulder, he brushes a hand against her ribs before snaking it down her arm.

Draco threads her icy fingers between his. He is an impossible warmth, hands radiating an enveloping heat. Hermione sighs audibly and nestles against him. He wordlessly casts a Warming charm over her, and the dreamy sensation washes over her. She sinks further into him, relishing the even rise and fall of his chest against her back.

He is precisely what she's been missing, what she's been craving. It shakes her, realizing how important he's become and the immense feelings she harbors. The sporadic nature of their intimate meetups has been driving her mad. How long would it have been if she hadn't found Draco tonight? Hermione clenches her eyes shut. He was sacrificing much-needed sleep to stand on a cold balcony with her, but what if this was all they ever got? All she ever got from him?

"One day it'll be easier, right?"

"You know I'm not the one to ask, Granger."

"But if it did—get easier, that is—would you still want this? Want me?”

"Granger, you're an insufferable pain in my arse. You—"

"Malfoy, you fucking prat—" Hermione attempts to wriggle free.

"Let me finish.” Draco pulls her squarely back in front of him, locking his other hand around her waist and forcing her to stare back at the silent grounds. He leans in over her shoulder, talking in a low rumble that tickles the shell of her ear with every word.

“You are an insufferable pain, and I wouldn't trade you for the world."

Hermione stomps on his foot, and Draco grunts, loosening his grasp. She spins in his arms, turning to face him and is caught off guard by the openness in his face. Gone is the sharpness, the clever smirk, the teasing head tilt. Draco looks at her in the dim torchlight, and all she sees is the sparkle of an earnest promise.

He doesn't say another word, but that look is enough for her stomach to settle and her heart to feel reciprocated, regardless of how Shakespearean things might get.

Draco eases towards Hermione, icy gray eyes flicking between hers, pulling her into a deep kiss. His lips are soft and seeking, and soon, his tongue is perusing her mouth with liquid intent. She melts further against him, pulling at his collar. Draco's hands rove over her back and down over the curve of her bum and back up to tease the sides of her breasts.

"You think I'd give you up that easily?" Draco kisses each of her cheeks. "We'll have to work on that, Granger."

 

 

Draco thought of the balcony memory as he dressed for Harry's bash. It was all happening, everything Hermione had hoped for, and he couldn't help but smile. They were together with no secrets, no delusions. They were an unapologetic couple. She even slept in his arms each night.

That said, tonight was their first strictly social foray. He was anxious to rub shoulders with people from his past. Draco couldn't be sure who all would be there, but it was hard to throw a rock and not hit someone he’d wronged, slurred at, or been an outright prick to. Hopefully, this was a hurdle he could clear tonight and move forward. He sought to reconnect with future friends, to help the past be water under the bridge. The last thing Draco wanted was to dredge up his previous misdeeds, especially with the handicap of an incomplete memory. At least he'd have Hermione to lean on.

He selected a thin Oxford: black to match the slacks he pulled out. He would need to avoid any sleeve-rolling around company. Hermione was quite used to his tattoo, but he didn’t feel like reminding anyone else of the man he’d been forced to be.

Hermione stepped out of the steamy bathroom. Her favourite sundress swayed around her hips. It was a cheap thing, yellow cotton dotted with little flowers, but she wore it beautifully. The swell of her breasts taunted him beneath its simple neckline.

"Almost ready?"

Draco grunted in affirmation.

"You're not nervous, are you?"

He began to button his Oxford, stopping to give her a pointed look.

"Right, so it's a party—"

“I believe it’s a bash," Draco interjected, his pointer finger pretentiously raised.

"—So it's a bash with some people we went to school with. I expect everyone to be versed with your accident between Rita Skeeter and Harry. That said, don't—"

"What has that unhinged cow been saying about me?" Draco finished buttoning his shirt and began to head towards the door.

"—That said," Hermione uttered through clenched teeth, "please resist the urge to make a fool of yourself. Or of me."

Draco let out a laugh before pulling her into his chest, his silver eyes never leaving hers. "Why, I’d never dream of such a thing. I shall do my best to remember my etiquette lessons, Miss Granger." He reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips and dusting her knuckles with a chaste kiss.

Hermione let out a small exhale, her cheeks glowing with pink as her eyes darkened.

"Thank you, Draco."
"Of course." He waited for a beat, still holding her close. "Do I get something if I'm good?"

Hermione's pupils dilated as she considered him. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see, won't you?"

She lifted Draco's knuckles to her lips and pressed a slow kiss to them, holding his stare as she went, and he promised himself he’d do everything he could to be incredible that night. Thoroughly stunned and gears spinning, Draco's grip was easy to shirk. Hermione spun away and danced to the door.

"Maybe start by making sure we arrive on time?”

Draco caught up to her quickly, ushering them towards the front door with a touch too much haste. He practically towed her through the manor. Hermione giggled the whole way, still at it as they trotted by the entry’s humongous mirror, its beveled edges throwing their smiles at all angles.

They indeed arrived on time. He and Hermione stepped through the front door to 12 Grimmauld Place right on the heels of another couple.

Hermione let out a gasp as she stepped over the threshold. Potter's place glowed with such warmth that it was almost imposing. His home was open and comfortable, with the spaces loosely flowing together. Candle sconces threw broad halos of light on rich wood paneling and vermillion walls.

A dreamy voice floated to his ears. "Are you feeling alright?" Turning, he saw Luna Lovegood's familiar face staring at him with moon-like eyes. It would take dying to forget how awkward and inserting she could be.

"Good to see you too, Looney," Draco said with a curt bow and a lazy sneer. Hermione's elbow swiftly found his ribs.

"Be nice," she hissed to him quietly. "They can be your friends, too, you know."

"Her name is Luna,” interjected Neville, quiet disapproval clear across his face. "You could at least call her by her name."

"Neville," Draco inclined his head to greet his old classmate.

"Malfoy," Neville replied.

"It's quite alright," said Luna, looping her arm through Neville's and staring with empty intrigue over Hermione's shoulder. "We're not using his name, why should he use mine?"

"Wha—" Draco began to entertain the girl's odd statement when Hermione butted in.

"You can always call him 'Draco' then," she said with a sly smile as she tugged him away.

Hermione navigated them into the central area of the house in search of their hosts. Dark wood floors stretched across the open home, long, fine boards gleaming with recent attention. The faint smell of fresh paint still lingered in the air, but the space already felt loved, lived-in. Potter’s home was a vision of comfort. Draco loved it immediately.

"Hermione!" Ginny shouted as she raced up the hallway, gathering her friend into wiry arms.

"Ginny! This all looks seriously incredible. You and Harry must be so pleased. Oh my god, you and Harry!"

The two crumpled one another in a tight hug. When Hermione and Ginny finally extracted themselves, they were both grinning. The redhead turned to Draco, and her attention sharpened. As her smile turned ominous, he knew she'd bared her teeth at him like that a thousand times before.

"And how have we been, Malfoy? I hear you're taking your sweet time recovering."

Just then, the front door opened, and another handful of guests piled in with a flurry of greetings. The prickly woman’s attention ripped away from him, caught on the newcomers. Draco felt a sting of anxiety course through him. It quickly dissipated when the new arrivals' faces came into plain view.

George Weasley, Angelina Johnson, and Dean Thomas joined the knot of people. They were trailed by the confident wink and intrigued smirk of two men Draco assumed to be Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini. The first three looked at him with mixtures of disdain and indifference, but his fellow Slytherins seemed to fall into a regular routine.

"Draco! Mate, it's great to see you," said Theo as he clapped Draco on the shoulder.

Blaise slid up beside him, offering a cordial hand to shake and an affectionate thump on the back. "Theo said you didn't want visitors. It’s good to see you out and about."

"Nott, Zabini," Draco said, nodding at each of them in turn and returning the handshake. Faced with two of apparently his longest-running friendships, he floundered. He had no idea how to be himself around either of them. All Draco had to work with were the memories he’d relived with Hermione. He flailed for something to say, a question to ask, anything.

Gratefully, Potter emerged from what appeared to be the kitchen. The small tide of guests flowed into the living room. Heavy red curtains were drawn back, letting the fading evening sun wash over the sitting room. Oversized corduroy sofas with a pair of matching armchairs flanked a stately brick fireplace.

Theo busied himself by pouring everyone Firewhiskeys from the drink cart. Draco and Hermione stationed themselves on a large sofa beside George and Angelina. Ginny and Potter chucked themselves into the armchairs, and Neville, Luna, Dean, and Blaise sat on the couch opposite.

Once everyone was seated with a drink in hand, Theo strode to the far couch with his own tumbler and deftly folded himself to the floor, leaning on the arm nearest Blaise without a second thought. He shot Hermione a sly wink before opening the conversation by asking the room at large what everyone was up to these days.

"I've been hard at work establishing my jokester's empire with the help of these two," George jabbed affectionate thumbs at Dean and Angelina. "Business is slow until Hogwarts reopens, but that’s time to figure things out before the masses descend. I've got a few more products I hope will be ready come fall."

"He's being modest," chipped in Angelina. "George is a genius. Once things are really rolling, he'll be a household name."

"Mom will be elated," Ginny rolled her eyes with a wry smile. "Seriously, Angelina, you can't let it go to his head like that."

"Can't I?" Angelina blushed slightly, her gaze drifting to the red-headed man beside her.

"He's got to be confident if he's going to sell his latest," laughed Dean across from them.
"Delayed Roach Powder is right tough to be around, let me tell you. Mind your drinks tonight, the lot of you."

“I’ll take that as a compliment, thanks,” George said with an ill-intentioned grin, tilting his head. “Johnson here’s right: I am a genius. That's why I must funnel my glory into creating the most dastardly prank products the wizarding world has ever seen."

"I've been heading the Pygmy Puff project at Wheezes,” contributed Angelina. “Luna, I'd love to pick your brain later about Gulping Plimpies. They seem drawn to our Pygmy Puff dray, which is sizable enough now we seem a beacon for them."

"Happily, Angelina. They can be quite mischievous, can't they?" Luna said in her calm, sing-song way before sipping more Firewhiskey.

"When I'm not working my life away for George," Angelina bumped her shoulder into his, "I've been getting back into quidditch a bit. Just for fun, nothing serious. Flying has been one of the only things that truly clears my head."

Draco nodded knowingly at her statement, along with most of the room.

"Hear, hear. Broomsticks have been keeping me sane. I've been putting off studying for my NEWTs with flying and remodeling," said Ginny, gesturing proudly around her. "I was given the option to finish school remotely, and I'm taking it. The Holyhead Harpies’ scout wants me to attend tryouts for a Chaser position. I believe she said, and I quote, 'Ginny Weasley has a rather promising right arm.’"

"That she does," Harry said lasciviously, leaning to kiss Ginny on the shoulder.

"Have you two lovebirds picked a date yet?" Theo crowed, earning a small shove from Blaise and a jovial glare from Ginny.

"Thank you, and no. It's going to be a while. I'm still sixteen as you might recall, and Harry’s just turning eighteen. Why rush?”

Theo cupped his hands around his mouth and loosed a teasing "boo!" Harry spoke up to cut him off.

"I started as an Auror this week. Blaise here’s lucky enough to be my partner," he chuckled as the other man laughed. “I’m catching up on orientation mostly, but they've got some small projects for rookies to pick up. Nothing major, but they keep promising us more any day now.”

The room’s attention shifted to the man sitting on the floor.

“I’m also an invaluable Ministry employee," said Theo, carding a hand through his hair with feigned importance. "Granger and I share an office in Magical Artefacts. Very high security. Clearing curses and cataloging the literal mountain of junk backlogged from the war. It's pretty fun, honestly."

"It's especially fun when your coworker handles most of your paperwork," Hermione said sharply, though humor danced in her eyes.

"Not wrong there, Granger," said Theo, tilting his glass toward her. "When I'm not chained to a desk, I'm convincing this one to give me the time of day." He wrapped his knuckles lightly on Blaise's knee, whose only response was a growing smirk. He made a point not to look down at the brunette, instead taking the floor for himself.

"When I'm not trying to dodge Potter's offensive spells," he pushed back a sleeve to show a smattering of still healing burns, “I've adopted a cat, actually. Named her Aioli. I use any excuse I can to be home with her in front of the telly.” Blaise reached out a hand and set it on top of Theo’s head. They looked like an odd Victorian painting. “Theo set it up for me. He is rather handy when he wants to be."

“Maybe if you replied to my owls you’d know exactly how handy I can be," Theo crooned. Blaise easily laughed off the insinuation.

"What sorts of programmes do you like?" Draco directed at Blaise, almost as startled to hear his own voice as the rest of the group.

"Sports, mostly football. Sometimes whatever’s on the BBC. Do you watch, too?"

“I like the cooking shows and Mr. Bean. We don't have a telly, but Hermione promised to ask Theo about one." He felt her hand on his knee, tracing placating circles in the fine material of his trousers.

Nobody else seemed to have anything to contribute. After an awkward second, the room’s attention expectantly slid to Dean.

“George offered me a job at the shop and I jumped at the opportunity. Him and me and Angelina all get along like beans on toast."

“Does that make me the toast then?" Asked George.

"Sure, George," said Angelina rolling her eyes beside him, but she looked more entertained than bothered.

"Luna 'n' Neville and I are enjoying muggle London's club scene.” Dean continued. “Anyone else met our good friend Molly yet?"

"She's quite lovely," added Luna from beside him with a tinkling laugh. “Always introducing me to all sorts of interesting people."

Neville shook his head affectionately, placing a hand on her knee. "You find interesting people everywhere you go. The MDMA hardly helps."

“If we dance long enough,” Luna stated matter of factly to the room, “colonies of Nargles appear to bob in time with the music. They seem attracted to club lights."

Luna had always been a few steps too eccentric for Draco’s tastes. The idea of her assimilating well into the muggle world—on drugs, no less—seemed a hilarious impossibility.

"Can we tag along sometime?" Theo stared at the blonde woman with a look of wonder. He tugged at Blaise's trouser leg like an excited child. Blaise looked mildly amused, but otherwise, his face remained utterly indifferent.

"Of course, Theodore. There’s a foam night next Friday," Luna said in her even, floaty voice. Then she addressed everyone again. "The Department of Magical Creatures has been expanding its Nuisance Division. I head the Nargle Unit. It's arduous work, but the areas we've been serving are seeing a major uptick in rare species pollination and crop production."

Neville’s eyes sparkled beside her, ever the plant enthusiast.

"That's, of course, how we got so close. We're assigned together sometimes to tackle overlapping projects. I'm just down the hall in the Ministry of Herbology. After our first collab on Horned Dew Mites, I worked up the courage to ask Luna out."

"I still can't believe it's only been a month. You two are so natural together," said Hermione.

"He moved in two weeks ago, didn't you Nevy?” Luna said, turning to the lean brunette at her side. Neville blushed profusely and pushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

Following the flow of the room, Draco realized it was very nearly his turn. He fidgeted with his shirt hem. Luna turned her ethereal gaze upon him. It made him fiddle further to feel her discerning, otherworldly gaze resting on his person.

"Well, I guess when I'm not at work or club hopping with Luna here, I've been establishing some plant propagations." Neville eyed Luna appreciatively. "Mandrake, Venomous Tentacular, and Devil's Snare mostly. Luna was kind enough to let me set up in the Lovegood sun parlor, and it's quickly becoming my favourite place on the planet."

"How 'bout the ferret?" exclaimed George. “We’re all curious what you've been up to since your little accident.” George wiggled his fingers in the air and started on his third Firewhiskey.

Draco's stomach plummeted as he scrambled to gather his thoughts. He moved to take a long sip of his drink. Surrounded by a room of mostly Gryffindors, he could use some liquid courage. Just before he brought the glass to his mouth, however, a horrid sensation found him first. A heinous tickling overwhelmed him, what felt like hundreds of gigantic cilium brushing against the soft skin of his lips.

He looked down with instant horror to see his tumbler absolutely overrun with roaches. Their brown, segmented bodies writhed and twitched as the bugs attempted to scurry out of the alcohol. Draco promptly jumped and chucked the drink. His gut told him smashing a glass wasn't the ideal impression to make, so he quickly cast a wandless Levitation charm, managing to avoid spilling a single drop.

The tumbler floated effortlessly, a few dozen roaches undulating across its surface. George collapsed in a fit of laughter. The room took a moment to catch up before peels of good-humored snickers joined him.

”Perfect timing, absolutely flawless!" George wheezed, having toppled against Angelina in his uncontrollable delight. "You should have seen your face, Malfoy!"

Dean Thomas shot the blonde man an apologetic smile. Draco turned to look at the redhead on the other side of Hermione.

"Delayed Roach Powder, I presume?" he said to the redhead rolling on the floor. He kept his tone intentionally curt and pulled his features into a tight, stoic face. Draco aimed the expression at George, unrelenting when the other man's own features sharpened.

"The one and only. Not up to your posh pretty-boy standards?" The way George held his eye, Draco knew his reaction would determine how the Weasley man regarded him. The roaches were a test.

He let out a prizewinning laugh and shrugged, allowing a signature smirk to dominate his face. He waved a hand. The roaches vanished, and Draco reached out to grasp the tumbler from midair.

Turning to George, the blonde’s face broke into a dubious smile before he flourished his hand again, this time at the redhead.

George’s twinkling eyes suddenly widened to the size of saucers. He stuttered with a look of disbelief, jerking his head down to investigate his lap quickly before exploding into more laughter. The rest of the party stilled as everyone eyed George, trying to see what the fuss was about.

"You did not…" said Hermione from beside him.

"Oh, he most certainly did!" replied George. "Favourite trick of his, ehh' Mione?" And just like that, George lost the ability to speak, overcome by maniacal giggles. The rest of the room joined in, oblivious to the origin of his delight. Hermione reddened beside Draco but rewarded him with a glowing smile.

"Alright, calm down already," said Ginny from her armchair. "Some of us are actually curious what your latest victim has been up to since the Final Battle."

George composed himself, catching his breath with leaks of laughter bubbling up now and again.

"I'm afraid I'm the least exciting among us," drawled Draco, doing his best to mask the nervousness still fluttering in his chest. “I've been convalescing at the manor. Trying to recover all the memories I can and regain my magical faculty."

"Looks to be going well, mate," said Blaise, gesturing at where the glass had floated. "Did you have to figure out wandless casting again?"

“Truly. Always such a showoff," agreed Theo from the floor.

"Yes, I've had to relearn most things. It's slow going, but lucky me I've got the help of this special lady," Draco turned to Hermione, his anxiety abating already. He reached to brush her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and Hermione leaned into his touch.

"Eww gross," called Ginny jokingly from her armchair.

"Oh, shove it, Ginny," Draco replied automatically.

Ginny stared at him like she’d been slapped. For a long moment, Draco tried to figure out what he'd done to prompt such a reaction.

”Ginny??" She repeated in disbelief. "What, nearly seven years I've known you, and you have never ventured to call me anything besides 'Ginevra' or 'The Weaslette.' Hermione, I'm officially worried. His head must be a right bloody mess."

Something like shame washed over Draco. Determined to keep his promise to Hermione, he made a mental note to call her “Ginevra” moving forward. "Weaslette" sounded too… diminutive for his present tastes. She was clearly much more than her family and her gender. Ginevra. Ginevra. Ginevra.

"He calls her 'Hermione' too," contributed Potter conspiratorially, and they all laughed.

"The plot thickens!" Theo said, rubbing his hands together. "Already that lovesick, Lord Malfoy?"

Draco floundered for a response, already a bit off balance from the roaches. Theo and Ginevra seemed to rib everyone with a genial uniformity. Nonetheless, he felt utterly unsure how to reply.

Gratefully, he was rescued by Hermione's chiding voice.

"Well, if you're quite done interrogating him about trivial little things, I've been working with Theo in the Department of Mysteries. As he mentioned, we've been digging through a huge backlog of dark artefacts. It's all fascinating work, really. I've found—"

Hermione was cut short by a cacophony of chimes emanating from the kitchen.

"Pie!" Potter and Ginevra exclaimed in unison, leaping to their feet and hustling into the other room.

The rest of the party eased into amorphous conversation. Everyone seemed somewhat relieved to have cut Hermione's work monologue short.

Draco discarded the roach tumbler and fixed himself a fresh glass of Firewhiskey. Content to listen, he returned to the couch and put one hand nonchalantly on Hermione's knee. She was deep in conversation with Neville and Luna. Their lunch schedules at the Ministry didn't line up, so Hermione hadn't seen either of them since the battle.

Neither Luna nor Neville spoke to Draco directly, but Luna’s eyes kept floating over him in their peculiar way. Neville appeared to take note of Hermione's happy demeanor, Draco's hand on her leg, and their occasional shared looks. He seemed to warm slowly to Draco's presence as they talked about Boomslangs and Fanged Geraniums.

A few minutes later, Harry reappeared. His mitted hands cradled a steaming pie. Ginevra followed closely behind, levitating a stack of plates, cutlery, and a tub of vanilla ice cream. The room swiftly filled with the pie’s irresistible aroma. Draco's mouth watered relentlessly.

"Smells amazing. Who do I commend for the birthday pie?" asked Blaise.

“All Harry,” beamed Ginevra.

"Huckleberry. Her mum’s recipe,” extrapolated Potter as he set the pie down and began cutting slices. "Though Ginny popped out for the ice cream,” he teased.

Theo cleared his throat theatrically and sucked in a giant breath as if to begin singing.

“None of that, thanks,” Potter quickly piped up.

“No special birthday number for the Birthday Boy Who Lived?” Theo pouted.

“Not my thing. Reminds me of the Dursleys. Anyways, we’re all here to celebrate, not sing, right?”

Soon, everyone had a steaming slice of pie in their laps and a freshly filled tumbler of Firewhiskey in their hands. Draco noted the time on the mantle clock and nudged Hermione lightly, pointing at her purse. She located the green vial for him and pecked him on the cheek.

When, at last, their gracious hosts had reseated themselves in their armchairs, George—a bit further in his cups than the rest of the party— lifted his glass with an unsteady arm.

"I'd like to make a toast, if I may," he said, voice swaying with his glass. Every ounce of the man’s normal jovial bounciness had slid from his face.

"There should be two more bumbling redheads here, two more beautiful, blathering idiots with us tonight. They were my brothers and they thought of many of you as family, too. That bloody fucking war took too much from us, some more than others." At that, George tilted his glass towards Draco. The blonde couldn't tell if he meant it facetiously or not.

"So let's all raise a glass to my brothers, to our brothers. To Fred and to Ron. May we learn to pull ourselves together again and never stop tormenting blonde men in their name."

George pulled together a smirk at his last few words and raised his glass high with the rest of the party. There were a few hollow chuckles and a few sniffles. Glasses reached for one another and clinked merely, and then nearly as one, they drank deeply.

Draco was well on his way to being drunk. The warmth from the Firewhiskey hit his system, and afterward, he tipped back the contents of his vial before chasing it down with another sip.

Even with the promise of more pranks in his future, Draco felt an incandescent glow. He was in admiration of the easy—at times odd—affection being shared. He craved that kind of recognition and approval.

“S'that, mate?" Theo asked with earnest curiosity. When Draco looked over, the brunette gestured towards the empty vial in his hand.

“Yeah. Hermione, are you sure you haven't been brewing him Amortentia this whole time?" Ginevra piped up.

"Nuh-uh! Hermione! Don't you know it's unbecoming to withhold such necessities from your newest and most favourite friend?" Theo crinkled his face and looked like a betrayed puppy.

Hermione shook her head ferociously, having just taken a large sip. She blushed at the implication of using an infatuation potion on Draco. It was his turn to come to her aid as she sputtered into her drink.

"It's just a restorative Hermione brews for me," he said with a wry smirk. “It supports memory recovery and helps my brain be more receptive and whatnot. Something to do with sin-snaps and dend-wrongs, Hermione explains it all much more scientifically than I’m able."

Hermione finally caught her breath. Her cheeks were still a bit pink, but she looked around the room with a confident curiosity. "I learned about it when I researched damaged memories for my—well, for my parents. It's been too long for them, but it turns out Draco’s the perfect candidate."

The room nodded knowingly, George leaning to squeeze her shoulder. Generously, Blaise asked the room at large if anyone else was following the pre-season scrimmages. Ginevra dove for the bait, and soon the room was abuzz with excited talk of quidditch.

Draco was in the dark about the latest happenings, quidditch included. He listened to the conversations swirling around with an easy smile, mostly thrilled with how the night was unfolding. Hermione was nestled against him, finishing her ice cream and talking animatedly with Luna about some magical creature rights bill she'd read about. He slung his arm around her shoulders and rejoiced when Hermione leaned further in. Draco even caught a few people smiling when they looked over, and it made his chest swell. He could do this. He could fit in.

By the end of the night, Draco felt accepted by practically the whole room. Luna’s gaze still put him on edge, but everyone seemed to have relaxed around him. They lined up at the door to exchange hugs, kisses, compliments on the house, and happy birthdays for Potter. Many drunk words were shared, insisting they all do this more often. After what felt to him like a spectacular evening, Draco was pleased to get more than just Slytherin handshakes.

Blaise and Theo embraced him one after another with the warmth of old friendship. He still didn't remember either of them very well, but Draco was grateful for their patience. He’d enjoyed seeing them both that evening. The night had also quenched his gnawing jealousy of Theo, the main other person Hermione spent her time with. It was quite clear now he wasn’t a threat to him.

Ginevra kissed Hermione on both cheeks before patting Draco awkwardly on the arm with a hilariously short, "Thanks for coming." "Ginevra," he replied similarly with a tidy nod. She then chucked herself at George, intending to topple him over, which he very nearly did.

Luna scooped Hermione into a hug before turning her orb-like eyes on Draco. They scanned over him a few too many times for comfort. The eccentric blonde woman uttered a simple, "It's good to see you," and flounced fairy-like to the next person.

Neville surprised him by jutting out a hand and giving him a firm handshake. "You're full of surprises, Malfoy. I underestimated you." Then he shook his head with a laugh. "Glad to have a second chance to get know you. Or a third? Whatever.” Neville then extracted himself before turning to Theo.

Dean threw Draco and Hermione waves as he headed out the door. Soon after, Angelina supported George as they staggered down the front steps.

Potter, quite sloshed, was last to approach him. Catching Draco off-guard, he wrapped him in a tight hug.

"Glad you came. And glad you and 'Mione are together. I don't know how you two weathered that storm, but I'm rooting for you, mate." Potter thumped Draco on the back as he extracted himself.

"Draco, are you ready to go home?" Hermione rejoined his side, golden-brown eyes twinkling up at him. Her promise from earlier echoed in his head.

"You heard the witch I love! We'd best be off!"

With that, he hooked elbows with Hermione and escorted her through the front door and down the steps. Laughter—and a wolf whistle he would bet came from Theo—followed them down the walk.

It was a brilliant night indeed.

Chapter 13: Trust

Winter, Sixth Year at Hogwarts

It’s the week of Valentine’s Day, and Hermione’s heart feels like a powder keg. Love is thick in the air, but she must remain impervious to the whole ordeal. Clouds of charmed paper hearts assault her every time she enters Gryffindor common room. Every conversation is centered around crushes, cards, and all manner of constructed charades.

To make matters worse, Draco had been impossible to reach. Everywhere she goes she’s reminded of her own confidential romance. She trudges her way to Hogsmeade Village, a record number of mittened hands interlinked. Hermione finds herself silently cursing the ease with which countless other couples get to move through the world.

Ears practically steaming with irritation, she hustles through the muddy snow, eager to escape the seasonal lovebird migration. She shuffles quickly through the Hogsmeade archway and darts toward her favourite alley—their alley. No part of her expects to see him today. Even her friends have been abandoning her lately, heading to classes and meals without their typical concern.

In tears by the time she breaches the alley’s mouth, Hermione’s breath leaves her in urgent streams. Everyone around her has withdrawn, taking little slices of her as they go.

She brushes hot tears from wind-bitten cheeks, a few curls sticking to her face. The yarn of her mittens drags painfully across her tender skin. The knobby red and yellow of Molly Weasley’s creations usually bring her comfort, but today, each stitch seems to scream up at her, yarn pulling into pinched eyebrows and angular mouths. The Weasleys would probably disown her if they knew who she’d been spending time with.

Hermione bumps against a brick wall—the wall Draco last pressed her against—and closes her eyes with a rattling sigh. She just needs to collect her thoughts, catch her breath. Once she’s pulled herself together, she’ll go to Tomes and Scrolls for a literary treat. That always cheers her up.

The sound of a throat clearing interrupts her measured breathing. Hermione cracks an eye open, ready to snap something rude at whomever is butting into her little moment.

Draco stands at the opposite end of the alley, white-blonde hair complimenting the pristine snow on the ground. He seems to know he’s intruding on a sensitive moment. Not saying a word or moving a muscle, he merely considers her with those piercing gray eyes, demeanor steely and unyielding.

Hermione sniffles at him, shrouding her surprise and elation. She is growing more and more desperate for him. This latest hiatus has her flying haphazardly like a kite with its string sliced. She is tired of giving and giving. Hermione wants Draco to give her something first for once.

They stare at one another for quite some time. Hermione’s tears dry quickly in the bitter cold, and she resists the urge to rub her nose. The slow sway of his black robes seems the only movement in the February breeze. He doesn’t shiver, doesn’t even shift his weight, nothing. An observing statue.

Finally, impatience gnawing at her heart, Hermione breaks the alley’s silence.

“I looked for you,” she says, meaning to say more but the words don’t cooperate.

“Where?” Draco asks easily, matching her distant tone.

“Everywhere.”

“Well, you’ve found me. Now what?”

“No I haven’t, you found me.”

The corners of Draco’s mouth lift into a wan smile. He begins to slowly walk towards her, his dragon hide boots making a muffled squeak against the untouched snow.

“Did you doubt me, Granger?” Draco holds her stare with his glittering, silver eyes. His smile remains cryptic, minimal. He continues to close the distance, long legs making easy work of the task. She sees the most subtle of hand twitches and the gentle niggle of a spell washes around her. A Disillusionment charm.

“No, I just—”

Her words cut off when Draco bumps lightly into her chest. Her shoulder blades graze against the brick through her thick jumper and cloak.

“You just…” His teases, eyes flickering as they pin her with a stare. His smile grows wider, more lively.

“Missed you,” Hermione says in a small voice. She’s breathy with embarrassment. She longs to truly know him, to get use to the idea of him. Admitting a small part of that out loud makes her cheeks flare and her palms mercilessly sweat. And there she is again, giving something up because he merely asks. Was she that pathetic?

“You’re allowed to,” Draco says. He reaches for a curl stuck to the edge of her chin. He returns it behind her ear and leans in to plant a soft kiss to her temple. His lips withdraw just enough to place another kiss further down, then another on the apple of her cheek.

“I miss you too, you know,” he says before planting his lips next to her mouth. Hermione’s breath catches, his words making her knees buckle, but he’s pulled her into his embrace. His kiss is soft and unapologetic. Draco melds their lips together as his hands float to the dip in her waist.

Eager for more, Hermione traces her tongue across his lips. Soon they are properly tangled together, hands roaming beneath cloaks and robes, foggy breaths mingling in the crisp alley.

Draco extracts himself much too soon. Hermione pouts her lips involuntarily at his absence, looking up at him for explanation.

“It’s nothing much but I wanted to get you something. You’ll have to wait to actually get it, and when you do you’ll have to keep it well hidden. I wanted you to have something to help remember what we are even when I can’t always see you.”

“You got me a Valentine’s gift?” Hermione asks in an attempt to be teasing. It comes out as disbelieving admiration.

“That I did,” he says with a smirk. He pulls back a cuff and checks the time before sharing another smile with Hermione. “He’ll be here any minute.” Draco swipes a hand as he steps beside her, dismissing the Disillusionment charm and looking at the mouth of the alley.

“He?” Hermione is immediately aghast. For Merlin’s sake, what kind of Valentine’s day gift has a gendered pronoun? Draco shakes his head and laughs, not divulging anything more.

She doesn’t need to wait long for an answer.

Surprisingly, it comes in the form of Colin Creevey.

Colin wanders around the corner and down the alley. His camera bumps against his stomach from the strap perpetually strung around his neck. Their younger schoolmate proceeds towards them with his typically boyish expression, utterly unintimidated by Draco’s presence.

“Colin, what are you—” Hermione’s confusion is written all across her face.

“Creevey,” Draco nods by way of greeting.

“Malfoy, Hermione. Lovely day for Hogsmeade, isn't it?”

“Do you remember what we agreed to?” Draco raises one perfect eyebrow as he addresses Colin. His tone is cold, but not unkind.

“Sure do. Thirty Galleons, not a word. Destroy the negatives.”

Hermione’s mouth drops open as she fits the pieces together.

“Excellent.” Draco reaches into his robes and offers a small suede pouch to Colin, who pockets it easily after giving it a clinking jiggle.

“Where do you want it taken?”

“I was thinking right here,” Draco says, turning to Hermione for the first time since Colin’s arrival. His eyebrows lift slightly, asking for her approval.

“Y-yes, right here would be perfect.”

It’s not often that witches and wizards think to take photographs. Since entering the wizarding world, the idea of having her photo taken has become more and more novel.

Draco slides his arm around Hermione and steers her towards the mouth of the alley so they stand with their backs to the village. He arranges one strong arm protectively around her waist and leans slightly over her shoulder.

Hermione’s heart is a flurry in her chest. This is the first time anyone has seen them so much as touch since she slapped Draco Third Year, and here’s Colin Creevey taking off his lens cap to capture the moment forever. She can’t believe it, her earlier turmoil morphing quickly to glee.

Colin lifts the camera to his face, framing the shot. The edge of his tongue peeks out in concentration. Hermione can’t help but wonder how Draco and Colin’s arrangement came to be. She ponders the potential threats and posturing he might have employed when Colin chimes, “Say cheese!”

“Why would I do something so—” Draco’s posh insubordination rumbles into her left ear, and Hermione’s smile grows to something colossal.

Click!

Colin brings the camera away from his face with an earnest smile of his own. “That’s going to be a good one,” he says with satisfaction.

“That’s it?” Draco asks, not having moved an iota.

“Yep! Certain.” Colin replaces the cap on his lens and fiddles with the camera strap. “I’m processing film tomorrow. I’ll have it for you by Monday.”

Their classmate nods once to each of them before he turns and heads towards the street. Hermione’s mind is set spinning. Colin is muggle-born and nowhere close to Draco’s crowd, but he’d set this up as a surprise for her nonetheless. Another detail hits her.

“Do you really trust Colin to keep us secret?”

Draco snakes one arm around her ribcage while the other hand twines into her curls.

“I’ve got it all handled, love.” Draco smiles at her, the expression irresistible, before he crashes their lips together again.

Hermione never makes it to Tomes and Scrolls that afternoon. Everything she needs can be found right in that chilly alley.

 

 

Hermione Disapparated them from Grimmauld Place. They popped into existence in the Wiltshire countryside, and their feet slammed unceremoniously into the earth. Their knees buckled from the sudden force, and they toppled into the moon-drenched grass. Perhaps she was a little tipsier than she let on, but they’d arrived in one piece.

Draco found himself lying on his back in the cool grass. To his delight, Hermione slid on top of him, resting her chin on laced fingers as she stared down with a wide Cheshire smile. Her cleavage pressed against his chest and made a rather lovely tableau for him. Draco laced his fingers behind his head and looked at her from the grass.

“Did you have a nice time?” She asked finally.

“Better than expected. You?”

“Much better than expected. That little roach fiasco, I thought George might kiss you!” Hermione tilted her head and chuckled. He hadn’t seen her spirits this high since their trip to Hogsmeade.

“So… was I good enough for you?” Draco nibbled the edge of his lip in anticipation.

“You certainly were,” she purred down at him. “My star pupil.”

“Did your star pupil earn a reward…?”

“I suppose he did, didn’t he?”

His lips parted as he stared up at her, head swimming with ideas and alcohol.

“Anything I want?”

“Well, not truly anything,” Hermione said with glittering eyes, “but try me.”

He racked his brain, straining for a suitable answer. They shagged practically every day, sometimes more than once. He didn’t want to waste his earnings on anything milquetoast. Neither did he want to scare her off with too large a demand.

There were a few things he really wanted to try, but of course the top space on the list was something Hermione deemed beyond her, at least for the time being. He hoped one day he’d get a chance to slide his cock between her lips and spend himself down her throat, but she had made it all too clear that wasn’t on the table just yet. Draco skimmed through his recent fantasies, hunting for something novel.

“Can I fuck your arse?” He asked at last, remembering the lewd images he’d conjured a few days ago while she’d been at work. His cock twitched lightly in his trousers at the very idea.

“Hmmm,” Hermione tapped her lip. “I want to try, but we’d need a few things. I don’t know the Lubrication spell, for one, and we’ll need to go really slow. I don’t think that’s one for tonight.”

“Right. Gimme ‘sec.” He screwed up his face and consulted the mental list again. Draco reflected on the positions they had yet to try. He thought of the many spots around the manor he still wanted to shag her. Usually they stuck with their bed or the Library…

And then it hit him. He knew exactly what he wanted.

“I want to take you on a broom, then.”

Hermione’s confident smile slid off her face, leaving an expression of mild panic in its wake. Her eyes searched his, darting back and forth as though analyzing his request.

“You want to… On a broom?” She stilled, her eyes widening further from where she lay on top of him.

“Yep,” Draco smiled up at her, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “On a broom.”

Hermione stammered. Her lips parted in partial objection, but she didn’t manage to form a single word.

Draco failed to hide his smirk. She had always detested flying. He could remember her shaky resolve the few times she’d been forced to swing a leg over. “I won’t let anything happen to you, love. Promise.” He smiled up at the woman splayed across his chest, hoping against hope he could convince her.

Having a go at her on a broom had been a fantasy of his for quite some time. He could feel her trepidation, her hesitation, but he pressed on. Rolling and turning her against him so they were nested on their sides in the grass, he wrapped one arm tightly around her middle and brought his knees up into hers. It was an approximation of how they would be positioned together on a broom.

“Imagine, Hermione,” Draco said as he tugged their bodies flush and spoke directly into her ear. “You’re straddling my favourite broom. I’m right behind you, holding you tight just like this. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”

Hermione took in a breath and held it as Draco continued on, unrelenting.

“We’ll start out slow, I’ll keep the broom nice and low. Gotta let you get used to the air washing over you, the handle parting your thighs while I sit behind you.” He was practically growling into her ear now.

Hermione released her breath with a small moan, and Draco doubled down.

“My favourite girl, my favourite things, my favourite place… I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about this, dreamed of this. Dreamed of doing this with you.” He ground his pelvis against her rear, his urgent cock pressing against her without shame.

Hermione gasped and pushed back against him with want, but she still didn’t give in.

“Draco, I don’t know—” That was all he needed for the magic words to spring into his head, five simple words that he was positive would alchemize her uncertainty into something unstoppable.

“You’re not afraid, are you?”

Hermione wriggled away from him, leaving him feeling bereft and unsure. Had he crossed a line? Insulted her? He watched her stand, turning slightly away from him. Methodically, she began to section her hair into thirds and weave it into a thick braid that settled between her shoulder blades. She summoned a small length of ribbon and tied off the end with a tight bow.

When she at last turned back to him, Hermione’s face was alive with challenge. He’d successfully goaded his Gryffindor Lioness into finding her courage.

“Not a chance.”

He sprung to his feet so fast he nearly toppled right over. Grasping Hermione’s hand in his, he lurched her into locomotion. They laughed and panted as they sprinted down the hill to the manor. Draco steered them through the gates and around to the east wing entrance where his beloved broom room awaited.

Muscle memory was his ally. He quickly threw on a set of flying robes, tossing Hermione another set. Draco reached for the first broom he could: a Nimbus 2000. Stopping dead in his tracks staring at the high-performance broom, he thought better of his choice and instead grabbed the Cleansweep 11. The latter was known for its vibration control charms, and had an overall much smoother ride compared to the twitchy Seeker’s broom.

When he turned around with the broom in hand, he was pleased to see Hermione watching him intently. She’d pulled on the flying robes, and while they were large on her small frame, she nonetheless managed to look regal. Her eyes were rich and alight with tenacity. Only the firm set of her jaw belied her nervousness. Seeing her out of her element was endearing.

Draco laced his fingers between hers and they walked back outside. The moon bathed the pitch in blue light contrasting with the warm summer night. He instructed the broom to levitate like a beginner might and it hovered steadily near hip level. He grasped the broom’s grip with his right hand and graciously gestured to her.

Hermione shuffled her feet back and forth, taking a few clarifying breaths. The broom hovered just too high for her and she had to hop to get properly aboard.

Making sure she was settled, Draco swung his leg easily over the broom. He couldn’t believe he was getting to actually do this. He’d thought of shagging her on a broomstick countless times, and tonight was actually the night. Fingers nearly shaking with want, he reached down and unzipped himself, the fine teeth all but silent.

Unsurprisingly, his dick had managed to maintain its enthusiasm. The anticipation of what they were about to do had kept him pulsing and ready in his trousers. If anything he was more turned on by the temporary denial of the past few minutes. He was so close.

“You promise, no funny business?”

“No funny business,” he conceded.

“O—!” Hermione’s word of agreement cut off as Draco vanished his second piece of underclothing of the night. He parted her split robes and hiked up the skirt of her dress. A breathy moan escaped her lips as he rubbed the fat tip of his cock against her. There was no mistaking his hardness, his excitement.

Draco belted his left arm solidly around Hermione’s waist and nestled further against her, resting his chin on her shoulder after placing a half-dozen kisses to her cheek and jaw.

“Ready?” Draco asked, trying to keep the giddiness from his tone.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I s’pose,” Hermione replied.

Draco lightly kicked off the ground, and Hermione’s shoulders noticeably tensed. He brought his feet to the crossbar slowly, bringing her thighs to rest on top of his. Flying as smoothly as he could, he kept their pacing quite reasonable. He kept a firm hold around Hermione, assuring her with his steady grip as he drew calming circles into her side with a thumb.

“You don’t know what this means to me, Hermione,” he murmured against her neck as he nudged her entrance beneath their robes. “Been wanting to do this so long, you’ve no idea.”

Hermione let out a small hum, her shoulders relaxing a fraction of an inch.

Draco shifted his hips. Given her flying aversion, he didn’t expect her to be ready for him yet. His mouth dropped open when he found her folds dripping. Whether this was from the thrill of his challenge, the promise of his cock, or her surrender of control he couldn’t be sure. He groaned as he began to work himself against her with small thrusts, feeling her moisture spread over his pulsing tip.

He kept his eyes pinned ahead and flew like that one-handed in large sweeping circles, grateful for his skill in the air. He began to nibble at her pulse point. Pinching her delicate skin lightly between his teeth, Draco was rewarded with a moan from Hermione. She rubbed herself against him, careful to keep her movements small and centered on the broom.

Rocking his hips against her further, their breathing caught simultaneously as he sank himself into her. The angle they were forced to keep didn’t encourage full penetration, but the position of her legs and the nervous tilt of her upper body meant her cunt was like a slick vice around him. Draco let out a hiss of euphoria, complimented wonderfully by the loud moan of approval from Hermione.

“You like that?” He asked, allowing some of the teasing bite he evoked so often in his youth to rise to the surface. “You like how I feel?”

She nodded enthusiastically, causing his cock to twitch with delight inside her. It didn’t matter that he could only get himself halfway in, she felt so tight around him. Pulling out nearly all the way, he plunged back into her with matched enthusiasm. When Hermione let out a loud gasp, he started to thrust against her. His rhythm was quickly joined by the duet of their panting breaths.

Still getting used to the feel of being on a broom—never mind that she couldn’t reach the crossbar—Hermione clenched every muscle she had as they approached the windbreak. It was sheer bliss, the feeling of her walls crushing around his hardness. The tall trees loomed overhead, throwing dense moon shadows over their path as they approached. He could feel her anticipation building, knowing they needed to turn soon.

“Draco!” Hermione exclaimed, pushing back against him like the approaching line of trees were some ominous mountain troll and not an easily maneuvered obstacle.

Arching the broom around before they reached the edge of the pitch, he nearly lost it when the gentle force of the turn pulled her against one side of his length. It was a new delicious pressure he’d never anticipated. He wanted more.

“You okay?” asked Draco, hoping the warmth of his breath and the solid grip of his arm banding her waist would continue to appease her trepidation. He didn’t want to scare her, he wanted to keep going.

Hermione let out a breath. “I’m fine,” she replied, but he heard the resistance in her voice, the discomfort.

“Can you hang on a little longer?” He asked in a tone he hoped was irresistible. He couldn’t stop now. He was determined to finish like this, even if she never got on a broom with him again.

When she nodded, he pulled the broom into another wide turn to point them down the long side of the pitch once more. Tightening his arm around her middle, he felt every breath pushing against his grip. Draco leaned them forward and bent both of their bodies close to the broom handle.

Digging his heels against the crossbar, he began to slalom the broom back and forth, weaving in a sinusoidal line over the moonlit grass. Hermione’s cunt gripped impossibly tight around him, her thighs clenching on top of his as he shifted her back and forth with the broom’s movement. At the apex of each curve he felt the most delightful lateral tug on his member as her body weight pressed from side to side.

It felt electric. She was gasping in front of him, utterly at a lack of words as he shimmied his hips to piston into her again and again. It almost didn’t matter that he couldn’t sheath himself fully inside her, she felt so good.

A sudden idea came to him, and Draco didn’t hesitate. Not for one second. If he only had so much time, he’d better make the most of it.

He pushed against Hermione hard so her chest was nearly parallel with the broom. Their pace increased, the broom opening up its speed. Hermione’s breath caught in her chest at the acceleration. He shoved his heels down on the crossbar and pulled up hard with his right hand, forcing the broom into a steep climb.

Hermione let out a wild shriek as her rear slammed back against his pubic bone, her drenched pussy sliding easily over him to take his full length. The elated head of his cock pressed unapologetically against her cervix.

Draco felt his pleasure mounting, the feeling in his groin growing like bands of electricity flowing to a head. The first tingles of impending orgasm buzzed low inside him. It was heavenly. She was heavenly.

He snapped his hips hard against her again and again, the broom still carrying them higher and higher as the angle forced Hermione to take everything he gave her. She tensed so hard he was sure she would climax with him. The idea of their coordinated release gave his cock all it needed and he found himself toppling over the edge.

Draco growled into her ear, spending himself deep inside her as she gasped and cried out, skewered and helpless against his chest. He felt himself sputter and spurt against her walls, his release inebriating. Hermione trembled and shook in his arms, still speechless.

The pleasant evening breeze brushed a few of her wind-loosened curls into Draco’s face as he decelerated and leveled out the broom, slowly pushing them both to sit up taller once more. He was still catching his breath when Hermione finally spoke.

“That was… absolutely… fucking… Terrifying! You absolute prat!” She exclaimed twisting her head around to glare at him out of the corner of one eye.

Uh oh. Maybe he had misread some of her body language after all.

“Are you—”

“Remember when I asked you to promise no funny business?” She was practically shouting, her words clipped and upset. Draco maneuvered the broom gently towards the manor.

He was at a loss for words. His cock shriveled in his trousers, the pristine pleasure from just a moment ago evaporated. He knew she’d been nervous, but he truly didn’t think he’d misread the situation. Had he messed up? Draco knew Hermione wasn’t the biggest fan of flying, but he thought he’d done a good job of keeping the broom steady, his flying quite tame. Until the very end, he supposed… It made him feel a peculiar type of awful.

When the broom slowly brought them to hover above the grass, Draco dismounted swiftly. He held out a hand to assist Hermione back onto solid ground, but she blew it off and clambered down with a huff.

“Hermione, I shouldn’t have… I got carried away. I’m sorry.” He reached a hand towards her face, longing to brush the loosened curls behind her ear, to hold her cheek and feel the acceptance of his apology.

“Sorry doesn’t begin to cut it, Draco,” she admonished, pressing the fingers of one hand to her chest as it expanded and constricted. “Sorry doesn’t… sorry doesn’t…”

With what seemed like an insurmountable combination of rage and hurt, Hermione ripped off her flying robes and flung them at him, straightening her cotton dress over her hips and thighs before turning and stomping away.

“Hermione, I’m sorry! Please don’t walk away from me!” he called after her as she stormed to the manor and flung open the door.

She either didn’t hear him or didn’t care to respond. The door slammed shut, its glass panels vibrating from her force.

Maybe he really had messed up.

Notes:

We are earning those story tags, and there are still loads more to check off the list before I'm done with you 🧹 Thank you so much for sticking with my story for this long, it means a ton to me! I can't wait to share the rest of the story with you.
-Mephistophelass

Chapter 14: Beg

Hermione’s chest heaves. A finger on her wand hand twitches in his peripheral vision. Her face looms before him, taut with fresh rage. Gold-flecked eyes are honed to spears that stab straight into him. That beloved heart-shaped visage twists into a dismissive sneer. Hermione looks him up and down, distaste and dismissal scrawled across her face as though he’s a diseased Flobberworm.

This is all his doing. He reels with another wave of wrath. Every ounce of Hermione’s fury boils within him tenfold. His magic crackles beneath his skin, goading him on. He unclenches a fist to lift shaking fingers towards her, but she’s quicker to get her words out.

“Sorry doesn’t begin to cut it!” Hermione’s eyes roll, wide and shining. She’s nearly hysterical, admonishing him with an imposing electricity. Her mouth opens to continue, but she seems to think better of it. With a final look of disgust, Hermione whirls on one heel and stomps out of the dim kitchen.

“Hermione, I’m sorry!” His voice breaks from the intensity of his emotion. He’s well beyond hiding his desperation. Let them all hear. “Please don’t walk away from me!” he hollers after her.

Hermione merely shakes her bushy curls, not bothering to turn her head as the darkness of the house overtakes her.

She can’t abandon him, not now. Not after all they’ve been through together. But isn’t that precisely what she’s choosing? Hermione turns the corner and vanishes from sight. His face is hot, fists balled as rage pulses in his veins. This can’t be how it goes. He needs to run after her, grab onto her, scream a shred of sense back into her… something.

A voice tugs at his ears as a hand finds his shirt collar. A firm grip pulls him back into the kitchen. This is all going so wrong. He has to fix it. He won’t lose her, no matter the consequences.

“C’mon outside.” Potter is behind him. His voice is assured and utterly knackered.

“G’off me!” He shouts, swinging his elbows behind him in a blind attempt to break free. She is just upstairs. He can hear her determined footsteps. He would talk to her, set this all straight—

Caught off balance, he can do nothing about the arms that quickly wrap around him, forcing his tall form to bend into an easy headlock. Hermione’s footsteps change pitch as she turns down the hall, punctuated at last by the slam of a flimsy door.

The finality of the sound makes his blood sizzle. He lets the anger wash through him, struggling against Potter’s grip. Snarling and cursing, he reaches with wild abandon for the wand in his pocket.

Potter effortlessly disarms him without breaking the headlock. The bedraggled brunette pulls him from the kitchen through a side door and outside.

The night air suddenly relieves his lungs, edged with sea salt and the coolness of spring. Potter hauls him 50 yards from the cottage, stopping beyond the dim glow that slants from the kitchen window. Their shoes sink slightly into the soft, sandy grass where is dares to mingle with the coarse beach.

His eyes flit across the dark sky from his sideways viewpoint. A stubborn layer of clouds hides the stars. After a few minutes of seething in the armpit of the Boy Who Lived, he hears the soothing dance of waves nearby and takes a few rattling breaths.

At last, Potter’s grip loosens, the hand clapping the back of his neck with forced chumminess.

“She changed her mind. It sucks, nobody said it doesn’t. But knock this shit off, or I’ll hex you next time.”

 

 

Draco jolted awake, drenched in sweat. His mouth was impossibly dry, and his throat was like sandpaper. Blood pounded in his ears, slamming a painful tune against the tight, inflated walls of his skull.

While he slept, the memory had slammed into him and left him shaken to his core. Vestiges of fury still wafted off him. He scrubbed at his face harshly and conjured a glass of water.

Why had he been so furious? What could she possibly have decided that would leave him so incensed? Draco’d been urgent, livid. Potter had addressed him with seriousness, pulling him outside to try and talk sense into him. Why hadn’t Hermione talked him down herself? He’d never known of a schism between them once they’d gotten together. Even in her Pensieve memories, they never once fought or even bickered. They didn’t need to. Draco and Hermione either agreed off the bat or found a logical compromise. He feared whatever had shaken them at Shell Cottage must have been monumental.

A slimy thought reared its ugly head: what if Hermione hadn’t wanted him to remember this? There was no way to know the things he couldn’t remember. In that regard, he was at her whim. What else wasn’t she revealing? Had he caught the edge of a lie, a sliver of something sinister? Maybe they’d broken up before the war even ended.

Something coiled deep down in him knew the truth: he hadn’t been misinformed. It was assuredly more straightforward than his overeager mind had spun up. She wanted to be with him. She loved him. After everything they had done for one another, that should have been obvious to him.

Still, there were a few questions he needed answers to. He had tried to change her mind about something vital. Had he succeeded? He was desperate to find out. Hadn’t she said they always wanted to be together? Draco couldn’t stand the idea that she might have hidden something like this from him.

Another thought struck him casually, cruelly.

She might not stay.

Perhaps Hermione had finally found a part of Draco she hated, a part she couldn’t bear, and had decided to end things.

Maybe she’d only reconnected with him after the Final Battle out of pity, knowing she was the one person capable of putting his broken pieces back together.

It seemed preposterous given all they’d endured, but perhaps that was part of it. Possibly, Hermione would tire of holding him together and needing to remember for him when all she wanted was to forget for herself. Nothing either of them had endured qualified as easy. They each shouldered a breadth of intricate traumas. It was part of why he thought they were so good: they persevered and found one another regardless of the storms that howled all around.

Then why had she walked away?

The possibilities crushed him with a force that left him breathless.

His hands shook as he untangled himself from the dark silk sheets. The first touches of morning light lent the bedroom a somber, purple glow. He rubbed at his temples gently, slowly turning his head.

Hermione’s side of the bed was neatly made. He didn’t remember dragging himself to bed after Potter’s little bash, and certainly couldn’t recall if his beloved witch had joined him.

Their escapades from the night before came back to him and his neck flushed. He imagined she was still livid after he'd broken her trust. Draco hoped he could get her back on a broom eventually. Her absence threw a jolt of fear through him. What if she’d already left?

He tipped back his memory restorative and threw on last night’s clothes, not bothering with the top buttons of his rumpled shirt. Draco padded out of their suite in search of what was sure to be an irate and snarling Hermione.

Oh, joy.

 

Not two minutes later, he found her leaving her study wrapped in a plush robe. Her damp curls were pinned up out of her face. Hermione carefully closed the heavy door, and the light scents of mint and grass wafted at him as it shut.

“Morning, love,” he said cautiously. Draco neither wanted to startle her nor step into her space. He was intent on laying out his apology without setting her off.

“Morning,” came her wooden tone. She didn’t turn to face him.

“I owe you an apology,” he began, keeping his voice open and sincere. He wanted her to turn around and see how much his words meant, but she did not. “I took things too far last night. I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t realize I’d misread your cues until too late, and… and I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”

She whirled, arms clutched around herself protectively. “You won’t have me back on a broom.”

“Wouldn’t dare to ask, love,” Draco agreed bashfully, and was relieved to see her face soften despite the fine print of his phrasing.

“Well… thank you. You really did cross a line last night—”

“You’re right, I did.” Etiquette sirens blared in Draco’s head. Interrupting after an apology, what a sinful faux pas, but he wanted to atone quickly. He wanted Hermione to forget his drunken mistake.

Draco plowed ahead. “I betrayed your trust. I was stupid and arrogant. I wasn’t thinking, and it caused you suffering, and for that, I am truly sorry. It will never happen again. I wish I could take it back. I will not ask your forgiveness, Hermione, but know that is not how I will comport myself from here on out.”

He was laying it on a bit thick, but Hermione was too important for anything less. The idea of her drifting away for a single day was unbearable. Hermione stared at him with wary, caramel-coloured eyes. Her thick lashes blinked at him appraisingly.

“Thank you, Draco,” she said at last, her tone even.

The sureness of those three words hung plainly in the air. Relief flooded over him. Hermione didn’t want to dwell, either! She tucked her hands into capacious robe pockets and walked towards him with small, slippered steps. Draco folded Hermione against him, breathing her in like a fresh bouquet.

“You scared me,” he murmured into her wild tresses with a sigh. “When you weren’t in bed, I thought you might have gone.”

“Gone?” Hermione pulled back and met his eyes.

“It sounds silly now,” he said, taking a deep breath as his frantic heart started to calm. “I had this nightmare… I remembered something.”

Hermione’s gaze bounced between his eyes momentarily before understanding flashed across her face. “What did you remember?”

Draco huffed out a breath. The victory of his accepted apology instantly leeched from him, leaving only the pain he’d woken to.

“Did you walk away from me?” His voice was small. Draco clutched her tight. She smelled strongly of her shampoo: vanilla and sour apples. He focused on the bold swirl of scents. He couldn’t bear those eyes if they were about to affirm his biggest fear.

Hermione’s words were steady and slow when she spoke, her nurturing tone immediately setting him at ease.

“You know I could never leave you, Draco.” She drew large swirls into his shirt with her fingertips. “I think this conversation requires tea.”

Hermione extracted herself carefully from his frozen arms and migrated them both down to the kitchens. He hovered uselessly by the expansive entry. She summoned cups and his favourite black tea with deft wand flicks. The cups were steaming and steeping beside the sugar bowl in thirty seconds flat.

She parked Draco on a stool and sidled between his knees. He liked this angle. It left her breasts just a smidge below eye level, the delicate skin of her neck flanked by the thick folds of her robe. Hermione pulled closer and burrowed a hand into his sleep-tousled hair. Her other hand began to gently stroke the fine whisps at his nape. He nearly purred with how divine it felt to be wrapped in her affections.

“Tell me,” she said at last.

After all the things he’d lived through, why did this make his heart race? Draco sunk his fingers greedily into the plush terrycloth of her robe, allowing the feel of it and the curve of her back to fortify him as he described all he recalled.

He recounted everything with intricate, reclaimed detail. This wasn’t some cloudy fever dream; it had been as sharp as everyday life. He stroked her shoulder blades as emotion washed over him. He described the cottage, the kitchen, how she looked at him like a stain on her shirt, Potter dragging him to the beach, the starless night, his barely contained fury…

When he finished, Draco’s pulse was pounding once more. His fingers dug into the thick robe as indignation and uncertainty ripped through him all over again. He tried to ground himself in the feel of her fingers teasing his scalp, but it was fruitless. He required her explanation, her assurance. Draco wrapped his arms firmly around Hermione, needing to feel her pressed tight against him.

“I wondered if you’d remember that bit,” Hermione said, shaking her head above him and drawing in a long breath despite the crush of his arms. “That was a few days before the Final Battle.”

Draco’s brow furrowed as he scraped for context he didn’t have.

“Harry had this idea at The Order’s pleading. Looking back, it was such an idiotic plan. Ronald was out-of-his-mind jealous: insufferable on his best days and worth stunning any time your name came up. Gods help us all when you actually came around. He was a liability. To keep him in line, Harry thought I should lead him on a bit. Everyone thought he’d be more reliable, more stable, if he thought he might have a shot again.”

Upon hearing that, Draco’s mind spun up the worst things he could imagine. He pictured his Hermione bent over a dimly lit desk piled with war correspondence, her skirt riding up her thighs as a ruddy-faced Ronald Weasley lustfully drank her in. He saw his Hermione sliding into the lap of an ungrateful redhead while Draco risked his life playing Death Eater. He imagined his Hermione closing the door to the Weasel’s room with a determined look pinching her face. Was that where she stormed off to after their fight in the kitchen? His eyes bugged as he considered the meaning behind her words.

“No, no! Nothing like that, Draco. Just some careful choices of jumpers, a few charms on my hair, a few bats of my eyelashes. There was only ever one kiss. You all but lost it when you learned what we planned. You hated the plan. It was almost harder to twist your arm and get you on board than to deal with Ronald’s tantrums.”

Hermione’s fingers tangled near the roots of his hair. Draco was immensely relieved to know the cause of his anguish had been a certain loathsome redhead, not some heartbreaking epiphany or life-altering decision. Merlin, he couldn’t even find it in him to be mad about the Weasel. There was no point in being jealous of a dead man. He let his hands drop to her waist, playing with the fluffy tie of her robe. Solace instantly converted any anger he’d harbored into a familiar early-morning eagerness.

“It was a stupid plan.” She laughed at her concession, breath ruffling his blonde hair. “You were right. I should’ve known it wouldn’t help anything, should have listened to you…”

Hermione’s words broke off with a breathy inhale as Draco snaked a hand inside her robe. His fingers skated across the smooth skin of her thighs and the artful jut of her hip. Hermione let out a rattling exhale when he found the blushing lips of her cunt. Draco began to stroke her, dragging the pads of two fingertips across her most sensitive places. Hermione moaned at the contact.

Draco was eager to distance himself from the memory. His fuzzy head was elated, having solved the crisis he’d woken to. He was thrilled to have Hermione all to himself. He could already feel the buzz of an erection forming in his trousers. He ripped at the fluffy belt and shoved her robe open, leaning back to take in the full swell of her breasts with their tight nipples pointed at him like little challenges. He didn’t let up and continued to swirl his fingers around her clit while he watched her.

He tugged at the backs of her thighs so she rose to straddle him, robe parting to reveal her lithe body as she draped across his lap. Draco’s length pulsed against his zipper, aching for her delicious contact. He reached between them, freeing himself quickly from his trousers. Draco’s cock was aching with anticipation when it sprung free. He used one hand to rub his head against her tight opening, teasing them both as he spread his precum across her entrance.

“Think you’re ready for me, love?” he purred into her ear.

She bucked her hips against him at the rumble of his voice, her head readily nodding up and down above him. Hermione’s teeth sunk absentmindedly into her bottom lip. The sight of her keenly hovering above him made his cock harden almost painfully. He attempted a wandless Lubrication charm, focusing on her tight cunt as he cast the new spell. Hermione let out a funny little gurgle of surprise, her eyes flying wide to meet his in a way that confirmed his spellwork had achieved something.

Draco lined himself up between her slick lips, looking up at her face as the head of his cock began to slide into her. Hermione’s mouth popped open as she parted around him. Merlin, she was so tight. The Lubrication charm had indeed worked, and they both gasped in surprise as Draco’s cock continued to maneuver deeper inside. The drag of her walls, already shaking around him from the sudden fullness, was intoxicating. He tucked his chin to stare down, marveling as he pushed her thighs wider, and she continued to sink lower. She was taking all of him faster than she ever had.

He looked up to see Hermione’s face pinched in concentration, eyes closed, mouth open. The crease between her brows was prominent. He tilted his hips slightly, seating her pelvis fully against his, and she loosed a loud groan. Her face crumpled further, prompting Draco to still wholly. He could feel the thud of their combined heartbeats, but didn’t want to push her past her limit again.

Draco reached up and settled his hand gently on the back of Hermione’s neck. He encouraged her to lean into him and let out a deep sigh when she rested her head atop his shoulder. The tickles of her nearly-dry hair assaulted his nose and cheek, but Draco barely noticed as he began to whisper in her ear. He was desperate to move inside her, desperate to work her up as badly as he already was.

“You’re so perfect, look at you,” Draco said, murmuring into her ear in that way she liked so much. “Every bloke in Britain wishes he had what I’ve got right here.”

Hermione let out a soft moan in response. Still keeping his cock painfully still, Draco reached down and began to run wide circles around her clit with his thumb. He was careful to tease her as he talked, avoiding the sensitive nub. He ran his lips along the soft column of her neck, appreciating the race of gooseflesh that trailed behind.

“I still can’t believe you gave me the time of day, but here you are, making me happier than I’ve ever been, happier than I deserve to be. Look at you, love. So fit, so right…And you’re all mine. What did I do? How did I get so lucky?”

At the last word, Draco bit into the pulse point of her neck. He nibbled and teased the skin between his teeth, delighting at the feral noises coming from Hermione. He slowly began to shift his hips against her, and she rocked to meet him. Her cunt was dripping now—arousal combining with the Lubrication charm—and she slipped and slid easily on his length. Draco was unbelievably hard, his cock angry and throbbing from his stretched patience.

He continued to hum a stream of obscene affections as he began to pound deep inside her. Hermione mewled over his shoulder, clawing at the rumpled fabric of his button-up as Draco found his rhythm and slammed harder still. His trousers muffled the sound of their hips colliding, but Hermione’s arse cheeks began to clap together in time with his thrusts.

Her whole body began to tense, velvety wetness dragging almost painfully across him as his movements became forceful and desperate. She began to cry out, repeating his given name over and over as her pleasure continued to mount.

Draco stared between them, watching his glistening length slide quickly from her, only to bury profoundly and entirely into her again and again. His own climax was approaching, sending torrents of rough magic barreling through his veins.

He chased the sensation, grabbing her hips. His chest heaved, breaths leaving in great rushes. Hermione dug her nails into the tender flesh of his chest through the shirt. She moaned loudly into his ear, and he lost it. Penetrating as deep as he could, Draco threw his head back and rocked up against her. Hermione’s cunt pulsated around him as he came. He clutched her thighs as he shook all over from the blissful sensation. They both relaxed into one another and struggled to catch their breath, Draco leaning back against the counter.

With Hermione’s neck right there, he couldn’t help but pepper it with soft kisses. She giggled as Draco’s eyelashes brushed her jaw. He wasn’t sure how he expected this morning to go, but this was undoubtedly the best possible outcome. An apology, an explanation, and a shag? What a dream.

It was unfair to give only one side of Hermione’s precious neck his attention. As Draco began to make his was to her other jaw, a voice hollered down the hall and startled them both.

“Hullo? ‘Mione? Malfoy? You’d better not still be shagging from last night…” Potter’s voice echoed down the stone hallways from the Library.

Hermione threw herself off Draco’s lap, hurriedly closed her robe, and trotted down the hall.

Draco followed, pausing to Scourgify his trousers. He wondered absently if Hermione had already done the same.

 

Hermione was seated comfortably before the hearth when Draco sauntered into the Library. She leaned forward with her heels beneath her hips, robe wrapped tight. Potter’s face peeked out of the fire, his signature hair even more bedraggled than usual.

“—Seriously, Hermione. Everyone was thrilled you came out. Even Malfoy figured out how to have a good time. Dare I say, it was great to see you both.”

Draco didn’t want to interrupt, but a not-so-small part of him glowed hearing such praise. Potter wouldn’t have said the same if he knew Draco was right there. He sidled deeper into the Library, sliding into one of the armchairs out of view.

“You know I wouldn’t have missed it, Harry. And I’m thrilled you extended an invitation to Draco.” Hermione said. From where Draco sat, he could see the outline of her face. Her grin was unhindered and easy like it had been the night before. It made Draco smile just watching her, knowing their life together was approaching something closer to Normal.

“I know it hasn’t been easy. What with Malfoy still healing and everything? But I’m going to give him an honest shot. I should have gone easier before. He seems a decent bloke, after all. It was hard to see it—you remember growing up with the prat—but he’s making an effort and getting along with everyone now. If he can win George over, I think he’s capable of anything.”

Hermione shifted on the floor. She opened her mouth to reply, but Potter was promptly shoved aside. His face disappeared from the crackling fire. The cocky smirk of another certain redhead appeared in his place.

“Hey, Gin.” Hermione chuckled, and Draco found himself joining along. “Good morning.”

“Hermione,” Ginevra nodded once in acknowledgment. Hearing Draco’s laugh, she turned another nod in his vague direction. “Hello, Ferret. Er, guess I should learn to use your name, given you’re probably sticking around.” Ginevra’s tone bordered on delight.

Potter’s voice bellowed from behind her. “Oi! Was he there the whole time?” There was a minor scuffle and Ginevra’s hair swayed, but she was clearly winning whatever battle waged on the other side of the floo. Hermione repositioned herself again.

“Well, since you’re both here,” Ginevra continued with her perennial grin, “Harry and I wanted to thank you for coming last night. George hasn’t let himself laugh like that since…” Her smile flickered.

Draco wandered over to Hermione, kneeling on the thick rug beside her. They still couldn’t see him on the other side of the fire, but they’d hear him better. He ran his fingers affectionately up and down Hermione’s thigh, noticing the silly little strain at the corner of her smile as she tried not to let on.

“Going soft on us, eh Ginevra?”

“Maybe I am, Draco.” Ginevra replied, the sparkle in her eye guttering. “Either way, sorry it took losing Ron to give you a proper shot. You didn’t deserve that, neither of you.”

Hermione turned to look at Draco and pride glowed on her face.

“Thank you, Ginevra,” Draco said, meeting Hermione’s eye, his confidence brimming. He didn’t take it lightly. Hermione’s friends were a key part of her. The notion that they could all get along, that he could share in one more thing with her, was a ladder he was determined to climb.

Hermione let out a teeny squeak, squirming again to sit straighter on her heels. He stared at her for a moment before realization hit. Draco couldn’t help himself, the unstoppable laughter starting as a low rumble and growing. Hermione looked to him in confusion before realizing she was the subject of his humor.

“We were just about to sit down to breakfast,” Hermione said facing back towards the fire, the pinnacle of politeness. Draco got off on the idea of his seed leaking out of her with their friends right there.

“Oh, no need. We didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” Ginevra said with the shadow of a wink. She uttered a final round of thank you’s before her face disappeared and the fire died down.

When all traces of their friends were certainly gone, Hermione turned to him. Her face was blank for all of two seconds before she burst into the most delightful shower of laughter. She tipped against him as their laughter reached crescendo together.

“How did you know?” She asked Draco at last, wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks.

“Know what, that my cum was leaking down your leg?” He asked coyly, shaking his head with the hilarity of the situation. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something to do with your silly little squeak?”

He nudged the tip of her nose with his and they both fell into more fits of laughter.

Notes:

We're cooking with fire now! More and more clues are dribbling out into the story. Do you take Hermione at her word? Do you have a hunch where I'm taking you on this little ride of a story? I would adore hearing your thoughts or favorite bits or glaring questions in the comments. Writing is a lonely process, but it doesn't have to be!
- Mephistophelass

Chapter 15: Gather

Summary:

Just six chapters and the epilogue to go after this one, but Reflections of Nobody still has a lot left to unfold... More plot to unravel, and more of those tags to earn both steamy and story. We'll get there, I promise. Blessed Lughnasadh to you, and enjoy reading ☿
- Mephistophelass

Winter, Sixth Year at Hogwarts

Monday afternoons have a frustrating way of slowing time. Today the entire class collectively struggles to keep their eyes open. Even Hermione’s attention is slipping as she watches her Wound-Cleaning Potion simmer. It's an individual assignment they’re working on, and both her friends are irked not to have a partner to lean on.

The dungeon is dim and overly warm. A languorous fuchsia cloud drifts at knee level from their collective efforts. Professor Slughorn putters between benches to appraise each potion and give a little quip of feedback. Once they wrap up, the students are on their own until dinner. Hermione isn’t sure if she’ll get a jump on the Ancient Runes essay or collapse onto her four-poster for a much-needed nap.

A bead of sweat rolls slowly down her back. She dares not check the time, knowing it’s already well past their supposed release. In an attempt to keep herself conscious, she begins mentally outlining her essay. It’s on protective mid-14th century Sami hieroglyphs and their relevance in present-day Scandinavian wizarding culture. She’ll need to stop by the library for a few more references…

Hermione jerks from her thoughts when a pair of wrinkled hands slap the worn bench before her with glee. Slughorn is finally at her cauldron. Her eyes widen as the plum-coloured potion ripples over its sweltering burner.

“Aha! Immaculate work, Miss Granger!”

Slughorn’s commentary manages to sound both overused and sincere. He’s an off-putting wizard, but she’s never turned down a professor’s praise. Her brew is immaculate. Hermione’s face crinkles into a wordless smile, and Slughorn moves on to Harry’s bench. She drifts back to pondering her outline.

By the time Professor Slughorn completes his rounds, Ronald’s head nods in front of her, and Harry rests his forehead on his Potions text. Hermione sees a flash of blonde out of the corner of her eye for the umpteenth time and resists looking up. She’s too sleepy to coach her face right now. He’s been just a few stools away all period.

She couldn’t stop thinking about his gift. Any day now, he would have it ready for her. Even though she already knew what it would be, that didn’t diminish the gesture in the slightest. It made the suspense more intimate somehow. She lost herself in contemplation, happily letting her mind drift. What kind of frame would he choose? Would he wrap it for her? Did he wrap presents or task Malfoy elves to do it? Hermione can’t keep from daydreaming about him, all thoughts of her essay abandoned. His not-so-distant proximity is titillating. If she’s forced to ignore and snap at him to keep up appearances, at least she can think about him as much as she fancies.

Slughorn claps his hands together at the front of the sweltering chamber.

“Right! Clean up your benches, and I’ll see you all Thursday! Don’t forget to wipe down surfaces after your double-Tergeo. We don’t want another Maria McFeldon on our hands now, do we?”

The class falls into its perfunctory breakdown routine. Students efficiently return ingredient jars, cast careful Tergeos, and manually wipe down benches and cauldrons.

Hermione is walking back from the supply closet when Draco approaches with a large jar in his arms. She can’t decipher his expression, but he bumps her elbow as he passes. Her drowsy brain is at a loss. He disappears into the closet she just left, his steps slow and deliberate. She wants to turn around, to follow him out of view, but her sluggish brain cannot conjure a valid excuse, so instead Hermione returns to her stool and assesses the bench.

Not a minute later, a silent consensus is reached and the class makes a break for it. They all funnel to the back of the Potions classroom, a few book bags dragging. The heavy door swings open and ushers in a biting cold from just outside the stuffy chamber. A few students yelp at the sudden temperature shift, throwing on cloaks quickly as they scurry off. Harry and Ronald zoom towards Gryffindor Tower, forging ahead with long steps in lieu of more layers.

Hermione, already shivering, pulls on her jumper and dons her cloak. When her bag is slung back across her shoulder, the stone corridor around her is empty. Draco is nowhere in sight. She thought he wanted to see her, but she knows now not to wait up. Draco will always find her when he can. She’s come to trust him, even it it’s only the version of him she gets to see in private.

It is a relief not to obsess about the balance of their relationship. He always searches for her, always find her. He could chase away that nagging feeling that she would always be unwanted. To Hermione, his attention is proof she’s worth holding onto, even if for Draco that means a peculiar kind of devotion.

She pushes a curl from her face and heads toward the dormitories. The cool air is refreshing on her warm cheeks. Not ten steps later, a pair of origami doves flutter in front of her face. She can’t help but smile. The parchment crinkles with the small flap of wings, the birds looping around her. She turns to watch them fly back the way she came.

Draco stands before her with a smirk tugging at his lips, all dark robes and light complexion. The parchment doves flit back to their sender, landing together on his outstretched hand before he nonchalantly crushes them into a pocket.

As soon as she is within reach, he snatches up her elbow as if she may disappear. Draco whisks her back down the corridor and past the Potions chamber. Hermione’s never needed to go this way, and she soon realizes why: they quickly come to a dead end. Unlike most surfaces inside Hogwarts, no portraits or suits of armor adorn the space. He ducks his chin over his shoulder briefly to assure nobody sees them.

Draco’s pace does not slow as they approach the broad stone wall. He holds her more firmly, possessively clutching her to him. Hermione sharply inhales before he mutters something under his breath. What is he doing? Her eyes slam shut, and she braces for the jarring impact of the wall.

It never comes. Instead, Draco eases them to a stop, and she cracks her eyes. They’ve stepped through the wall to stand in a comfortable pocket of stone, the surface they just traversed partially transparent. The space is just large enough for the two of them. Hermione focuses on Draco rather than dwell on who else he may have brought here.

“Immaculate work, Miss Granger,” he drolls, slowly crowding her back slightly. “Your brewing truly is unmatched. What a marvel you are to your House, your generation.”

The way he says it sounds rude and mocking, but she knows him better than that. Draco is one of the few who seems to see all her facets and not shy away. That’s the thing about him: he’s not afraid to say anything, only hesitant to attach true feelings. It was a relinquishment of power, he’d once told her. Hermione thought it made sense, given what he’d shared about his growing up.

She smiles up at him and gives a coquettish curtsey. Draco chuckles and shakes his head.

“Dreadful. Simply dreadful,” Draco teases with an eye roll. Then—to her giggling delight—Draco steps back into a flawless curtsey of his own, complete with a pantomime of very full, fictional skirts.

They laugh effortlessly before he pulls her in for a deep kiss. Her fingers wind up his front to sink into soft, platinum locks. Tongues roam over one another, slow and sybaritic.

Draco's gray eyes are glittering when they finally break away. His lips are flushed and bee stung. He reaches into an inside pocket and sets something small in his flattened palm. Waving his wand, the small parcel swells to its proper size. A green-wrapped rectangle sits proudly, if awkwardly, in his hand. He offers it to Hermione with a nod of his chin.

Eyes wide and breath having left her, she takes it. It’s wrapped in neat folds of lustrous green paper and a thin gold ribbon affixed diagonally like she’d sometimes seen in upscale Muggle shops. Since her passage into the wizarding world, every gift she'd seen and received was wrapped in the same ubiquitous brown paper, typically tied with the ever-present jute bow. The shining green wrapping in her hands is dazzling. It makes sense— she can’t picture Narcissa Malfoy entertaining a drab Christmas tree.

Draco’s perennial smirk rests on Hermione as she marvels at the gift. She slips the bow loose and slides her fingers beneath the edge of the crisp, green paper. As soon as the lavish wrappings reveal the gift inside, they vanish with a splash of green and gold fireworks.

The photo of them from just a few days ago rests in her hands. In its frame, thick flakes descend on Hogsmeade Village. Draco scowls over her snow-dusted shoulder. She remembers his bafflement at being asked to repeat the word “cheese.” Hermione’s expression in the photo is one of pure joy, her fingers wrapping around his forearms as he holds her close. The image captures each of them perfectly, candidly revealing how they truly are with one another.

Its frame is elaborate silver, glinting and catching the torchlight that burns outside their secret nook. Many small, twisting vines of fine metal wind to form a tidy rectangle. She holds the photo for a long time, memorizing the shape of them fitted together.

“Do you like it?” Uncertainty blooms in Draco’s voice, and Hermione realizes she hasn’t yet said a thing. She swivels tear-brimmed eyes, looking up at him, and the beaming smile on her face mirrors the one in the frame.

“I love it, " she says slowly, emotion seeping into each word. It may as well be a surrogate for I love you. She already feels so much for him, but she fears that affection might seem forced to Draco—a trap to squeeze more from him when he already offers her so much. What if this relationship, this secrecy, is all he’ll be capable of offering?

“I’m so glad,” he says.

Familiar confidence returns to his face as his eyes sweep over her. Draco’s thumb rubs an affectionate line across her cheek. He moves around Hermione as she looks down again. Soon his arms wrap around her middle just like they do in the photo. He leans over her shoulder to match her gaze, the photo version of Draco smirking up at her as the real Draco holds her close. The way he surrounds her is everything.

 

 

Draco cherished his birthday gift even more now, having felt Hermione’s original reaction through the Pensieve memory. He carefully placed the frame next to a neat little row of Memory Restorative vials Hermione kept stocked on his bedside table. He wanted to see the framed photo every time he woke, a tangible token of what they meant to one another—even if she was in the other room.

Now looking back, Draco felt so foolish for his premature panic. It had been nearly a fortnight since he woke with fear gripping his heart. Hermione’s explanation was an assurance that life wasn’t always as bad as it seemed. Advice from “The Intimate Male” echoed in his mind: Never go to bed angry. She will only bite you in the morning. He wasn’t confident whether nightmares and a near meltdown were what the passage referred to, but no matter. He was grateful they’d found calm water once more.

 

Today was Ginevra’s seventeenth birthday gathering. A small group would celebrate the redhead on the pitch at Malfoy Manor since Grimmauld Place did not possess grounds. Wanting to avoid a big fuss, the birthday girl’s three explicit demands were Quidditch, Chocolate Cake, and No Presents. She wanted things small and low-key. Draco had looked forward to it all week, especially with the assumption that all awkward "dead brother" talk would be absent on their sister’s special day. Flying had an excellent way of forging friendships.

Ginevra had handpicked guests based on Quidditch ability, determined to have an adrenaline-filled day. Split into two teams, the friends were soon setting up for a three-on-three match. Hermione was happy to be sidelined as designated timekeeper.

The redhead—even bossier on her birthday—demanded she and Potter be team captains. Ever cocky, she insisted her boyfriend choose first. They snapped up players in a flash. Taking the position of Chaser for himself, Potter dibsed George as Keeper. Ginevra barked for Blaise as her Beater. When Potter chose Theo as his Beater, Ginevra rolled her eyes and stated the obvious: Draco would act as her Keeper.

With positions assigned, they raided Draco’s broom room. It was a mad rush for everyone’s broom of choice, and Draco couldn’t help but smile. With only black flying robes available, they charmed the shirts of the birthday girl’s team Holyhead Yellow. Draco was elated by the idea of flying for a colour again.

 

In no time, they were in the air laughing, bickering, hollering instructions, and ribbing one another. It was an absolute blast of nostalgia for Draco. He hadn’t played with another soul in gods knew how long. He cast occasional looks at Hermione, sat on the lawn with a book on artefact recalibration. It wasn’t often she came out to watch him fly, and he appreciated her participating in her own way.

Ginevra was one helluva flyer. Draco found himself gawking at her quick decision-making and graceful aggression. He tried to keep his jaw closed as he watched her effortlessly sink a goal.

Blaise and Theo were at one another’s throats the whole match, each wielding their Beater’s bat fiercely in a scuffle irrelevant to the larger scrimmage. Ginevra and Potter were in a constant quarrel over the Quaffle. Across the pitch, George held down the goalpost well enough for Potter’s team. Up against his sister’s now-confirmed professional rigor, everyone knew he was at a disadvantage.

Hermione looked up frequently to watch him play, often too lost in thought to return his cheeky little winks and waves. He didn’t mind much. Hermione looked so beautiful in her element. The wind teased her curls off her forehead and tickled at the pages resting open on her thighs.

The first time Potter brought the Quaffle his way, Draco held himself defensively inside the goalpost. A grimace of concentration dominated his sharp features. Diving down from above, Potter tried to use elevation to his advantage. With the momentum from his opponent’s throw, Draco swept the ball around and effortlessly spiked it down to a waiting Ginevra. It was a most intrinsic dance for Draco. Potter could throw the ball however he liked, but he managed to intercept it every time.

It was a foolproof routine. He headed off nearly a dozen goals and set Ginevra up for score after score. When Hermione signaled time with an eruption of gold sparks, Ginevra had earned their team a respectable two hundred points. Potter landed on the pitch and knelt fully in the grass to bow at her feet, a condition she’d insisted on from the start. Draco burst into laughter, imagining the hell she must put her gaggle of brothers through.

 

After Potter’s humiliating defeat, it was time for a break. Draco blew an exaggerated kiss to his witch still sat on the lawn and followed the rest of them to the broom room to hang up their gear and equipment.

“You’ve been practicing Malf—Draco!” Ginevra was still grinning wide from the win.

“You too,” he replied easily. “That was some wicked flying out there.”

Ginny let out a little laugh. “Cheers. It’s almost like I’ve been practicing myself. Still can’t believe I made the team.”

“‘Course, you made the team,” Potter jumped in, looping an arm around his beaming girlfriend. “You’re the best Chaser since Clara Ivanova.”

“That’s Reserve Chaser until Marney retires next season, but fucking hell. I’m a Holyhead!” Ginevra’s gaze became distant as Potter tugged her out the door to the pavilion, the rest in tow.

“Either way, you kicked my arse today,” said Potter

“You say that like it’s hard, Harry. You Chase like a Hufflepuff at the Yule Ball.” The words fell with jest from Draco’s tongue, and it took him a few seconds to realize he’d used The Chosen One's given name for perhaps the first time in his life.

Harry looked at him, blinking in shock for a moment before he shook it off.

“Cheers, mate,” he said with a wry smile. “Maybe we'll play with a Snitch next time, eh?”

The pavilion had been decorated simply. Thick yellow streamers spiraled around the carved columns of the stately structure. A table sat laden with an assortment of chocolate cakes. When asked to refrain from presents, everyone secretly agreed to bring their own chocolate cake, each displayed on mismatched plates, platters, and pedestals.

Everyone tucked in to thick slices of decadent desserts. They filled their glasses from pitchers of lemonade. The sounds of ice cubes and silver cutlery clinking accompanied by hums of delight filled the pavilion.

“Drake, have you been watching any telly lately? Give ‘Coronation Street’ a go?” Theo artfully stabbed another bite of cake and punctuated his words with the quirk of an eyebrow.

“Would that I could, mate. Would that I could.” Draco gazed off at the horizon with a false expression of wistfulness.

“Hermione? Still no telly for Slytherin’s most contested war hero?” Theo tilted his head with a pouted lip. Hermione glared at Theo from over her plate, finishing her bite slowly.

“We’ve had other things to focus on. I’d all but forgotten.” Her tone was sweet, but Hermione’s eyes shot at Nott.

“Poor Draco, waiting for you to get home every day while he’s left all alone, wandering the halls of an empty manor like a lost puppy.” Theo’s eyes flashed as he affected a shiny-eyed look of his own. “Whatever does he do all day without the static charm of a telly set to help coast him through?”

Draco mimicked Theo's pathetic, ploying look.

“Aww, look at him, ‘Mione,” it was Harry now, ever the mate, chiming in to help. “Poor sad bloke.”

“Alright fine. Theo?”

“Say no more, Hermione,” Nott smiled down at his forkful of frosting before he popped it into his mouth. “I’ll be by tomorrow to set it up.”

Draco shot Harry and Theo an appreciative look, choosing to ignore their subtle digs. Hermione rolled her eyes with a dramatic huff and forked another bite between her lips. Draco loved riling her up, and it turned out to be even more fun with friends! He did love the idea of a telly set at the manor. Perhaps in the sitting room.

“How goes Patronus practice, Lord Forgets-it-all?” Harry was addressing Draco, this time from around a mouthful of cake.

“Slow,” said Draco with a bashful smile. “I’ve worked up to a few non-corporeals, but nothing substantial yet.”

“Still, nice.” Harry looked impressed, dark eyebrows raised.

“How’s team orientation been?” Draco asked Ginevra, and was elated to receive an exuberant, in-depth response. Hermione had returned to her book while the rest of the group—all desperate Quidditch fans—hopped in to ask the birthday girl for details. Soon, everyone had made plans to attend Ginevra’s biweekly home games once the season began. Even benched, they wanted to cheer her on. Draco thought it was rather touching, that kind of undying support. Anyway, who said no to free match tickets?

Hermione had moved on and was now devouring a rather lengthy text discussing the effects of time on dark magic. Draco absently wondered if her research was prompted by his Dark Mark.

 

The afternoon concluded with another game of three-on-three. Ginevra claimed the same players for her team, and they handily swept up the match once more—even full of cake and lemonade.

By the time everyone gathered their things to leave, the sun was dipping towards the horizon. They were all tired from a rambunctious afternoon in the summer sun, more than a few cheeks blushing red from its prolonged kiss. Draco and Hermione escorted everyone to the Apparition point, exchanging hugs and handshakes of good sportsmanship.

He extended a stiff hand to Ginevra, but she pulled him in for a firm hug instead.

“You're not so bad, Ferret.”

“And I suppose you’re tolerable enough.” He said with a nod.

Draco took a fortifying breath as Harry approached next.

“Harry, I want to thank you for calming me down that night at the cottage. Everything got so tangled up before the final battle. I wasn’t acting myself, and I appreciate you taking me outside. I would have understood if you’d just stunned me.” Harry stared at him with a prolonged look, one eyebrow furrowed slightly. Draco wondered if he’d somehow stepped out of line. Perhaps it was uncouth to bring up that difficult time. Deciding to finish what he started, he continued on. “I know we weren’t close, but maybe we can be mates this time around.”

The brunette considered him quietly for a moment before he extended a hand.

“Already happening, mate,” Harry said as he stared intently between Draco’s pale eyes and fondly slapped him on the shoulder. “Couldn’t stop it if you wanted to.”

They released the handshake simultaneously. Draco turned to address George and give him a sarcastic tip about Quaffles. He didn’t catch the look Harry shot over to Ginevra.

Draco held Hermione’s hand as they watched their friends Disapparate one after another. They walked down the hill together like that, his heart out-glowing his sunburnt cheeks.

Chapter 16: Suspect

Summary:

Wherein we see more of Draco and Hermione's relationship at Hogwarts, things heat up in the garden, and Draco misses a floo call.

Winter, Sixth Year at Hogwarts

Malfoy thoroughly dominated her thoughts. Winter break had seemed to drag on for an eternity. Her feelings were quickly ballooning into something ill-suited to their arrangement, and Merlin knew she needed some perspective. Hermione had tremendously failed to distance her mind from the concept of him. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t seen or heard from Malfoy since the night before break began.

Attempting to distract herself from a plague of thoughts fixated on a certain angular blonde, Hermione had spent the whole fortnight reading. Her parents had been too consumed with symposium preparations to notice any of her intense lip-biting or growls of frustration. In a final plea for sanity, she had opted to take a later train back to Hogwarts, desperate to wrangle her self-control with the extra sixteen hours.

When she walks into the Great Hall at breakfast, the enchanted ceiling is somber and cloudy. The long house benches are sparsely filled with clumps of students, a gentle hum of conversation filling the large space. Her attention is immediately stolen by an over-loud giggle. Pansy Parkinson clutches Malfoy’s arm and laughs loudly at something he’s just said. They sit side by side, casually holding court among a small knot of Slytherin cronies. The blow Hermione feels in her gut catches her off guard.

Malfoy looks up as she moves toward the Gryffindor table, and the shift in his blonde hair too easily catches her attention. His eyes narrow, and his head tilts so slightly that Hermione assumes she’s imagined it. Her heart is pounding as she walks the final steps to her table, settling between Neville and Harry as a round of jeering laughter sounds from the far table. Regardless of what they might do in private, Malfoy doesn’t skip a sour beat out in the open. The addition of their late-night rendezvous make his cruelness sting even more.

Hermione feels the weight of his eyes throughout breakfast, but is immensely pleased with her ability to successfully ignore them. She takes her time eating a scone, content to listen as Harry and Ronald yammer on. Neville fills her in on his Nan’s newest winter hat. This one’s apparently giving him nightmares. Hermione lets her mind drift to anything but the blonde across the hall.

The band of Slytherins ebb and flow over the next two hours. Malfoy is the last of the original group to leave, a few second years remaining in his wake. Neville left long ago, leaving only Harry and Ronald’s boisterously boring debate on brooms to occupy her attention.

When it’s clear the quidditch talk won’t let up, Hermione stands from the worn bench. They hardly notice her leave, Ronald giving her a quick lift of his chin. Moments like these make her feel like the worst kind of third wheel. She's uttered perhaps ten words all morning.

Hermione leaves the Great Hall, turning a corner and marching up a heavy staircase just as it shifts into place. She lengthens her pace when something small swoops from behind a suit of armor. Before it can smack into her chest, Hermione snatches the origami dove from midair. The small bit of parchment crumples slightly with her annoyance.

When she opens her hand, the paper remains lifeless. A flourish of ink is visible across one of the dove’s wings, and Hermione hastily unfolds it to read the short note.

Took you long enough. Meet me by Meteora. –DM

Hermione pauses for all of a second before she sets off.

 

Arriving at the chimaera painting, she huffs with disappointment. Malfoy is nowhere in sight. The familiar corridor is deserted. A dozen or so nooks are set into the expansive stone walls. Art breaks up the spaces between each recess, an added convenience for student meetups. She stands with her back to the painting, surveying the unoccupied hall.

Part of her wonders if this is a trick. Perhaps he came to his senses over Winter Break and is back to his full-time bullying ways. Hermione recalls the Slytherins giggling and laughing at breakfast and wonders exactly what Malfoy had said.

A small roar sounds and Hermione turns to admire the artwork. The mighty beast stretches and bunches as it leaps through the air. Light plays off sinewy dragon wings as they beat to the rhythm of its powerful strides. The painting seems to glow, the fantastical purples and rosy pinks of sunrise illuminating fluffy clouds. As Hermione looks on, the curious creature lets out another petit bellow, the curl of a fireball forming in its lion maw.

Unprovoked, Hermione’s thoughts flit back to the Great Hall. Pansy had been practically sitting in Malfoy’s lap, laughing and posturing for all to see. Malfoy seemed to enjoy the attention. Whatever she and Draco were would never work. And where would that leave her? She should have tried harder to rid her mind of him. She should have ignored him. She can do nothing now but watch herself slip into a shallow pit of jealousy. She should have figured out a plan over break. Hermione’s fists clench into tight balls as her mind sprints through ideas of how to break things off.

“This one’s always been my favourite.”

The quiet drawl from over her shoulder startles Hermione from her spiral. The bland tapestry hanging beside her bunches just enough to reveal Malfoy’s crisp, pale features. He’d been right there waiting the whole time.

“I read ‘The Many Tales of Meteora’ perhaps a thousand times one summer before father demanded I branch out my reading material. First year whenever I was homesick, I came here and just stared at this painting. Brooms are wicked, but wings must be something else entirely.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Hermione tries to keep her voice even but magnificently fails.

“You weren’t?” Malfoy quirks an eyebrow at her, his features relaxed. “Did you not get my note?”

“I did—” Hermione’s sentence runs dry as Malfoy’s face furrows and sharpens. His features draw into a stern look of confusion. He shakes his head, blonde hair staying obediently in place.

“I asked you here. Why wouldn’t I come?” His tone is challenging. Hermione hears a lifetime of condescension seeping into his voice. It does an excellent job of reminding her precisely who is standing before her, who she’s been burning for all holiday.

Hermione can’t find the words to explain, opting to shake her head instead. A blush like a warm tide washes up her neck and across her cheeks. She blinks up, lips slightly parted as a daunting thought overtakes her. Her misplaced crush had been metastasizing into something tangible, now accompanied by comorbidities like jealousy and longing. It should have been obvious to her before. Hermione’s eyes widen like saucers. Malfoy’s gaze flicks between her eyes as his throat bobs once.

“Do you like it when I prove you wrong, Granger?” He takes his time getting the words out, reaching to tuck an errant curl behind her ear.

Embarrassment coils within her, and she longs to break eye contact but will do no such thing. Her throat and mouth refuse to work, leaving Hermione to nod as she tries to ignore the heat in her cheeks.

Malfoy glances around covertly, then reaches for her wrist. His face holds the same mischievous smirk. Hermione watches him take her arm in his cool hand, allowing her feet to follow when he pulls her behind the tapestry.

Before the fabric can fall back to cover the nook’s opening, Draco slips his tongue between her lips and begins to explore every corner and crevice of her mouth. Hermione lets out a sigh, sagging against him and allowing her fingers to find purchase on the front of his robes.

 

 

True to his word, Theo came over the following morning to install the telly. Draco was pleased they remained friends as he had virtually no memory of the Slytherin. He was coming to recognize Nott as steady, if mischievous. Between Hermione’s Pensieve offerings and Draco’s own peppering of recollections, Theo had been nothing more than an occasional background character. No matter, he figured. He didn’t need the past to move forward.

Draco sat on the Library’s plush sofa and enjoyed his front row seat. Theo was using the Floo to bring over armload after armload of technologies from Nott Manor. Hermione had greeted Theo quickly before scuttling off to her study, giddy to continue work on her latest little project. At last, Theo heaved a large telly through the emerald flames, his lanky frame staggering under the boxy monstrosity. Draco stuttered out a laugh as he surged to his feet to help.

“Cheers, mate,” Theo said, wiping sweat from his brow. The muggy August day and roaring flames from the fireplace had left him rather disheveled. They both flopped back onto the sofa as the brunette caught his breath.

“No worries,” Draco trailed off as he appraised the mass of boxes and wires with a quizzical brow. Eventually, he nodded at the pile. “I don’t remember there being this much at the hotel. What gives?”

“Well, you wouldn’t. It wasn’t there,” Theo said cheekily.

Draco nodded, still confused.

Theo continued. “You’re not exactly set up with electric outlets now, are you. All this,” Theo gestured with grandeur at the heap, “gets the signal through your manor’s wards while powering the lot of it. All thanks to this handy-dandy invention.” At the last bit, Theo stabbed a finger toward a rather innocuous-looking black cube the size of a shoebox.

Theo got to his feet, casting a graceful Transfiguration charm on the coffee table. It stretched and shifted into a four-wheeled cart. He began stacking the telly accouterment onto the cart. Eventually he nodded at Draco to help him lift the telly on top.

“Why not Levitate it all?” Draco asked once they were headed down the stately corridor towards the sitting room.

“Much of this stuff is fiddly and doesn’t take to magic. Coming through the Floo is about all it can take before some of the smaller components go wonky.”

Draco nodded as if he understood, and they continued down the hall. He was fumbling for a topic of conversation when Theo spoke again.

“So you and Granger, hmm? How long has that been going on?” Theo swung his head to face Draco, the corners of his mouth quirked into something unreadable.

“We started seeing one another winter of sixth year,” Draco said easily.

“Seriously? No wonder she didn’t tell me. You were a disgusting git back then. I remember you saying some properly revolting things about her.”

Draco hummed noncommittally and hoped Theo would drop it.

“After winter break that year, you practically had a routine. Parkinson and I got back to Hogwarts, and you nearly made her wet herself—rest her soul—when you ragged on Granger. What was it you said? ‘I bet the mudblood’s cunt is so bushy the Weasel has to cut mats out before he can stick it in.’”

Draco let out a breath and focused on the sound of the cart’s little wheels squeaking across the stone. Hermione had shown him a few more acerbic memories, but he thought the worst of it had been before their first encounter.

“Cheerful, right?” Theo beamed.

“I was trying to keep her safe.” Draco's words felt stiff and resigned even to him.

Theo tipped his head back with a bubble of laughter. “Sure, mate. I'm certain the stream of slurs was like a never-ending Protego.”

“Shut up. I didn’t want the wrong people to know I cared for her."

“I think you’ll believe whatever you tell yourself. And apparently, you’ll stretch pretty far for Hermione.” Theo shook his head, his chocolate waves bouncing easily around his ears. “Months of you two fooling around, and none of us caught on? It’s just hard to believe, is all.”

Draco glared at him, funneling his energy into the expression rather than consider what Theo was saying. To his relief, they arrived at the sitting room. Their focus quickly shifted to the elaborate task of setting up the telly and dialing everything in. Theo was a whiz with technology and talked him through everything with glee. A warm sense of nostalgia ghosted over Draco, and he imagined Theo had done this sort of thing often during their school days.

 

By that afternoon, Draco was well-versed in the operation of his brand-new telly. Theo insisted on applying the art of cable management, certain Hermione would throw a fit if she saw the many wires that had draped from the sideboard. It took nearly an hour to neatly coil and tie it all up out of the way. Draco had to admit the effect was rather dramatic. Working alongside Theo turned out to be as easy as it was fun. No wonder Hermione cherished him as a coworker. Still, he was grateful their conversation hadn’t returned to how he’d treated her back in school.

Once he’d seen Theo off, Draco threw himself on the loveseat with the remote and surfed to BBC2. Soon he was transfixed by a programme on rainforest insects, adoring the closeup footage and calming narration. Draco was curious to learn that a show called “Ground Force” was up next. The excitement was short-lived when the trowels and topsoil came out. Draco flicked off the telly and its domed screen lightly crackled. He tossed the remote control on the settee and headed towards the broom room.

Draco donned flight robes and lifted a brightly handled Flyte and Barker from its cradle on the wall. Stepping out the door, he swung a leg over and shot into the sky. His fringe whipped around his temples as the air dropped to a refreshing chill around him, his broom slowly gaining altitude.

Draco looked down, surprised to see Hermione outside, working on her hands and knees over a swath of dirt by the front walk. She’d been locked away in her study all day, popping out only briefly to greet Theo. Without a second thought, Draco aimed the broom handle towards her. When he got a yard or so from her, he dismounted in his favourite fashion, whipping the broom into a stall and stepping off onto fine gravel.

“The stunning and illusive Hermione Granger emerges from her den, a rare occasion even in the rainless heat of a Wiltshire summer.” Draco affected his best nature documentary voice. “Though capable of all things, this individual devotes her efforts to research and—”

Draco’s goofy words were cut off by a clod of dirt, much of which found its way into his mouth.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Hermione replied innocently. She picked up the trowel from the canvas cushion she knelt on and returned to her work. Draco hacked and coughed into the garden bed. He shot her a broad smile after he’d wiped the dirt from his teeth with a sleeve.

“Indeed it is. What brings you out here?” He asked. Lately, she had spent more time locked in her study than ever.

Hermione tucked a little orange seedling into the soil, and Draco realized she’d already planted this bed twice. Judging from the little smile adorning her lips, she didn’t mind doing the work over again. Hermione appraised her work before she rocked back to sit on her heels. He couldn’t help but stare at the way her dirt-stained denims bunched and clung around her curves.

“If you must know, Theo and I are nearly done with the new containment unit. I’ve finished up the bulk of my reports with all the financials and ward blueprints, and figured it was time I enjoyed myself.”

“Congratulations,” Draco said with a dignified bow. “You should come outside more often. The sunshine suits you.”

She huffed and tipped forward onto all fours again, the motion causing her breasts to sway beneath the cotton. The shirt rode up slightly, showing off the curve of her waist and the smooth lines of her stomach. Soon, Hermione was tucking more seedlings into the dark dirt. He stepped towards her, the gravel crunching beneath his boots.

“You’re celebrating by replanting your marigolds?” When she didn’t look up, he continued. “Love, we can find a better excuse to get you on your hands and knees.”

Hermione let out a little gasp but otherwise gave no indication she’d heard him at all. Her gloved fingers diligently carved out little dirt pockets and plunked seedlings in root-down.

Draco unclasped his flying robes and let them pool carelessly around his feet. He set the broom on top of the dark fabric, its milky handle standing out in stark contrast. His cock was already tingling with anticipation, and he could feel a pulse in his trousers as his hardness began to manifest.

He sank to his knees behind Hermione, not minding the subtle dampness from the rich earth. Her hair was in a messy bun, held in place with her wand. Draco’s lips found her sweat-salty neck as he grasped the soft cotton of her t-shirt. He groaned against her smooth skin when he discovered her puffy nipples through the thin material. It was a rare occasion she went without a brassiere. He cupped both tits in his hands, appreciating their weight.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” he said with an insinuating rumble, beginning to roll her nipples through the cotton. He ground himself against the round of her bum, and his length rapidly hardened. “Then again, I really do.”

“Draco, please…” Her voice was soft and longing and called to the most straightforward part of him. They were perhaps his two favourite words.

He reached down and unbuttoned her denims, tugging at the zipper before shimmying them off her hips. Draco admired her, nearly bare to him from the waist down. Her knickers were sea foam green, the slightly sheer fabric teasing him with the outlines of her. Draco slipped one hand along the curve of her stomach. Hermione’s skin was smooth and dewed with the hint of sweat.

His fingers teased lower, marveling at the velvety wetness awaiting him. Hermione leaned back against his thigh, and Draco bucked his hips involuntarily. He stripped off her knickers, shoving them down to join the denims around her knees. Without thinking, he tapped the insides of her thighs, and Hermione immediately abided by his silent request. She spread her legs as wide as the trousers around her knees would allow.

Draco returned to her folds, caressing and teasing them to the sounds of her growing satisfaction. His mind was alight as he considered exactly how he wanted to take her. She was too low to shag like this, even on her little garden cushion. Then Draco remembered a description he’d read in “The Intimate Male," where the woman’s rear was elevated above her shoulders for even more satisfying penetration from behind. The book had called it a variation of “Doggy Style.”

Draco reached for the wand in his pocket and cast a careful Transfiguration on Hermione’s green cushion. Her bare arse lifted slowly as it grew. One of his hands continued stroking her as the other held his wand, carefully poised to stop the spell at just the right moment. When her perfect cunt was even with his pulsing cock, he halted the spell. The hem of her t-shirt gathered around her armpits to fully reveal her tits.

The heat from her arousal made his mouth water. Draco’s cock was approaching painfully hard, and he made quick work of freeing it. He shoved his boxers and trousers to the dirt. Draco’s length bobbed with anticipation, tapping against her in a drunken rhythm. With Hermione’s shoulders below her elevated hips and her gloved hands still stuck in the dirt, she was the picture of disheveled beauty. He loved her bent before him, so willing and ready.

“Is this why you came out here, you tempting witch?” He asked, his words falling thick and sultry from his mouth.

In response, she made a cute little noncommittal noise, rolling her neck so a few more curls sprung loose.

When Draco dragged his palms across her, she wriggled her bum in the air and pushing back against him. He lined himself up with the soft lips of her vulva, groaning with the sensation on his turgid head. Draco began to engulf himself in her cunt.

Hermione moaned with pleasure as he slowly filled her, stopping only when he nudged her cervix. Draco leaned down, steadying himself by lacing his fingers with hers. His weight pushed their hands deeper into the soil. Draco found the shell of her ear as he continued to slowly pump into her.

“Merlin, you feel incredible,” he whispered as his cock thrust into her as deep as it could.

Without any preamble, Hermione’s cunt was a constricting knot of eager heat. Her walls pressed down all around his cock, the sensation intoxicating. He could feel her slowly adjusting to his size and kept the pace slow enough not to impede her acclimation. When he’d worked them up to a respectable pace—his bollocks occasionally slapping at her clit—he began to nibble at her lobe and dart his tongue into her ear.

“I’m going to put my thumb in your arse now, Hermione,” he kept his tone gentle and self-assured.

Seemingly drunk on the rhythm of his hips, she nodded her head immediately in acceptance. Draco could feel his erection twitch inside her. He didn’t intend to try more today but wanted to get them both warmed up to the idea. Sooner or later, he wanted to take her bum. He was becoming desperate to try since reading what the book instructed. Though he was entirely stranger to the act, the concept of anal sex had firmly taken root in his mind.

Draco planted a row of kisses along the tendon of her neck and sat himself back. When he looked down, the sight of her made him greedy with want. Hermione’s rear was a perfect swell of bare skin, glistening and tan in the unapologetic sun. Her tight little arsehole peeked at him from above the thickness of his cock as it rocked back and forth into her.

Sticking a thumb into his mouth, he laved it with his tongue and gathered as much saliva as he could. Draco pulled the soaked digit from his lips and touched it to her puckered hole. He continued to plunge in and out of her as he skated his thumb around and around, teasing the new opening until Hermione moaned at the ground. Cautiously, he pressed the tip of his thumb against the tight hole until it began to dip inside. She gasped at the new sensation, stilling under him as Draco’s thumb began to toy with her.

Remembering himself, he reached around her hips and found her clitoris with his middle finger. The effect was instantaneous, Hermione grinding and helping him to fuck her deeper. His thumb sank into her arsehole, disappearing the first knuckle as she relaxed against him. She felt incredible here, snugger and more intense than her cunt.

“You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you?” Draco admitted as he began to work his thumb in an opposite rhythm to his cock.

“Draco, you have no idea what I’d do for you.” Hermione’s words came out like a prayer as she bowed low over the earth, her cunt speared by his erection at every word.

The sight of his thumb and cock taking turns dipping into her was almost too much, but he couldn’t drag his eyes away. Draco increased the pressure on her clit, and Hermione cried out under him, locking her hips against his to slam the head of him against her cervix. She shouted his name, collapsing her upper body even lower as he took her exactly as he wanted.

Draco’s thumb was deep in her arse, the tight hole dragging on him with every movement. He stared down as he worked himself inside her, unable to contain the mess of groans and praises that fell from his lips.

“Gods, you feel so good,” he hissed, the air he’d been holding rushing out. “I wish you could see how incredible you look like this, fuck.”

Draco came with a long guttural shout, clutching her mound roughly with one hand as he spurted inside her. His hips slowed, leaning his quaking legs against Hermione’s. Her thighs spasmed as she attempted to steady her haphazard breathing. Draco carefully slid his thumb from her with the utmost care, Hermione’s breath catching as he pulled it from her.

They were both panting with satisfaction, a sheen of sweat highlighting exposed skin—his pale and touched with pink, hers a light bronze despite hours indoors. Draco rubbed slow circles of appreciation across one of Hermione’s bum cheeks, noticing the way she leaned into the soft contact. He brought out his wand and returned the cushion to its original size, watching as his witch’s exposed backside lowered back to its original height. Draco placed delicate kisses to the dimples of her low back.

He cast a careful Scourgify, cleaning away the mess he’d made of her cunt before slithering her knickers back up her thighs. Hermione slowly removed her gardening gloves and they pulled up her denims together. The action was small and seamless, a testament to the everyday familiarity between them. Draco swiftly cleaned himself, tucked his now-deflated member in his boxers, and redressed. Hermione leaned back against him, and he wrapped his arms around her like he always had and always would.

“You’re right, I should come out more often,” Hermione said mirthfully.

Draco laughed into her disheveled hair, feeling the side of her wand press against his temple.

“Aren’t I usually right?” he teased, laughter brightening his tone. Draco let his fingers wander, his hands drifting across Hermione's ribs and stomach. She traced the shape of his fingers.

“Takeout in front of the telly tonight?” Hermione asked the question so easily, but Draco’s heart stuttered.

In their hotel room, eating in front of the television was almost implied. The idea seemed all-out domestic and delightful within the sprawling walls of Malfoy Manor.

“I’ll look forward to it all day,” he said, the hint of a smile lifting his words.

Draco reluctantly released Hermione, letting his fingertips graze her sides as she bent back down to the soil. He shamelessly watched as she planted a handful of seedlings. Then he pulled his eyes away and gathered his robes and broom, walking back to the pitch through the impressive gardens.

Knowing he could never tire of her, Draco winced as he recalled Theo’s story from that morning. It was a glimpse at the depth of his heinousness, a reminder of how atrocious he’d been, how he hadn’t always gotten to be a devoted, straightforward man for her. Draco had, in fact, loathed Hermione for years before he understood how deeply her appeal ran.

A dot of motion caught his eye, and Draco looked down to see a rat skitter along a shallow garden bed. The rat was decidedly two colours, a sight he’d been hoping to see for weeks now. Meteorat! Draco thought, except, no… Where the first rat had been chocolate brown with a black front end, this rat’s colouring split from nose to tail, a sloppy speckling of white separating the two like some sort of tragic skunk.

Draco’s dragon hide boots scuffed in the fine gravel, and the noise startled the rodent. It hopped easily into the garden bed and scampered for the shelter of a nearby rosebush, its splotchy pink tail disappearing beneath lush green.

He sauntered towards the field, wondering what sort of anomaly made the manor’s rats so unique. When he crouched in the grass and shoved off into the air, Draco decided it must have something to do with a fading Pest Control charm. He’d seen them utilized in Diagon Alley shops: they magically lightened the rats, making them infinitely easier for shopkeepers and cats to discover. If the manor’s former groundskeeper elves had employed the charm, its effects would surely be wearing off by now.

His thoughts were drawn to his mother for the first time in many weeks. As Draco flew over the manor grounds, he looked down at the magnificent gardens that had been her joy for decades. Draco wondered if his mother thought of him, too. He wondered how Narcissa might react knowing Hermione was now planting flowers the muggle way in her pristine beds.

The longer he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Maybe in ten years, they would drop in on Narcissa serving her sentence at St. Mungo’s, show off their stunning brood of perfect children, and watch his mother’s brow furrow until her soul cracked before their eyes. It served her right, Draco thought. In another life, he wouldn’t have felt the need to slur about the witch he loved in order to keep her safe. Draco would forever be grateful for Hermione. She had given him the strength to turn his life around.

He flew the rest of the afternoon, his thoughts bouncing between the murky fog of childhood and the vivid joy he had with Hermione. It was meditative to be in the air, and he didn’t attempt to funnel himself into any drill or exercise. He simply drew shapes in the air, allowing his mind to comfortably drift wherever it wanted.

 

To Draco’s utter delight, Hermione did indeed get outside more to garden. She came out nearly every day over the following weeks, be it for ten minutes or two hours. She was diligently tending her latest army of marigolds, and the little plants were excelling. Their feathery green leaves were unfurling more and more each day. Draco still couldn’t understand her logic for avoiding magic in the gardens, but he could understand the satisfaction she got watching their slow progress.

Today wasn’t a gardening day for Hermione. Even though it was Saturday, she was meeting Theo at the office to finish their department's containment unit. After weeks of careful planning and tedious work, they were ready for the tricky job of casting the protective wards. While their department wasn’t the most raucous, waiting for a day they would receive absolutely zero interruption was prudent.

“There’s a sandwich waiting for you in the icebox. Theo wanted turkey, so I hope you’re excited for cranberry-turkey on rye.”

Hermione stood on her toes to give him a long, slow kiss. The paper bag in her arms lightly crinkled between them.

“Say hey to Theo for me,” Draco said with a smile as she stepped out of his arms.

“I will,” Hermione said, happiness written across her face.

Once the massive manor door shut behind her, Draco stood in the empty entryway and weighed his options. It was only half past eight, and already the day felt long.

Eventually, Draco settled on spellwork. He was slightly embarrassed about his minimal progress with his Patronus. Draco decided the warm, blustery September day would be perfect for such an emotional exertion. On his very best of attempts, he’d gotten the faintest of shapes to form. Something smallish and perhaps quadrupedal, but that was all he could make out. He’d felt a swollen optimism lately, and something told Draco he might finally cast something corporeal today.

He strode through the vast manor, hardly stopping to snag a light jumper from a Library armchair before he was bounding down the hallway again. He was already lost in thought, flipping through his favourite memories like a photo album in search of one to channel with first.

Draco wouldn’t have missed the fire call if he had been a few minutes slower.

The Library’s glowing fire leaped into tall flames shortly after Draco’s heel disappeared around the door frame. A moment later, Blaise’s smiling face appeared. His rich, defined features seemed strained, but the man kept his face trained in a carefully cheerful expression.

“Draco? You there, mate?”

Blaise’s well-projected words carried efficiently through the stacks of the Library. He paused, overworking his ears to hear any whisper of a reply. When none came, another voice bellowed even louder from somewhere over his shoulder.

“Oi, Malfoy! You in?”

Blaise hissed, ducking his head and clutching his hands to his ears for a moment.

“Theo, you absolute twit! Right in my ears like you mean for me to go deaf.”

“Sorry,” replied the other voice. “Just double-checking.”

Blaise’s face disappeared from the fire, its flames dying back to glowing embers once more.

Chapter 17: Devote

Summary:

Okay, alright, FINE! I'll admit I had entirely too much fun thinking up reference book titles for this chapter. We unlock another smutty tag this week, too! Next week's chapter entitled "Owe" is going to be a real doozy. Things are officially about to get w-i-l-d wild. I hope you're ready for the lurking plot to finally pounce!

Calling the Room of Requirement “lived in” is an tremendous understatement. Most of the cushions have been transfigured into sleeping mats that slump along one wall, many nested with blankets. The workbenches are littered with mismatched personal items, and an unmistakably human aroma permeates the air. A small stash of snacks is stacked in one corner, better organized than anything else visible. The wide buffer around the food suggests his fellow students are rationing them.

Hogwarts always seemed untouchable, but now one of his favourite spaces hosts undeniable evidence of his peers’ recent struggle. Death Eaters had been haunting the castle halls for months. The Room of Requirement has graciously offered respite to those who stand in opposition.

It’s a stark reminder of how much the past year has changed. His anger simmers below the surface. Hogwarts was sacred, like a living memory. It was never meant to be a battleground, and its students never meant to be soldiers.

The tension is palpable tonight, the air thick with an undeniable anticipation that leaves a metallic taste on his tongue. Order members pour through the large door ahead, some already breaking into jogs as the adrenaline overcomes their training. He is normally at the vanguard, but a strange look from Hermione chokes his anger and has him hang back out of concern.

Hermione looks at him with gigantic eyes. Everyone else rushes by, singularly focused on the climax they’ve all held their breaths for. Her mouth is tight, a bit of lip caught between her teeth. It’s the look Hermione gets when she needs to get something off her chest.

As they step through the door together, he raises his eyebrows at her in silent question. Life has forced him to be many things, but he will always care for her first. The rest of the Order members are peeling off down the corridor and fanning across the castle. They aim to inflict as much damage on Voldemort’s followers as possible.

He is shocked when she reaches for his hand. As the first blasts rock the castle, their fingers lace tightly together. A shiver runs up his arm at Hermione’s closeness.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

His words are attentive and feel out of place in the now-empty corridor. Another boom sounds, this one louder and further away. His heart pounds desperately in his chest, and he wonders how this day will define him.

“It’s all too much,” Hermione starts, her eyes darting around wildly. He can relate. Hogwarts is perhaps his favourite place in the entire world, but it’s the last place he wishes to be for this. "We've got to go out there. It’s all going to happen, and I can’t—”

Hermione’s voice crumbles. A bubble of hope inflates in his chest. Her show of emotion at such a time catches him off guard, yet here she is: Hermione Granger, the usually infallible witch, clinging to him for strength. The past month had been a vicious whirlwind. Perhaps it has eroded her in his favour.

“I know, Hermione. I know.” His fingers squeeze reassuringly around hers. “No matter what we’ve all done to prepare, it all comes down to tonight. It’s terrifying.”

“Promise me you won’t do anything foolish.” Her eyes are pleading and desperate. What does she imagine he might do, he wonders? When he doesn’t immediately respond, she repeats herself, growing more urgent. “You have to promise. You have to promise me, okay?”

Before he knows what he’s doing, he nods.

“I think I can manage that,” he says with too much cheek. Hermione is having none of it and grabs his other hand, forcing him to face her fully.

“I’m serious! I need all of us in one piece at the end of this. All of us.” She says it like he has some divine control over today’s casualties.

“Hermione, I don’t know what—”

“Shut up and be good, you git.”

He doesn’t need to come up with a reply because Hermione is suddenly upon him. Her lips are soft rewards, though he hasn’t done anything to deserve them. Relishing the sensation, he lets her devour his mouth until he can rein himself in no more. He works his tongue until she parts her lips, groaning as their mouths fit together like a matched set.

Muffled shouts sound from nearby, followed by the zaps of offensive spells. Their hands remain interlinked. Combat is waiting for them around the corner. He can feel this moment running out like sand in an hourglass, and does his best to resist the passing of time. This is the future he looks forward to. He has to force himself to let go of her.

The castle is racked by more large booms, and part of him imagines them as fireworks.

 

 

Draco sat with Hermione’s toes tucked under his thigh. They were in the Library reading, cups of tea steaming on the coffee table. The fire crackled merrily as the first rains of September dampened the world outside. Long drops glittered fondly as they raced down the massive window panes.

Hermione was already deep in the pages of a large text titled “Recycling the Repulsive: Repurposing the Recalcitrant for Respectable Reasons.” She’d been reading long enough that her face had slackened into an adorable look of concentration. Her lips were parted pleasurably, the edges of her teeth visible as she occasionally mouthed the words. Hermione’s eyes tracked ravenously along the pages like a foxhound. There was something beyond endearing about her thirst for knowledge.

He held “The Intimate Male” open in his lap with one finger, the Afterward staring up at him. Draco was relieved to be finishing the tatty paperback. While he’d found much entertainment and some valuable advice among its too-many pages, Draco was beginning to form the opinion that sex was best learned through doing. Did a paperback book really know what his witch wanted? He thought naught.

Draco flicked his eyes over the last sentence and let the book fall closed of its own volition. Go forth and conquer, indeed. He rolled his eyes at the painfully cliche final words and flopped the book down. Hermione looked up, her attention caught by the noise.

“Finished, are we?”

“Not all of us read like we’re on the verge of curing Dragon Pox,” he said while rubbing her knee.

“That’s not what I meant,” she replied with a huff, shaking her curls before sending a nod at the paperback. “What did you think?”

“I think it’s time for something with a bit more substance.”

Draco chuckled to himself, remembering the chapter entitled “Your Cock is Your Best Mate.” It was not an untrue sentiment, but that didn’t make the chapter’s content any less strange and unwarranted.

Before he could go hunt for another book, Hermione had untucked her feet and swung to stand. She bent to place a kiss on the top of his head.

“I’m headed to my study for a bit. Want a recommendation before I duck out?”

Draco considered the massive tome hoisted under her arm.

“I’m sure I’ll find something good,” he said with a smile. “Go on. I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready.”

Draco watched her go, his eyes clinging shamelessly to her hips and bum. He took a long draw of his tea before beginning to wander the vast stacks of the Library.

He’d forgotten just how vast Malfoy Manor’s collection was. After forty-five minutes, he was still wandering empty-handed. There were too many choices, and they all seemed dry and irrelevant. He hadn’t been lying. Draco wanted to to read something meatier next. It was a bit laughable to be reading an old sex self-help or a novel meant for children when his witch was waltzing through volumes thicker than his spine.

Eventually, he stumbled upon the medical texts section. The titles were wonderful, and Draco let them ensorcel him. Besides the ubiquitous copy of “Breaks, Burns & Boo-Boos” were such delights as “The Cough of 1807,” “Stop Burping Start Living,” “Wobbly Wonders: A Book on Magical Aging,” “So You’re Crying Blood: Dark Magic & Its Downsides,” and perhaps his favourite: “Believable Maladies.”

When Draco’s eyes finally fell upon a copy of “Gray Matters: The Murky Business of Memory Traumas and Traditional Treatments," he felt as if he’d hit the jackpot. Finally, something immediately relevant peaked his interest. Draco was certain Hermione was doing all there was for his damaged memory, but it seemed sagacious to read up some for himself. He tucked the fat book under his arm and sauntered back to the sofa.

Propping his feet up on the coffee table, Draco sipped his tea and opened the book. Its rich leather cover made a satisfying cracking noise. He leafed through slowly, noting the publishing date and first edition markings from whomever bound the handsome reference. At merely a dozen years old, the book wasn’t new but was likely still pertinent.

The author’s note at the very front was lengthy, but he diligently read through every word. Apparently, the book’s co-authors had both been brought to the field by personal traumas. By page four, Draco was already beginning to regret his choice of reading.

When at last he reached the table of contents, he had been burdened with the stories of Healer Allison Stampswell’s daughter, Poppy, and Healer Ambrose Blanchley’s husband, François. The former had suffered persistent, violent seizures brought on by complications of a childhood illness. The latter had been kicked in the head by a hippogriff and had a memory that flickered in and out. The forward made one thing quite clear: memory traumas were awful, complex afflictions that could befall anyone at any time. Draco understood this perhaps better than most.

His eyes flicked over the table of contents again, determined to get through that littlest bit before returning the book to its shelf. Skimming across the chapter subjects, he noted things Hermione kept track of, such as nutrition, sleep quality, and exercise. Part Two outlined familiar socialization, incremental exposure to past life triggers, and a few rather large chapters on the pros and cons of Pensieve use with the memory-afflicted.

Draco finally allowed himself to shut the book, its dense cover making a satisfying thump. He was already walking back to its shelf when he realized there had been no mention of memory restoratives.

He tucked the large book where he found it, admiring the advancements in magical healing. Even more impressive to him was Hermione’s awareness of said discoveries. Knowing her, she had a newer edition buried in that beaded bag of hers, dogeared and page-worn from the tribulation of losing her parents’ memories.

A brightly coloured adventure novel caught Draco’s eye on the next shelf over, and he tossed its dragon-adorned cover onto the coffee table for tomorrow, decidedly done with reading for the day. He pointed himself out the Library doors and headed for the drawing room. With the weather starting to turn, he was beginning to utilized the ample space for his magic.

Draco turned to face the ornate grandfather clock on his way out, taking in its intricate woodwork before reading the time. With an hour or so left until it was time to start dinner, he had a nice window to practice spellwork.

His muted reflection in the clock’s wavy glass caught Draco’s eye, and he couldn’t help but stare. Every slight movement caused his pale visage to stretch and pinch in the warped glass. Draco reached up to smooth his blonde hair before turning on a heel. On the way to the drawing room, he could hear Hermione’s contented humming drifting through the study door. He’d noticed her smiling more, and it put his heart at ease.

 

Hermione was still in an excellent mood a few days later. They sat against one another, a book open in each of their laps. Draco stroked the side of her thigh affectionately. The worn cotton of her dress skirts caught occasionally on his wand calluses.

She began talking through a cursed puzzle box that had kept Theo and her stumped all week.

Draco let his ears fuzz, nodding now and again at the brief pauses in her excited words. He was never any help with her work. The complexities that came with dismantling dark objects was not his forte. Draco’s mind wandered, considering what present to get for her birthday, which was now just a few weeks away.

Draco had grown quite comfortable at the manor. His name still occasionally appeared in the papers Hermione brought home, frustrating reminders of how misunderstood he still was to the rest of Magical Britain. He would figure out a gift he could supply from the comfort of his home. Their home.

When Hermione took a full breath at last, Draco said the only thing he could think of.

“You’ll figure it out, love,” he said with a crooked smile, dragging his hand higher to run circles on the swell of her hip. He knew it was a true feat to distract Hermione from her latest fixation, but Draco felt up to the challenge.

Hermione practically purred as she burrowed further against him. She smirked up at him. “I will, will I?” Her face glowed with a particular mischievous affection.

“You’ve never met a challenge you couldn’t beat,” Draco said, letting his pride for her morph to something demanding. Hermione’s honey-brown eyes caught on his silver ones.

“You’re not wrong there.” A small smile had spread across her face.

“Of course I’m not,” Draco let a winning grin grace his face, tilting his head such that a lock of blonde fringe fell across his forehead. He knew the effect it had, and nothing boosted his ego quite like flustering Hermione. “I bet I know something better you could occupy yourself with.”

“Oh?”

“Mmhm,” Draco said with a slow nod. “And I bet you can guess what it is.”

Hermione looked down in mock contemplation, drawing her lower lip between her teeth and affecting a furrowed brow. When she looked back up at him, her pupils were slightly dilated.

“You,” she tried simply, an intense blush rising up her delicate neck.

Draco playfully tutted. “If you want full marks on the assignment, you’ll have to try harder than that, Miss Granger.”

Hermione’s eyes twinkled, darting across Draco’s fine features. She loosed a huffy breath and snapped her reading closed.

“Fine,” she retorted. Rolling her eyes, she held out a hand and nodded once down at Draco’s book. Looking back in confusion, he tucked a bookmark into place and handed over the bright green novel.

Hermione set their books down and swung a leg across to straddle him. The motion swiftly summoned the attention of his cock, its warmth growing beneath her. She leaned forward, pressing her tits soundly against Draco’s chest, and whispered in his ear.

“For starters, you’re lucky I find confidence so appealing.”

A few adventurous curls tickled his nose and cheek, the familiar sensation tantalizing. Draco’s inflating erection began to tug at the fabric of his boxers, and the faintest groan escaped him. Hermione walked her hands down his chest.

“I can tell you more if you’d like, but I’d rather show you.”

Fantasies of Hermione kneeling before him—proving just how much she could take in her mouth—flashed pleasurably through Draco’s mind. Surely she meant something else? Hermione had not once used her mouth on his cock. As she reached for his belt buckle, Draco’s excitement grew.

“A while ago, you mentioned trying something,” Hermione continued. Her nimble hands worked the dark leather from its buckle. Draco tried to rein in his elation.

“Which something might that be?”

Hermione opened the fly of his trousers, and Draco closed his eyes as her fingers found his shaft. It stood proudly and twitched at the attention.

“Well, you’ve been practicing the Lubrication charm…” Hermione trailed off as she spun herself around on Draco’s lap. She inched herself back until his cock sandwiched between her bum and his lean abs.

Draco gazed down, appreciating her figure from this angle. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

Her long curls bobbed up and down. He’d fantasized about fucking her up the bum for months, likely years. Draco’s hands automatically found her hips. He pushed the cotton of her dress higher until he finally located her knickers: a spindly little scrap of crimson more string than fabric. Draco’s breath caught as he took her in. The red accentuated her tan skin, complementing its sun-kissed undertones.

“You’ll go slow at first?”

“Promise,” Draco leaned forward and planted a few reassuring kisses on her bare shoulder. He found her nervousness endearing.

Draco stood and carefully lifted Hermione with him. He set her gently on her feet before shucking his clothes onto the floor. Draco didn’t miss the way her eyes tracked down his body, nor the little gasp she made when he pressed against her once more. He swept her into a deep kiss, and his tongue wandered her mouth until she panted and wriggled in his arms.

He stepped into Hermione until she was forced to move back. Draco continued until the backs of her legs brushed against the end of the couch.

“I want you to focus on relaxing and breathing steadily. I can go as slow as you like, but it won’t make a difference if you’re tense.”

Draco planted a soft-lipped kiss to her mouth and slowly spun her away to face the couch. With the flat of his palm between her shoulder blades, he directed her to bend over the cushion. He nudged her feet apart and stood between them.

Draco rubbed large circles all across Hermione, allowing her time to relax into the new position. When the rise and fall of her breathing returned mostly to normal, he flipped her skirt up out of the way.

Her arse looked incredible. Draco was rock hard now, his cock bouncing at the sight. Hermione’s firm cheeks lay before him like a gift: full, round, and waiting. Her smooth expanse only interrupted by skimpy knickers. The satiny material refused to provide any modesty.

Draco vanished her knickers and reached down, putting one hand on each cheek. He loved how she spread apart beneath him. She filled his hands perfectly.

“I’m going to play with you first,” he said in a low rumble.

For good measure, Draco cast a strong Lubrication charm. Hermione gasped, her backside shining with the excess. He began to coax a finger inside her arse. The digit continued to disappear until he’d given her the first two knuckles. Hermione let out a soft groan, and Draco stopped.

“How’s that?”

“Alright, I suppose,” Hermione’s voice was muffled and small.

He worked his finger in small motions, sliding in and out. Draco marveled at how tight she was. Hermione let out a little moan as he sunk the digit further in.

Draco couldn’t wait to stretch her around his cock. He was already dripping with precum by the time he added a second finger. Hermione let out a rough gasp. He paused for a moment, but she tilted herself to claim more of his digits. Hermione wanted this almost as much as he did and it was driving him mad.

Draco was soon drawing in and out of her with fervor. Hermione began to moan in time with his strokes. He was as hard as steel. Draco began to glide his foreskin back and forth over his angry, red head.

“Are your ready for me?” His voice was low and seductive.

“I think so,” came her tentative reply.

Draco withdrew from her slowly, Hermione tightly gripping. He took a breath and placed the head of his cock against her rosy entrance.

“Breathe for me.”

He was rewarded with a large exhale. Draco applied pressure. Her breath began to catch, but Draco stroked his hands across her smooth skin. The resistance instantly lessened. With all of the self-control he could muster, his cock began to coax her open.

Slowly, so very slowly, Draco watched the head of his cock disappear into her arse. Hermione hissed in a shallow breath, and he stilled so she could adjust.

“You’re doing so well for me, Hermione,” he crooned. She exhaled shakily, equal parts pain and pleasure.

Draco felt her tight ring relax around him. He shifted his pelvis and groaned at the little drag of pressure. His hands kneaded at her hips, eager for more. Adjusting his feet, he began to move inside her. Draco started out as slowly as he could manage, his movements small. The head of his cock seemed to try to suck inside her, or perhaps that was his own exuberance.

“Your arse feels absolutely amazing,” he told her.

He spread her cheeks apart and slid a fraction of an inch deeper. She began to mewl beneath him, the sound of pure pleasure. Draco continued his slow plunge into her. He was hypnotized as he watched his engorged cock vanish.

When Draco was fully seated inside her, a low moan ripped from his throat. Beneath him Hermione was breathing deeply, soft little noises falling from her lips. He was desperate to move, to feel her dragging up and down his length.

“Does this feel good?” He asked.

Hermione hummed in the affirmative.

“Are you ready for more?”

“Yes,” her voice sounded confident.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

“I will,” Hermione replied breathily on her next exhale.

Draco beamed down greedily at her bared rear. His entire length was inside, and the sight made him giddy. He took a moment to center himself before he got to work. Draco started off slowly, staying as deep as he could. He bared his teeth as her tightness clamped down on his every stroke. He could feel the blood pulsing through his cock to the rhythm of his skipping heart. Every twitch of desire rippled through him.

Her moans built until she started to mutter incoherently. His pace quickened, more of him sliding in and out. Hermione was growing louder and louder. Draco increased his thrusts until he was fucking her arse in earnest. Her bum bounced in time with his pumps, and he marveled as she took his full length. She sucked in a huge breath and held it. Her head had begun to nod as she surrendered herself entirely.

“Merlin, Hermione. You’re so perfect,” Draco panted out, still pounding into her.

When at last she loosed her breath, Hermione let out a primal scream. The ecstatic sound caused him to piston into her harder. Draco began to grunt loudly with exertion. His thrusts became more and more erratic as he pumped against her. Their skin made a delicious slapping noise thanks to the Lubrication, announcing his tempo loudly to the expansive Library.

Draco dug his hands into her hips, roughly grabbing her soft flesh. Enraptured, he cried out in pleasure and shoved himself inside her. A quickly growing force pushed lower and lower towards his abdomen before racing up his cock. The intense pressure of his climax suddenly burst.

“Fucking… Hell!! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

He chanted loudly as euphoria overtook him. He thrust as deeply as he could, filing Hermione's arse to capacity as he leaned against her. She screamed as Draco’s orgasm crested forcefully, and he let out a long guttural grunt.

He was panting when his thoughts began to return. Blood was slowly leaving his ebbing erection. He gently eased it from her rosy hole, admiring the thick drip of his spend as Hermione lay limp across the cushion. He cast a Scourgify on each of them and gently rearranged her skirts.

He lifted the curls off her glistening neck with careful fingers, twisting them up into Hermione’s signature messy bun. Draco planted kisses across her temple, neck, shoulders, and back, purring into her skin.

“Bloody hell, that was incredible,” he said.

Draco gently leaned them up, helping Hermione stand on wobbly legs. He wrapped his arm loosely around her, the soft fabric of her skirt brushing his bare thighs.

“What would you say to a bath?” He murmured into her ear.

“That sounds divine,” Hermione sighed.

“Perfect,” he said, kissing her temple as punctuation.

Draco slid his hand to her waist. He dipped low and tucked his other arm under the backs of her knees, lifting her easily into his arms. Hermione nestled immediately against him, feeling so soft and warm as she tucked against his chest. The pleasant sensation of her rapid breathing skittered across his bare collarbone.

She remained entranced as he carried her up to their suite. The soft cotton of her dress caressed his naked body as he walked. Her eyes were glassy with absentminded pleasure, the ghost of a smile parting her lips. Draco walked them straight through their expansive closet and into the en suite bathroom, setting her on the smooth stone next to the enormous bath.

Once Draco had turned on the lavender-scented tap, he devoted himself to undressing Hermione. He carefully peeled her dress off as warm steam began to fill the room. He sank into a deep squat and beckoned for her to lean on him as he removed her socks one after another.

Draco rose to stand and took her hand. He walked them to the shallow stairs of the massive bath, and together, they descended into the ocean of relaxing bubbles one step at a time.

 

Although friends occasionally Floo called to check in, Theo was the only visitor he received. Since the Ministry had innumerable owls at her disposal, Hermione saw no reason for them to purchase a new owl for the manor. Draco had a hot-and-cold desire to socialize. Some days, the mere idea of talking to anyone besides Hermione seemed impossible.

As luck would have it, he was in an excellent mood when Blaise’s head poked through the vivid, green flames. Draco sat cross-legged on the palatial rug of the Library.

Blaise was home nursing a lightly sprained ankle from a drill involving sprint sets and dodging Exploding charms. Apparently, Harry made for quite the intense partner. Draco was certain Blaise would appreciate that unyielding ferocity once they were in the field. Regardless, he coveted the opportunity to reacquaint with his old school friend.

Perhaps in another life Draco might have considered law enforcement himself. In his current state, he would tank any test the Ministry threw at him.

“What’s the hardest part so far?” Draco was enthralled, living vicariously through the Blaise’s intense line of work.

“I assumed it would be the drills and whatnot,” he nodded down, presumably at his foot, his short hair styled into gleaming waves. “Turns out it’s the protocols. They’ve got thousands of them. It’s all rules, rules, rules. Use of offensive spells, wand laws, magic restrictions, forcing entry, magical creature liaisons…”

“That’s rough, mate! How do you remember it all?”

“We don’t! Potter and I have the worst time. We’ve decided to meet at the Leaky twice a week until we have them down in our sleep.”

“I still can’t believe you’re becoming an Auror. And your partner is Harry bloody Potter.” Draco beamed at his friend.

“And I still can’t believe we gave the Gryffindors such a time in school.” Blaise callously rolled his eyes. “Four-house system this, blood purity war that… I’m still shocked how well we all get on.”

“I know what you mean, mate,” Draco blushed as he recalled waking to Hermione teasing his morning wood.

“What am I saying. Preaching to the choir!” Blaise’s face broke into a wide smile, his eyes glittering. “The dirty, broom closet-snogging, secret choir.”

“Alcoves and secret rooms, thank you very much.” Draco affected his haughtiest airs and lifted his nose in the air, gazing down at his nail beds.

“You’ve always had a talent for secrets, but I can’t believe how long you kept Hermione under wraps. Seriously, nearly two years, mate? And I had to hear it secondhand from Theo? Even Potter barely knew about you two before you joined the Order.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment—”

“You don't find it a bit odd?”

Draco froze. No, in fact. He did not find it one bit odd. Hermione made perfect sense. It was just a matter of showing everyone how they truly fit together.

“Odd?” Draco let his gaze cool, slicing through his friend’s warm, questioning look. Blaise was entirely undeterred.

“You happen to serendipitously fall in love and slither around in the shadows for months. Not one slip-up, not one drunk confession. You hated your mark, but I remember it only took two days before we’d all seen it. Draco, you were spouting hate speech before apparently skipping off to feel up Hermione Granger of all witches. I’ll say it again: odd.”

“Poor form, Zabini. Poor form.” Draco was glaring into the fire now, unafraid to show his ire. Why did everyone feel the need to question their past? First Theo, now Blaise… Harry and Ginevra probably wanted a turn, too. They could be as cordial and accepting as they liked in front of the group, but apparently, his relationship begged for scrutiny. Franky, Draco was rather over it.

The manor’s front door shut with its signature muffled blunk. Hermione was home.

“Luna said she—” Blaise began, but Draco swiftly cut him off.

“If you’ve got something to say, go ahead and say it.” Draco was seething. Enough was enough. “Otherwise, you can piss right off with your weird little judgments from Seventh year. The war ended, and Hermione and I are still together. If that doesn’t say all you need to know, I've got nothing.”

“Salazar, Drake. I didn’t mean to offend, just curious is all.”

“You coming over Sunday night for Hermione’s dinner?” He asked dismissively.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” Blaise bobbed his head, understanding their conversation was ending. “Don’t get her the latest volume of ‘Famous Curses and Their Not-So-Famous Creators,’ if you please.”

“Can do,” Draco said.

Blaise lifted his chin in silent cheers, and a kind smile returned to his full lips. The Floo call ended, the crackling emerald flames dying back to glowing red coals. Draco sincerely hoped Blaise would drop the matter moving forward.

“Draco, is that you?” Hermione’s angelic voice called to him from the corridor.

“In the Library, love!” He hollered, easing quickly back into domestic bliss.

Chapter 18: Owe

Summary:

Just four more Fridays (AKA chapters) to go! I hope you're enjoying the ride so far <3 It would absolutely tickle me to hear if you've been liking the story. If the mood strikes, please consider leaving a comment below with your thoughts!
- Mephistophelass

Spring, Seventh Year — Shell Cottage

It’s the wee hours of the morning, and Hermione should not be awake. She should be cramming in as much sleep as possible. Tomorrow the three of them attempt their stupidest plan to date: infiltrating Gringotts. There are too many moving parts and harebrained hopes, and she simply cannot quiet her mind enough to slip off to dreamland. After the eighth time counting vials of Polyjuice Potion and running through their plan, she realizes she’s unnecessarily spinning herself up.

In a desperate attempt to tire her eyes, Hermione cracks open a tattered copy of Tolstoy's "Anna Karenina.” The duet of snores from down the hall are proof she's the anxious minority. Hermione tunes the droning sound out and dives headlong into the next chapter.

Two soft knuckle raps cause her flimsy door to rattle in its frame. The sound jars her from her reading. Hermione’s nose is buried so deeply in the story that she nearly snaps her face in its pages.

"It's me. Are you up?” The low voice filters easily through the door’s hollow wood. Giddiness overwhelms the anticipation previously flooding through her.

Hermione’s room is so cramped she only needs to lean to reach the doorknob. It turns readily, the warped wood creaking open a skosh on stiff hinges. The narrow opening reveals a thin slice of Draco's smirking face above her. His impossibly dark Death Eater robes button high up his neck, shrouding every inch of him below his sharp jawline. The effect creates an uncanny impression of a disembodied head hovering in the hall’s black oblivion.

Draco nudges through the narrow door with a broad shoulder, and she can't help but stare up at him. A tiredness weighs on him. His gray eyes are more strained than usual, and a persistent twitch ripples along one side of his jaw. Despite his exhaustion, he is imposing. Draco fills the space with the darkness that rolls off him. An acrid scent pushes to Hermione’s nose, the pungent residue of dark magic.

Seeing her reserved posture and curled lip, Draco seems to remember himself. He undoes the clasps at his throat with one gloved hand, and his heavy robes cascade unceremoniously to the floor. With one black dragon hide boot, he kicks the robes into the hallway before shutting the door. His eyes never leave hers. One day, they'll win the war, and they'll be able to burn those heinous robes.

Draco is still swathed all in black, but his jumper's softness is a stark contrast to the harshness of Death Eater regalia. Hermione reaches out her fingers to trace its plushness.

These first few moments are always awkward for them. Hermione can almost see his cultivated persona ebbing away. She always feels the glaring need to shake him back to himself, to say something, no matter how mundane, to pull him back.

"I think this might be my favourite jumper of yours," she says as her fingers fiddle with its hem.

He doesn't reply, only letting one side of his mouth quirk up.

When she meets his eyes again, she's startled to see not an ounce of his tension has lifted. If anything, his brow has pinched together further, creasing the pale skin of his forehead.

Draco stands stock still for ten seconds before methodically stepping out of his shoes and easing onto the tiny bed. His weight causes the haggard mattress to groan and dip dramatically as he crawls behind Hermione, settling between her and the cold wall. He pulls her back to rest against him, the impossible comfort of his jumper now snuggled against her cheek. Draco reaches up to stroke her back slowly, a rhythm at odds with the incessant pounding of his heart.

"You'll be safe, won't you?” His words catch her off guard, and Hermione's overworked mind takes a moment to process.

"M-me? Of course, I'll be safe." The tinge of incredulity can't be hidden from her voice, and Hermione cringes. Draco knows nothing of her plans for tomorrow. He knows little of what she does these days, their roles within the Order never overlapping.

"Good, good." Draco's voice trails off. He’s preoccupied and distant in her ear, but she doesn't need to see him to know how perturbed he still is.

“Something's wrong.”

Draco is quiet for a beat, and Hermione feels her heart rate climb. His arm tenses to hold her even closer. Hermione tries to find comfort in the rhythmic swells of his chest as he finds his words.

"I'm not sure," he says at last. "There are rumblings. Something is coming. Factions are gathering, more closed-door meetings than ever. I've never seen the manor so full."

"We'll be careful. We're working on something, too, just—"

"I know you're careful, you're always careful, but this is different. This isn't like before, Hermione.” Draco's words are too urgent. The cold knot of worry she’s tried to untangle for months sinks deeper and deeper within her.

"I don't understand. What's changed?” An edge of panic begins creeping into her voice.

She is met with a long sigh, Draco's exhale tickling her neck as it disrupts a few curls. "I don't know. I don’t know anything anymore. Please… just don’t do anything reckless. I couldn't stand to lose you.”

Hermione clutches the hand resting across her stomach, twining her hand in Draco's and clutching him too tightly. "You'll never lose me, Draco." She says it for herself as much as for him.

But he is silent, and she can practically hear the worry gnawing at him. She rolls to face him to quiet protests from the mattress. Digging her fingers into the wonderful softness of his charcoal jumper, Hermione summons everything she has. She lets every lick of inner fire reach her eyes, bolsters herself with a certainty that only years of foolish hope can bring. Hermione’s eyes pierce Draco’s, slicing through his gray irises to plant the feeling within him.

"Draco, listen to me.” She cuts him with her best Prefect stare. "You matter too much to die in this stupid war. We're going to make it through this. We're going to survive. We’re going to see the day when our biggest concern is what’s for dinner or where we’re going on holiday or which of our friends we should try to set up. It’s going to be boring and wonderful and perfect. Just you wait."

Hermione's determination is intoxicating, and she can feel the pessimism recede from Draco. He tips his forehead against hers, and his eyes flutter shut.

"Do you promise?"

"I promise." She feels like a child again, extending herself and her heart far beyond the boundaries of what one person can truly offer. It’s foolish, but there is no other way she can make it though this.

"Good." He lets out a shaky exhale. Draco wraps himself around her, lightly pressing his lips into the curls at her temple and letting the tension leave him at least. His exhaustion is palpable. "I love you, Hermione."

"Y-you what?” She can feel his smirk, but it does nothing to clarify the shock of his words—if she even heard him correctly.

"I said I love you, Hermione," he repeats, tilting his mouth towards her ear and enunciating pointedly. "You're quite important to me. I needed to say it out loud in case—"

"I love you too, Draco,” she blurts out. The words are decidedly true, but she’d also do anything to stop his line of reasoning. “I never knew anyone could mean as much as you do." She burrows further into him, planting a soft kiss into the porcelain column of his neck and reveling in his warmth. "I see the life we'll build together. We're so close, Draco. One day, we'll wake up in our own bed. We'll make breakfast and read the paper before I’m off to work and you head to your study. We'll fall asleep arguing about how to petition the Minister for Magic or how many of your galleons I can give away. We'll worry about mundane things like shopping lists and birthday gifts and how long it’ll take Molly Weasley to knit you a jumper."

Hermione lets her heart feel it, just for a moment. A broad smile blooms across her face as she imagines everything she’s ever wanted. With each fiber of thought, she feels more secure. It’s like spinning up a cocoon just for them, as if nothing can touch them. They lay together like that for a while, marinating in affection.

Draco rubs his nose against the shell of her ear, the motion sincere and possessive. "Have you made any progress?"

"Hmm?" Hermione is so lost in her fantasies that Draco's words momentarily make no sense.

"The Weasel. Have you been able to get through to him?"

Hermione's heart falters before it collapses in her chest. "No," she says quietly, the solitary word falling flat.

Draco shifts to look at her, leaning his head against her shoulder. He doesn't need words to communicate what he's thinking. Hermione reaches up to scrub at her eyes with both hands.

"I know, I know… he's impossible. Harry and I try to get through, have a nice long chat, and think he's really turning a corner, but as soon as the conversation ends, it's like it never even happened. It's inconceivable."

Draco waits, his pewter eyes catching hers as soon as she lets her hands fall away.

"Potter agrees with me." Draco shoots her a pointed look. "Said Weasley's been asking senior Order members what they bring to mind before they cast the Killing Curse. I know you hate this—trust me, I'm not crazy about it myself—but Ronald fucking Weasley will not get in the way of us living out each and every one of your fantasies. Hermione, it’s time to bite the bandaid.”

Hermione buries her face into him again, groaning at the suggestion and Draco's idiomatic ignorance. They have had this conversation countless times and are no closer to a solution. She knows something needs to be done about Ronald, but the plan seems too transparent. When Harry brought up the same idea three nights ago, she just about choked on her tea.

"All I'm saying is," Draco's eyes slide shut as if the act of keeping them open had grown too taxing, "just kiss the bloody idiot. One good snog and a little white lie, let him think whatever he wants. We'll sort out the rest together when the dust settles."

Hermione is appalled. A rotten kernel within her knows he’s is right. Ronald's behavior has never been exactly predictable, but the past few weeks have exacerbated things. Ronald had grown volatile and increasingly cruel, honing his ire on Draco and Draco alone. Nobody could get through to him anymore, not even Harry.

It’s disturbing to see Ronald in such a way. Something about Hermione’s torture had given him the impression that she was his responsibility. He had taken to roving about the house, ranting about it somehow being Malfoy’s fault her arm had been ripped to shreds, Malfoy’s fault they'd all nearly died, and Malfoy’s fault none of them would ever recover.

Meanwhile, Ronald is doing nothing to ease her very real pains. He doesn’t so much as apologize for breaking the taboo that got them caught in the first place. He doesn’t ask about her arm or how she is anymore. That’s irrelevant, isn’t it? Despite everything Hermione stands for, to him she’s reduced to a chip to fight over, a prize to be won. It is infuriating and belittling.

Huffing a lock of hair from her face in frustration, Hermione lets her gaze drift to Draco. His breathing shifts as sleep stalks close. His pale face relaxes, releasing every pinch of tension and leaving him youthful and stunning. She knows he will wake, don his robes, and have to leave in a few hours. The thought crushes her. Just once, she yearns to wake up with his arms still wrapped safely around her.

Decision weighing heavy in her chest, Hermione memorizes every curve and line of Draco’s face before burying her head against his shoulder. She drifts off to a sleep filled with sunny dreams of a future she would do anything to protect.

 

 

Draco awoke drained from fitful dreams and still fuming from the night before.

After a peaceful dinner in the garden, Hermione had shown him the memory of their first shared "I love you." Instead of appreciating the tenderness of that moment, Draco had fixated on something else entirely. He’d felt himself growing irate. His brain had caught like a stubborn thread on one detail, chanting betrayal over and over again.

It had been his idea to kiss that stupid Weasel? Hermione always said he was the one who needed convincing. He wasn't sure why it mattered so much. The war was over, Hermione was his, and the redhead hadn't lived to see any of it. Draco's plan had worked, no matter how weak it had been. He had survived the redhead's jealousy, the war, and the Dark Lord; Draco had made it through all of it.

That had to count. Yet, something wicked and twisted continued to gnaw at Draco. Hermione had lied, and he couldn’t believe it. For the life of him, Draco couldn't understand why she'd claimed the idea as her own.

He had lost his temper, ripping himself out of the Pensieve as soon as the memory concluded. She hadn't gone in with him, instead opting to keep her consciousness in the study to write in her journal. At the time he hadn't minded, but upon exiting the memory, he felt like he'd been plunged into some alternate reality.

Draco confronted her immediately. He demanded to know why Hermione had lied about the kiss and what else she might be lying to him about. He’d yelled. He couldn't help it. As his anger rose, so did his voice’s volume.

Draco's accusations transformed Hermione into the embodiment of fury itself. As soon as his words clicked together, she'd slammed her journal shut and gone toe to toe with him. For every question he had, she had an answer just as fast. True to her Gryffindor nature, Hermione was ferocious.

It was the first time they'd fought, and they were good at it. Doubts, insults, and insinuations were hurled back and forth for over an hour before Draco finally stormed off to bed. His sleep had been anything but restful, riddled with faraway dreams that kept him tossing and turning all night.

He scrubbed a hand down his face and dragged himself from under the silken sheets. Today was Hermione's nineteenth birthday. Draco was upset but didn't want to fight—especially not today. He threw on clothes and went off in search of his birthday witch.

The sound of a drawer slamming and cutlery jostling could be heard from the grand staircase. Draco followed the sporadic racket down the shallow stone steps to the kitchens. Hermione stood monitoring a pan on the range, hands anchored on hips and back to the door. She was already dressed for work despite the early hour. A loaf of bread whizzed by Draco's ear and put itself away, the cupboard door closing with a terse snap. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Draco heard the edges of something Hermione hissed to herself.

"… he's this bloody close…"

“Uhh… Happy birthday."

Hermione whirled around to face him. "Oh, you're awake," she replied, the words clipped, before turning back to her cooking.

"What are you making?" Draco asked as he eyed bowls of fruit on the counter. He was torn between ripping off the scab of their argument from the night before and trying to glaze over it as if nothing had happened.

"Breakfast." Clearly, Hermione had made up her mind. Her answer was laced with venom, timed precisely with a dramatic sizzle as she flipped something with her spatula.

"Oh? Hiding more from me, are you? Excellent." Draco devoured the bait.

"For the last time, I wasn't hiding anything from you! You didn't understand what I meant. This is all just a stupid misunderstanding!"

”How is this a misunderstanding? Enlighten me, please! You said one thing; your memory says the opposite. How am I supposed to trust a word you say?” He realized he was yelling again. To his surprise, Hermione retorted at the same excessive volume.

“You’re supposed to believe me!” Hermione summoned two plates and began portioning food angrily onto them. “After everyone I’ve lost, do you honestly think I’d risk you over something so trivial?”

Draco's mind churned. Who had she lost? Then it slammed into him: her parents. Hermione never had a chance to help them recover what she took. They would never remember their incredible daughter. The thought felt like a boulder dropping into a puddle. Angry as he may be, he hadn't meant to touch that nerve.

Before Draco could form an apology, Hermione flicked her wand, and a full plate hurled across the kitchens and smacked onto the table. He stared down at the cattywampus eggs in the basket and cut fruit that had nearly been capsized. A set of cutlery and a napkin shot after it. Draco resigned himself to sit and waited for her to join.

Instead, Hermione grabbed her plate and sent the dirty pans soaring into the sink with another sharp wand flick. She marched past Draco, her plum-coloured robes swirling behind her like roiling clouds.

"I'm heading in early today," she called without turning. "Hopefully, you won't ruin the rest of my birthday with this nonsense."

Her second sentence wasn't a question. It was a demand. Draco heard her determined steps echo down the hall and out the grand front door. When the loud blunk met his ears, he let out a frustrated growl.

If it were any other day, he would have stewed in his feelings and flown broomsticks until dinner. But today was Hermione's birthday. Draco had work to do. He clenched the countertop as hard as he could and took three of the deepest breaths of his life as he swallowed down the bulk of his frustration and anger. Feeling slightly more centered, he rolled up his sleeves, located the recipe card he'd set aside, and gathered ingredients.

At his request, Hermione had procured two tubs of cream cheese and a container of buttermilk. His brilliant witch likely guessed his plan given the smirk she'd made, but that was no matter. He still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

Soon, the kitchen island was laden with ingredients and measuring cups. The room pleasantly warm from the oven's heat, Draco bopped about to a tune in his head. Measuring components into bowls felt meditative. As he worked towards his goal, Draco found his temper cooling. He poured the unappetizing-looking batter into three pans, placed them in the enormous oven, and dusted himself off. He then busied himself with cleaning up, not forgetting to wash the dishes from breakfast.

Once the pans came out of the oven, he surveyed his work: three immaculate layers of red velvet. The un-frosted dessert sat to cool, and Draco changed gears. He located Hermione’s pruning sheers and strode outside. The manor grounds were staggering, and Draco delighted in walking through their verdant depths. The smell of fertile soil tickled his nose with nostalgia, and the bounty of plant growth was something to behold.

He had fuzzy memories of his mother doting on various plants like close friends. Draco felt a tinge of longing for his lost family as he wandered in search of blooms down the tidy rows alone. Draco’s and Hermione’s parents were casualties of the war, though all four remained alive. Draco expected their family would always remain abbreviated. So long as he had her, that was all that mattered. She was his only family, as far as he was concerned.

Draco would have to apologize to her. Their fruitless squabble wouldn't get between them. He wouldn't let it.

He spent over an hour wandering through the lush rows. He’d hoped to incorporate some of her beloved marigolds into the mix, but the feathery plants had just set out their first buds. At this rate they’d be lucky to see any blossoms at all before the frost came. The seemingly endless flowering shrubs and bushes had been nearly overwhelming, but in the end, he thought the bouquet he created looked stunning.

Giant, full flowers splashed with fiery reds and oranges took the spotlight. White pompom-like flowers were arranged all around their larger counterparts. He filled out the rest with deep green foliage. Draco took the lot back to the kitchens to arrange them into a squat vase for Hermione.

He set the bouquet on the dining table and was about to head back to the kitchens to frost the cake when a Patronus came ricocheting into the formal room. The silvery otter skidded to a stop at Draco's feet and spoke. The uncharacteristic sound of Hermione's slow, hoarse speech immediately caught his full attention.

"Draco! I need your help!"

Hermione's voice cracked around her words. Something was very wrong. Draco’s eyes widened with panic.

"I've been jinxed—can barely stand. I have to get inside the manor wards. Meet me on top of the hill. Please, hurry!”

Draco didn't think. He moved quick as lightning through the manor to entrance hall, slamming into the gigantic front door. He only got a few strides up the bone-white gravel before a violent pop exploded at the crest of the hill. Draco looked up in time to see Hermione's feet slam into the ground. Her hair completely obstructed her face, and her plum robes swirled violently. She didn't stop, twisting to crumble into a heap on the ground as Draco looked on in horror.

”Hermione!” He bellowed, his shoes kicking up gravel.

Wandlessly, Draco threw open the manor gates and practically flew up the hill. He gasped when he reached Hermione. She was unconscious, her face pinched with anguish. Thick, purple spikes jutted out in gruesome clusters all across her arms, neck, and cheeks. The long spines stood proudly from her delicate flesh, undulating gently as if feeling at the breeze.

He was at a total loss. Fear eclipsed his judgment. The words from her Patronus rang through his mind, and he clung to them desperately for an answer. Hermione had explicitly said she'd been jinxed. Draco's eyes flew over her, taking in her chaotic state for clues. There were countless jinxes in existence. When combined, they could compound issues further. Before Draco could rack his brain for counter jinxes, he recalled how adamant Hermione had been about getting within the wards. He needed to get her inside.

Draco gathered her carefully in his arms and headed quickly to the manor. She began to lift her head and groan at the jostling before pain overtook her. Hermione slumped back against him, unconscious. The jinx prickled against his arms where he held her. Her legs flopped unhelpfully, kicking his hip with every stride.

He tried to move as fast as he could without bumping her injured skin—an impossible task. Hermione regained consciousness as Draco hurried them through the gates. The gentle tingle of magic indicated they had entered the protection of the wards. Her eyes were glassy, and she was clearly delirious with pain. Rushed mutterings began to fall from her lips. She seemed frantic to get out as much as she could before unconsciousness came again.

"S-sea urchin," she said faintly into his shirtfront. He wasn't sure he'd heard her right. "Sea Urchin Jinx."

Understanding clicked into place. Draco remembered having seen a nasty instance of the Sea Urchin Jinx but couldn't recall anything helpful about the event. The jinx itself had been simple, but the pain caused often entirely incapacitated the afflicted. It was easy to see why. The indigo spines protruded in throbbing bursts, turning the surrounding skin an angry crimson.

“Hang on, love. I’ve got you. We're almost to the manor. I'll figure this out." Hermione let her eyes shutter closed, her breathing coming in labored rasps. Draco felt like his heart was collapsing. It was physically painful to see her like this. He had to figure out how to fix this. She just had to be alright. As his mind whirled, Hermione began mumbling again.

"Jelly L-legs," she said, her eyes clamped shut.

Draco looked down, finally noticing the sickening motion of her legs as they bounced in all directions. Of course. Hermione's legs were nearly boneless, pounding into his side with every stride. The Jelly-Legs Jinx had been favoured by a few of his classmates at Hogwarts. It should be easy enough to locate the counter-jinx in the Library.

Hermione continued to mutter. Draco focused intensely on her words.

"Harry …and Blaise," she said. Draco was confused but thought it made sense. They all worked in the Ministry, albeit in different departments. The fresh Auror duo probably knew what she needed, or had access to people who did. Why hadn’t she gone to them? Draco was certainly no healer. Had they done this to her?

Hermione's following words would have stopped him dead if getting inside hadn't been his singular goal. “They jinxed me." Her words were tempered with pain, but her rage was palpable.

"They did what?” Draco's jaw fell open, but he didn't care.

"…Never forgive me," Hermione replied as if she hadn't heard. "Never…"

Draco's eyebrows furrowed. His heart stuttered at the next word Hermione uttered.

"Ron." As soon as the name slipped free, Hermione collapsed back against him.

Hermione must be delirious. Perhaps the memory of such anguish brought her back to the all-too-recent war. She had been through hell with Harry and Ron. For once, instead of jealousy at the redhead, Draco felt a glimmer of appreciation.

His pace was unrelenting, and soon Draco stepped through the wide front door. Two loud pops sounded far behind him, but he didn't slow. He could hear far-off shouts and glanced over one shoulder, seeing the furious figures of Blaise and Harry tearing down the hill after them. Draco had already begun a mental list of the pointed words and spells he would hurl at the two. He couldn’t comprehend what would compel two of their friends to jinx the unconscious witch trembling in his arms.

She let out a whimper. Hermione needed him. He'd help her first and figure out the rest from there. If anyone wanted to hurt them, the manor would be all the defense they required. Nobody got through the gates unless their intentions towards its owners were peaceful. He elbowed the door closed, its spelled hinges gliding effortlessly with minimal pressure.

Draco hustled to the Library. With all the care in the world, he lay Hermione on the rug by the hearth. After a quick once-over, he closed the Floo and hurried into the stacks in search for critical information.

What he sought was in the medical reference section. He pulled the heavy tome on counter-curses and -jinxes from the shelf and returned to Hermione’s side. She was still unconscious, and the spikes had continued to encroach further across her face. Fine spines were beginning to push through the smooth skin of her nose.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Draco flipped quickly to the table of contents before locating two pages. He devoured the information on both, each detailing a healing approach and its side effects.

Within a minute, Draco was kneeling over Hermione clutching his wand desperately. He had the incantations on the tip of his tongue when Hermione's eyes flickered open, her hazy vision settling on him.

"Please hurry, Draco.” Her voice was weak, hardly a whimper. Urchin spines began to erupt in sloppy rows around her mouth and eyes, and she lost consciousness.

His hand now trembling, Draco loosed a terrified breath and began to cast. The relief he felt when the spines began to dissolve away nearly bowled him over. With every pass of his wand, a row of the malicious spikes dissolved from her skin.

When the largest patch across her chest had been cleared, Hermione released an enormous breath. Her body relaxed against the rug, the crease between her brow easing as the pain presumably lessened. He continued to work as quickly and thoroughly as he could, eager to have her conscious and talking again.

Hermione would be so proud if she could see him. However, even as Draco wiped the sweat from his brow and examined her arms and face carefully, Hermione did not awaken. Her expression was calm, her breathing had settled, and her chest rose and fell peacefully, but she remained dead to the world. He attempted to Rennervate her, but the spell had no effect.

Draco wrung his hands and tried to figure out what to do. The medical text said the shock could last up to an hour after the counter jinxes were cast. He would simply have to wait, but the thought drove him mad. There had to be something he could do. Hermione would know the answer. If only he could ask.

Unable to think of anything to ease her through the physical shock, Draco opted for the only thing he could think of. He cautiously scooped Hermione into his arms again, settling them both on the crimson sofa where they read together practically every night since mid-May.

He arranged Hermione, so she rested against his chest. Draco held one of her hands and stroked her smooth cheek with the other. Before he knew it, Draco was murmuring all his favourite memories and thoughts into her ear. The act softened the ache in his heart, and he hoped his voice might pull her back.

"Remember how furious I was when you first ran into me outside the Room of Requirement?" His mouth crinkled into a smile. "I thought you were spying on me—what a self-absorbed prat."

Draco's smile faded as his words from that morning filtered back.

"Probably still am a bit of a prat. Sometimes I'm not sure why you put up with me, Hermione.” He meant it to be endearing, but his quiet words were more self-deprecating than anything. His smile faltered, and he dug for something else to occupy him.

“And I never expected to see that photo of us again. I still can't believe you managed to keep it safe, but of course you did." He leaned into her hair, enjoying the familiar scent. "Hogsmeade is forever ours. I want to take you there at least six times a year. We can go tomorrow if you're up to it."

Hermione stirred slightly in his arms.

"And I still can't believe it took me so long to tell you I loved you." Draco planted a gentle kiss on her temple before he continued. "I think I worried you'd be ripped away from me. I was so worried that I didn't fully let go and love you. I tried to keep the idea of you and us at arm's length for as long as possible. I should have known. It was always you, Hermione. I was such an idiot."

Her eyes fluttered open before falling shut again. Draco squeezed her hand in his, noting how cold and clammy she was. He clutched her tighter, willing Hermione to wake up.

Indistinct yells sounded in the direction of the manor gates. Harry must have magically amplified his voice. Draco couldn't make out all his words but identified the cloying tone without issue.

Harry was attempting to coax Hermione outside. Draco would have none of it. Those two had jinxed her. They could damn well wait outside if that was how they treated her. Draco would deal with them later. He cast a Muffliato around the Library to silence their inane racket and was about to continue where he left off when Hermione spoke.

"My journal?" Her words were concerned and thick, as if she might dip back under at any moment.

"You want your journal, love?"

Draco knew how attached Hermione was to the little brown book. It had been her constant companion since being tortured in this very house, a present from their old Professor Lupin. It continued to offer her solace, and Draco often caught her jotting things down. He’d often wondered what she wrote about, but never presumed to ask.

“Hermione?" Draco asked tentatively, but she was already unconscious again.

He reached into the pocket of her robes and located the beaded bag. Hermione had shrunk it down such that it fit neatly in the palm of his hand. Draco returned it to its original size with a flick of his wand and rummaged inside to locate her well-loved journal.

Hermione was breathing steadily on his chest. Draco rested his right hand by her ear, gently stroking up and down her cheek with a thumb. He stared at the brown book, thinking for a moment. Then, feeling like a child sneaking cookies, he cracked it to the first page and began to read.

Notes:

👀

Chapter 19: Observe

Summary:

Let's take a look at Hermione's journal, shall we?

Draco opened the journal’s soft leather cover and was greeted by Hermione’s tidy handwriting. He immediately recognized the significance of the first date; it was the night that dominated Hermione’s nightmares, the night his aunt tortured her in this very house; the night they nearly lost everything.

1st of April, 1998
I just want to be left alone. Lupin had the right idea giving me this journal instead of some heroic speech. My arm hurts so badly, and the healers are trying to figure out what can be done. For now, the wound continuously weeps. If they can’t figure something out I’ll be taking blood replenishing potion twice a day for the rest of my life. I wish Draco were here.

2nd of April, 1998
Harry needs to stop apologizing. It helps nothing. Ronald has devolved into a raging ape. He says vile, vicious things at an inescapable volume… has it in his thick head that “Malfoy could have stopped all of this,” that “Malfoy could have protected me and saved us all.” I don’t know how he managed it, but Draco was utterly perfect. We hadn’t seen each other since fall, but he didn’t skip a beat. No wonder every Order member with two brain cells values him. We would have lost the whole war without Draco’s Occlusion and Dobby’s heroism, if anyone cared to open their eyes.

4th of April, 1998
Draco found me last night. He stayed as long as he could, but it’s never enough. He’s furious we were caught, even threw Ronald and Harry against a wall. I didn’t mind much, but Draco being that angry helps nothing. Apparently he warded our door shut last night, and Ron absolutely lost it. Everyone is walking on eggshells around that stupid git. Harry all but had to stun him to haul him outside. He’s becoming a liability to us all.

14th of April, 1998
They finally found something my arm responds to! An adjusted potion for werewolf bites. Lucky me Bellatrix’s knife was lodged in Dobby’s body; they needed shavings from the blade itself for my particular wound.

20th of April, 1998
Harry had the nerve to ask me to go easy on Ron for the sake of the Order. He said Ronald’s been rash, but my relationship with Draco is just too much for him, that it’s tearing him apart. I could give a shit. When was the last time anyone asked about me? And what about Draco?

24th of April, 1998
I caved and told Draco about Ronald today. I didn’t know what else to do. Ron is still a problem, and the Order needs him. Draco understood immediately, but then I guess Draco’s always brought out this nasty side of Ron. The ponce even joked I should snog Ronald to help keep him in line. I will do no such thing.

30th of April, 1998
I’m glad Draco got to spend the night last night. Harry, Ronald, and I plan to use Polyjuice Potion to infiltrate Gringotts Bank later today. I don’t care anymore, I’d do whatever it takes to end this stupid war. Hopefully we all can make it out of this in one piece. Maybe kissing Ronald isn’t such a stupid idea after all. Maybe Draco’s on to something there.

2nd of May, 1998
Draco is gone! He was Avada’d right in front of me by that overbearing prick I used to call a best friend. I did what Draco said, but kissing Ronald before the battle made things even worse! And now I’ve lost my Draco. Practically the only thing I have left is his wand. I’m in much too deep now. I hope I can follow through or there will be consequences. I took Draco’s hair and forced Ronald to swap clothes. Then I Obliviated him within an inch of his life. I admit it was cathartic to watch him lose himself to me. I took everything before I gave him the last of yesterday’s Polyjuice with some of Draco’s hair. I stunned him before I said goodbye to the real Draco, planting Ronald’s Deluminator before incinerating the body. The Deluminator is flame-proof and should identify the pile of ash as Ronald. I told Shacklebolt where and got us out. I still can’t believe I had to leave Draco like that. It broke my heart, but I didn’t see any other way.

3rd of May, 1998
I need to get a hold of myself… it doesn’t seem to be working. Every time I Rennervate him he remembers something he shouldn’t. He keeps asking about Harry, muttering after Pigwidgeon, or the worst: berating me about Draco. He doesn’t seem to remember the final battle, but these residual memories could be a huge problem. All I need is a blank slate, I can work out the rest. Kingsley will send someone any day now to check in. I’m worried I won’t be able to make this work in time. Further observation is required. I managed to buy enough twelve-hour Polyjuice for a week and started to horde ingredients I can’t grow myself once we have a place of our own. I think I’ll explain it away as a memory restorative.

4th of May, 1998
I think I’ve done it! Draco has been born anew. His mind is clean enough my story should hold. An Order member comes in two days, hopefully that’s enough time to work out any kinks. It’s hard to be around Draco like this. He recognizes me, but nothing else. It’s disconcerting, mourning someone right in front of you. Part of me knows it’s not really Draco, but I want this to work so badly. I just need more time. It’s only been a few hours.

5th of May, 1998
Yesterday went better than expected. Draco is still very disoriented, and needs time for everything I tell him to soak in. I guess that’s to be expected, but I’m so anxious about this whole process. All I can do is my best, but I don’t know what to do if he reverts again. It would probably destroy me. The longer this goes, the riskier any contingency plan becomes.

6th of May, 1998
I didn’t realize Fred’s gone, too. Arthur visited today. I was so nervous he would say something that might wake up the dregs of Ronald’s mind. Nothing of the sort happened, in fact it went even better than planned. I had completely forgotten about the family clock. Cheers to the ambiguity of “Lost.” The Weasleys are of course devastated. Oh! And I’ve been offered a job at the Ministry in the Magical Artefacts Department! Dark Artefact Discovery Team under Bernard Flisk. I plan to start after I find us a place to live. Fingers crossed I secure the manor before Friday’s auction.

7th of May, 1998
I had the nightmare again last night. I had to watch as he died all over again. For an instant when I woke up I thought it was the real Draco in bed with me. Those are the worst moments. I hope I can be strong, I hope I can make this work. I’ve found that I can’t push him too hard, he gets overly frustrated. He is still progressing, but has setbacks. Still no backup plan if this fails.

8th of May, 1998
I got word from Kingsley this afternoon. I can’t begin to explain how relieved I am. Lucius was sentenced to Azkaban for the rest of his natural life. Narcissa earned herself a padded cell at St. Mungo’s when she learned of Draco’s collaboration with the Order. Two fewer loose ends! I’ve formally put in a petition as Draco’s legal guardian, and am pressuring Kingsley about the manor. If this works, things should get much easier.

9th of May, 1998
We cuddle at night now. It helps stop the nightmares. Still, it’s so jarring having Draco against me knowing deep down it’s Ronald. I need to work on that. If I can’t learn to accept him as my Draco, this is all for naught.

10th of May, 1998
I go to the manor tomorrow. I need to do a thorough sweep now that the Ministry has combed through it. I need to hide all of the mirrors. He’s already getting in the habit of taking the potion twice a day, but if timing is off even a little… This will put me at ease.

11th of May, 1998
It was surreal being back at Malfoy Manor. The team did an incredible job; it’s amazing how different it feels now. I’m curious if I’ll get to work with any of the confiscated objects. I found a spare room to hide all the mirrors. It took a few hours, but I think I got them all. I locked and disillusioned the door. That should do it for now. I’ll say I cleared them at work and reinstall them when I’m ready.

12th of May, 1998
It’s quite weird. He doesn’t touch or kiss me like Draco, but he still feels so right. Sometimes he says something off, but I’m working hard to make him as accurate as possible. I know I can do it.

13th of May, 1998
Tomorrow is the day! Good thing the manor is furnished. I have virtually nothing to my name. “Packing” pretty much ends once we’ve put on our shoes. I can’t wait. It’s been months since I could stay under one roof beyond a few days or weeks.

14th of May, 1998
Moving day! The look on his face was priceless. It’s a relief to have our own space, and the Library should progress things right along. I should find some books for him to read, maybe that will help, too.

15th of May, 1998
We’re settling into a routine already. It feels amazing. Draco doesn’t to want to leave or see anyone else. What a relief. I pulled a few books for him: the Malfoy family history and an etiquette book to start. Circe knows he could use them. He loves flying. It seems to soothe him. He’s doing alright with meditation, it’s probably just too much too soon. This is an enormous undertaking, but the clouds part a bit more each day.

16th of May, 1998
I’ve started to gather the seeds and cuttings I need to brew Polyjuice, as well as a few others to aid in my experiments. I also picked up some marigold seeds. They were always Mum’s favourite. I’ve also started collecting rats from the manor gardens. It’s easy enough to stun them temporarily, and I’ll be ready for test subjects soon. Rats aren’t ideal, but they will do the trick and go unnoticed. So far, I have seven in the potions lab. Draco never thinks to go in there, but I still ward the door just in case. I’m not sure how I would explain the rats if he saw them.

21st of May, 1998
First day of work! I already love my new job. Mr. Flisk is a delight. Theodore Nott is my only true coworker on the DADT. Apparently, Theo loves telly as much as Draco. He became obsessed with soap operas while in hiding. Draco got jealous when I told him about Theo. I guess that’s one thing Ronald and Draco had in common. I’m bribing Draco with a telly. I told him he needs to read what I bring him, meditate, and work on stabilizing his magic. If he keeps it up, I’ll see if I can install one for him. After dinner something in the Ministry’s letter finally clicked and I found the Pensieve in Lucius’ old study. How fantastic! I’ll need to be careful, though. Draco asked to see a memory. I showed him a quidditch match from second year. He was so upset after… noticed my arm finally, too. It was a mess. I can’t show him that memory yet… but I know he’ll keep asking until I finally do.

25th of May, 1998
I feel like a failure. Everything I do this week has been a flop. A half-dozen rats got stuck mid-transformation after I whiffed a step in the potion. I think I’ll have to start all over with the marigolds, too. To top it all off, Draco is still upset about my arm. Excellent.

28th of May, 1998
He couldn’t let it go, so I showed Draco my torture and the aftermath at Shells Cottage. He was shattered, but it’s probably easier than him not knowing.

29th of May, 1998
Draco’s birthday is in one week. He read it on the Malfoy Family Tree, but I guess it hasn’t sunk in. He hasn’t said one word. I’ve planned us a weekend trip to Hogsmeade.

5th of June, 1998
It’s Draco’s birthday! Good thing I set a wand alarm, he nearly had me late for work. On the way home, I got all his special dinner requests and picked up his gift from the framer. When I got to the hill, I barely made it four steps before he had me on my back in the grass. It was quick, but surprisingly good. Even more amazing was his wandless magic. Despite that, lately his progress has slowed. I realized I could try altering memories with a black market potion like Rose Tint. I heard some Aurors mention it in the lifts last week. It’s just a theory for now, I have to think more on it.

8th of June, 1998
I got a vial of Rose Tint from Knockturn Alley. I snuck off and tried it on my own first to make sure there are no hiccups for Draco. It’s easier than I expected. I just have to add a drop before each memory viewing. As the scene plays out, I focus on what I want the memory to change and picture it in my mind—similar to lucid dreaming. It worked great! My head felt tingly after. I hope that’s not a side effect Draco will experience... I’m still not certain he’s stable enough. Some days his state of mind concerns me. I’ll see how he is on our trip to Hogsmeade this weekend and go from there.

10th of June, 1998
We got quite drunk and carried away last night. Draco completely forgot his evening dose of potion. The Polyjuice wore off, and it made me literally ill having Ronald inside me. It was dark and he was distracted, so I think I played it off well. Otherwise, if this weekend was a test, he’d be passing with flying colours. When we first arrived I took him to the alley, and bless him he tried so hard for me. This feels like a huge step. I think he believes he is Draco. He hasn’t slipped back to pure Ronald behavior in a while. Maybe I’ll give Draco’s wand to him after all.

12th of June, 1998
What a weekend! We both had a marvelous time, but it’s wonderful being back. I’m going to continue with Rose Tint and see if it has a positive affect. So far he seems unfazed.

14th of June, 1998
Theo was out sick yesterday and I took a crack at deep storage without him. I found a very promising artefact, and need to locate its records. This comes at just the right time… I’ve given up on modifying the Polyjuice as a long-term solution. As research suggested, it isn’t adaptable to have permanent affects. I’ll release the rats tomorrow after I ensure they are all fit to return to the wild. They deserve happy lives.

19th of June, 1998
I suppose I didn’t release the rats far enough from the manor. Draco saw one by the pond. He asked if the rat could be a genetic chimaera. I’m surprised he was listening when I yammered on about that scientific study. I guess the book I gave him was a bit obtuse… but my answer seemed to appease him. Hopefully that’s the last rat he sees.

22nd of June, 1998
What a day! Today marks one month with the Ministry. I got home and Draco was making dinner. He said he wanted to make my day special, but it didn’t stop there. He took me up to the Library and made me scream. I didn’t know I wanted him to put his lips there so badly… I had planned to give him his wand soon, and it felt right for him to celebrate something, too. He’s been consistent. Hopefully I’m getting closer to a real solution.

6th of July, 1998
Harry ambushed me at work. Flisk gave me the rest of the day off. I panicked a bit when Harry insisted we go to Malfoy Manor as Grimmauld’s remodel is not quite done… I sent a Patronus ahead to give Draco a head’s up. I was so worried how it would go, that Ron would get a wave of memories upon seeing Harry or that Harry would notice something and begin to catch on. Instead, it was lovely. We even played H.O.R.S.E.! Harry invited Draco and me to his birthday-housewarming party at the end of the month. That will be good for both of us. It will be nice to see everyone and watch how Draco does. With today shaking out so well, I’m hopeful. Harry encouraged Draco to practice his Patronus. For a moment I thought he was going to succeed and Ron’s stupid terrier would make an appearance. Whether he’s too scattered still or can’t connect to his happy memories, it was a relief the spell didn’t work.

17th of July, 1998
I’ve found a journal that’s proven to be hugely inspirational. Octavia, a dark witch from the midcentury, was meticulous in documenting her processes. The journal contains her full notes for five nefarious artefacts. I’ve been able to piece together much of the surrounding magic employed for such dark objects to function. I’ll need to reverse engineer some incantations, and I’m not sure how to identify the desired soul, but I’m already much closer to a solution!

28th of July, 1998
Tonight is Harry’s “bash” and I’m quite nervous. Draco has been doing rather well, and Harry’s visit went great, but this will be something else entirely. Ginny and Luna have me the most worried. Ginny never let her guard down around Draco. Luna, on the other hand, had been one of the first to accept him when he joined the Order. Draco was her saving grace. She got to know him while imprisoned in the Malfoy dungeons. Not only that, but she’s Luna. I’m just sure she’ll pick up on something tonight. I’ll have to put Draco on his very best behavior…

29th of July, 1998
Last night went nearly perfect. Draco was excellent. He said almost all the right things, even switching to “Ginevra” when she called him on it and rolled with George’s prank. He won them all over, even Neville! I can already see them beginning to accept him, it’s quite exciting. Then we got home and he convinced me to climb aboard that bloody broom with him. I thought we were going to die. I nearly had a heart attack. Meanwhile, he’s having the time of his life. I about killed him. He caught me leaving my study, said he remembered something. As if the day wasn’t bad enough. He still hasn’t remembered he’s Ron, but occasionally gets too close for comfort. He bought what I told him. I guess once in a while jealousy can work in my favour. He’s learning that Lubrication charm too, not that I’m complaining.

9th of August, 1998
Ginny invited a few friends to the manor for her seventeenth birthday. Everyone seemed to have a lovely time. Draco gets on quite well with Ginny and Harry, especially after he helped win both matches. I played my favourite position: timekeeper. Theo brought a few books from his private collection and I was able to make more progress researching the ritual.

27th of August, 1998
Theo doesn’t know it, but he found my missing puzzle piece. Octavia’s second journal confirmed everything I needed to know: with the right source material and casting, I can indeed transform Ronald into Draco. One ritual. That’s all it would take. Then no more potions or concerns of him recovering the “wrong” memories. I’m getting so close!

8th of September, 1998
I’m headed to Hogwarts’ restricted section today for a well-reputed text on repurposing dark artefacts that’s been impossible to find. It’s the last thing I need to confirm my incantations for the ritual. I told Draco I’m going to the office to help Theo put the final touches on the containment unit.

9th of September, 1998
“Recycling the Repulsive: Repurposing the Recalcitrant for Respectable Reasons” is exactly what I hoped it would be! It goes into precise detail explaining a few approaches and techniques I can use for the ritual to ensure an object’s clear focus.

11th of September, 1998
Of course Harry would be in the atrium and insist on walking me to the Apparition point. He asked if Draco and I wanted to meet for dinner next week and celebrate my birthday. I told him we already made plans. He pressed, but I insinuated a few untoward activities until he dropped it. I’ll make it up to him later.

13th of September, 1998
Draco asked what I want to do for my birthday. I was impressed he remembered without too many hints. I told him I have something extra special planned. He seems excited.

18th of September, 1998
It happens tomorrow night work. I’ve gathered everything we need to perform the ritual. I’ve done what I can, and this is all that’s left. If it works I’ll have Draco Obliviate my incriminating memories. I’m the last loose end the Ministry could find.

19th of September, 1998
What a bloody arse! And on my birthday? Hopefully tonight goes smoothly or I might just Obliviate him all over again and say he fell off his broom. I still don’t know how much of Draco the ritual can call forth, but at this point I’m done futzing with memory retention. Off to work, wish me luck...

Chapter 20: Remember

Summary:

Everything comes rushing back to Ron, and Hermione wakes up at long last.

The garden towers all around him, fresh and fertile. He uses toddler fingers to reach for a strawberry, its perfect flesh glowing in the sun. With the fruit nearly between his soft fingers, sudden movement punches out through the leaves.

A small, stout figure leaps straight at him and sinks pointed teeth into the boyish pudge of little Ron's hand. The creature's potato-like head latches onto his thumb webbing, its legs manically dangling in the air.

Ron is utterly stunned. Sharp pain overwhelms him. He lets out a klaxon-like wail, flailing his hand in a desperate attempt to free himself. Bright red blood streams down his forearm and drips onto his dungarees. A wave of tears makes his vision swim. He takes off, running back towards the Burrow without a single berry.

…

It is a cool summer evening in the orchard. His brothers have swiped a broom and are determined to teach Ron to properly fly. Of course, he has a kid's broom, but it only hovers—and quite slowly at that. Forbidden by his parents for another year just like the rest of his siblings had been, he has only ever dreamed of riding an adult broom.

A fresh-faced Fred stares at Ron, his round features shining with encouragement. He doesn't look a day over six. Fred's small hands hold the broom handle steady for Ron.

"Take a big breath and shove off with your feet,” George's voice chirps from behind him. “Don't worry about Fred. He'll get out of the way."

The simmering of the broom's magic beneath him is terrific. It is the best thing Ron has ever felt. His five-year-old self grasps the broom handle and wiggles from side to side in preparation. Taking in a comically large breath, he slaps the soles of his feet against the dry grass and leans forward like he'd seen his older brothers do countless times.

The broom shoots forward. Ron's tiny fingers wrap tightly around its well-worn handle. Rushes of wind tear at his hair, the sensation ripping a rowdy whoop from him. The line of apple trees dotting down one side of the orchard becomes a pleasant blur. The broom hums happily beneath him. Flying is incredible.

It takes him a few moments to notice. His brother indeed had not let go. Fred’s small body drags along as the broom bops down the makeshift pitch. Ron’s path curves slightly from the weight of his shrieking sibling. Before he has time to consider how to stop, their mum's yell pierces the dusky summer air.

"Boys, boys! What are you doing??"

…

"GRYFFINDOR!" The decrepit hat on his head shouts, and Ron can't hide his elation.

The long table to his left erupts with cheers. Three of his brothers and the rest of his House holler and whistle as he eagerly clamors over and jams himself onto the closest bench. Ron can only hope to Merlin his two new best friends will soon join him.

…

"Mate, I—"

Ron cuts Harry off with a withering glare. "Don't 'mate' me, mate. That is my little sister we're talking about! That’s Ginny, for fuck's sake!"

Harry makes a slight gurgling sound but manages to hold his tongue. They sit in a booth, waiting for Hermione to return with butterbeers. The Three Broomsticks is absolutely packed. It's always like this the first month of school.

"You know Ginny's been crazy about you since before you even met." Ron's voice rises, and he feels a flush creep up his neck. "You've seen her stand up for you. You've seen how much she fawns over you. You know she'd do just about anything for you—"

"Ron, you know I'd never—"

"Not finished, Harry!" Ron bellows. He takes a breath before he proceeds. "All I'm saying is if you're going to give her a shot, do it. No half-measures, no wibbly-wobblies, you have to earnest to Merlin give her a real chance. She deserves that much."

…

She looks utterly radiant as she descends—no, floats—down the grand stairway. Hermione looks astoundingly ethereal and brain-numbingly perfect. Her periwinkle dress is stunning, highlighting the raw beauty she usually keeps hidden away from the rest of the world. He has always hated dressing up, but in that moment he realizes he would do it every day if it meant seeing her like this.

Ron knows he's gawking but can do nothing to stop it. His lower jaw is slack, and he seems to have lost the ability to blink. The latter is Merlin's blessing as Ron dutifully commits every detail about Hermione to memory.

After what feels like two years, Hermione reaches the bottom step. Standing near the stairs, Ron is taken aback. She stands a mere dozen feet away. Her golden skin glows under the soft candlelight, and her honey-brown eyes blink around the room as if she's expecting someone. Is she? He can't seem to remember. He can't seem to remember much of anything. If he could scrape his brain off the floor, he'd race over and clutch Hermione's elbow himself.

Just then, another figure appears. Ron's idol, his hero, Viktor Krum, strides forward to meet Hermione. Her smile blooms when she sees his approach. Krum hooks her arm in his. They look as if they were born to attend this stupid ball together. His sharp, red jacket is a striking contrast to the gauzy blue-purple of Hermione's gown. In a matter of seconds, the pair disappear into a fawning crowd, undoubtedly off to enjoy one of the best nights of their lives.

Merlin's saggy bollocks! How is he supposed to compete with Viktor bloody Krum?

It should be him. It should be Ron on Hermione's arm, but he's been bungling things up all year as if by profession. He berates himself with could-haves and should-haves, oblivious to his actual date, standing irate at his side.

…

He pulls the front door shut, its gentle click the most welcome of sounds. Ron just wants to sneak up to his bedroom unnoticed. He could talk to his parents later—once he'd slept off the swirl of fury and hurt that had chased him from the Forest of Dean. But today he has no such luck. He can already feel his dad’s warm, appraising stare on his back.

"Just you, son? Where are Harry and Hermione?"

His dad's tone is much too kind. Ron can't stand it. He doesn't deserve anything but more of Hermione’s berating screams. They didn't need him. Not now, not then, and certainly not if this bloody war ever ended.

…

"Just you wait! She likes me back! Now that the fighting is over, you won't have a chance." Ron's temper is getting the best of him. He's beyond through with the over-important prat. It was well past time someone shoved Malfoy back in his place.

"Is that right?" Malfoy drawls back, pivoting to face him.

"That's right!" Ron replies confidently. "She kissed me right after you left the Room of Requirement."

At that, Malfoy laughs. "It was my suggestion, Weasel. We all needed you on your best behavior."

Ron’s smirk falls flat on the floor. “Sh-she wouldn't…" he stammers.

Malfoy shakes his head in mock pity. "She sucked me off before you lot left yesterday. Did she ever do that for you? Yeah, didn't think so, Ronald. You'll always be a nobody to—"

The words are spat from Ron’s mouth without a second thought. Green light rockets from his wand. There is no time for Malfoy to dodge the spell: he’s too close. For a split second, Ron enjoys the shock and fear evident in his target's wide eyes. The Unforgivable collides with Malfoy's shoulder. While it's far from Ron’s best wandwork, the effect is all the same: Malfoy crashes to his knees and slumps to the ground.

Finally, something the bloody Ferret does without a lick of grace.

…

Hermione is screaming.

The sound flogs his eardrums with the anguish he thought ended mere seconds ago. Malfoy's corpse is a crumpled pile on the floor. Hermione kneels over him, making noises unlike any Ron has ever heard.

Ron hadn't known she was there. He'd wanted Draco out of the picture more than anything, but he didn't want this. Hermione was supposed to be his. Heartbroken or not, he was sure Malfoy's death would leave her vulnerable and open to him. Finally, Ron would be able to prove how right he was for her. She wasn't supposed to know and certainly was not meant to have seen. Now, the love of his life is wailing like a banshee all because of him. Still, he wasn’t sorry. At last, Draco Malfoy wouldn't be a problem.

Ron's mind is blank, unable to form words. Should he apologize? Should he explain himself? He has no idea. In all his rage-induced planning, this was a variable Ron had not accounted for.

He remains silent, trapped in his own dead-end thoughts as he stares at her. Hermione's scream tapers off, and something new boils across her face. Her wand jitters in a shaking fist. She rises slowly to her feet, casts a Muffliato charm, and stalks the remaining distance to Ron.

With a trembling arm, she stabs the tip of her wand into his chest. Hermione looks practically demonic. Her eyes glitter with terrifying intent, and sheer hatred radiates from her pores. She's held him at wand-point countless times, but not like this. Never like this.

"Anything to say for yourself, Ronald?" She snarls, tilting her head expectantly.

His mouth gapes open like a fish, unable to find a single word. Hermione taps her shoe on the stone floor and waits for his response. But he can't even give her that. Her eyelids fall heavily shut as if gathering the last of herself.

Ron's mind whirls, wondering what fresh hell she could possibly unload on him. She's screamed and hollered at him so many times at this point he has no doubt she's metaphorically hurled a whole dictionary his way by now. He braces himself for whatever she possibly has to say. But instead of a lecture, instead of ruining him with a wicked monologue, she speaks her words clearly, one at a time.

"Flipendo."

Ron hurls backward through the air. His head, tailbone, and shoulders slam into the unforgiving wall not far behind. The air roughly evacuates his lungs the moment he connects.

"Tenaxios."

Ron feels the Sticking Charm take hold, his whole body now immobile against the stone. Hermione continues her slow approach. Her gaze is punishing.

"Crucio."

An explosion of violent pain lights up within him. Ron can't even seek the solace of a scream, his lungs devoid of oxygen. Instead, the pain grips him mercilessly. His vision dots, his spine sings, and his muscles contract. It seems inevitable his bones will break. Despite his body's incessant demand to curl into a tight ball, the Sticking Charm holds firm. He can't even thrash his head to distract from the blinding pain.

When she releases the spell, Ron is panting and whimpering. Sweat coats every inch of him as he desperately draws in air. It is such a relief to emerge from the clutches of this Unforgivable that Ron doesn't see her cast a second time.

"Crucio."

This time he is able to scream. The noise he lets out is feral and torturous, and he can feel his shoulder muscles threatening to tear.

Crucio. Crucio. Crucio. It's all Ron hears after some time. The immeasurable gaps between the curses are hardly enough to regain his vision or catch his breath. And then he plunges right back into bottomless torment.

Suddenly, his body falls to the floor. He barely catches himself before his face slams into the cold stone. During Ron’s abuse, Hermione had arranging Draco’s body into a more peaceful pose. The deceased blonde looks almost serene, lying neatly on his back at her feet.

"Take off your clothes," Hermione commands. Her tone is icy and dangerous. Ron's brain stutters. He'd longed for her to surprise him with those words for so long, but not like this. Hermione begins unbuttoning Malfoy's shirt. She is halfway down his chest when she looks coldly back at Ron.

"Would you prefer an Imperio? I'd be happy to oblige, Ronald."

He strips down to just socks and shorts faster than ever, panic fluttering under his ribs. What in Godric's name did Hermione have in mind? He can't bring himself to ask. He hasn't been able to utter a single word.

”All of it. Then put these on," Hermione says. She holds out Malfoy's clothes, and he notices his rival is now stark naked on the stone floor.

A moment later, Ron stands trembling in the clothes of his childhood nemesis. He can't help but look down, feeling like a lazy imposter swathed entirely in black. It's the colourless visage he's hated all his life. He notices Hermione dressing Malfoy’s corpse in Ron's clothes with the aid of magic. She levitates his legs one at a time, sliding the fabric up and over his hips. The act disturbs him, but Ron can't deny her reverence.

When she's done, she straightens to stand. Her face is somber and vacant. They are mere feet apart, but she feels a whole lifetime away. With one final exhale, she lifts her wand again. To Ron's heart-sinking dismay, she gently rests its tip between his eyebrows.

“Obliviate.”

 

 

The deep fissures the Obliviation had scored into his mind vanished, allowing clear, pristine memories to pound against him in unforgiving waves. The shock of everything returning in such a rush—all the memories previously locked away—confounded him.

With every page of the journal, Draco's mind shattered into smaller and smaller pieces. He supposed it wasn't his mind at all; it was Ron’s. His magic stung with glee and pain as he suddenly understood his riddling discombobulation.

He let the small book flap closed and sat in a daze. The soft pages of Hermione's journal tore at him with razor-sharp truth. Memory after memory bled through him, each clear and undeniably Ron’s.

He attempted to compose himself as memories splashed across his mind. Clarity and confusion overwhelmed him all at once. His eyes were unfocused, and his pale fingers had long stilled on Hermione’s cheek—pale fingers that didn’t belong to him. He looked down, soaking in the sight of her still draped across his lap.

No, across Draco’s lap.

Draco: the man Ron had always detested, the man he'd tried to keep away from those he loved, the man he'd never measured up to. Ron had unknowingly worn someone else's identity for months; he’d molded himself in their likeness, driven himself to tears with the effort. The knowledge of why he would never be more than a wan duplicate was too much to handle. Facts replaced excuses, and he felt like the biggest fool in history. Of course he could never be Draco.

Ron's veins felt like ice. Why had it been so easy for him to go along with it? His magic had been fighting something for months, but it had been no accident. Ron had been struggling to keep some semblance of a grasp on his true self.

A strangled choking sound caught in his throat. At the noise, Hermione shifted slightly in his arms. Warm, brown curls tumbled across the back of his hand as her face tipped up towards him. Without thinking, he tilted down to meet her gaze. The look of absentminded horror was still plastered across his features. Hermione's expression flashed with fear before it hardened to stony resolve. She took one deep breath, her chest filling with the slow inhale. Despite her undeniable awareness of the situation, she did not show an ounce of compunction. When Hermione finally spoke, her voice was quiet.

"You know, then."

Ron could do nothing but nod, an infinitesimal gesture compared to the maelstrom swirling within him. Hermione didn't seem to mind.

"Right." She nodded slowly before she continued. Her face was almost pleading, but her tone remained calm and controlled. "You've always said you would do anything for me. Would you do this one last thing?”

Ron knew she meant the ritual. It felt like an impossible question, yet the words were arranged so simply…