Chapter 1: 2014
Chapter Text
It had been one of those days.
Usually, Hermione didn’t have to cover the emergency room anymore. She was allowed to stay in her section of the hospital, working on Magical Rehabilitation and Dark Magic mitigation. On this particular day, however, half the emergency healing staff seemed to be away for one reason or another. One was on their honeymoon; another had Parent’s Day at their child’s school; another was caring for their parents who had both come down with the Black Cat flu and so on and so on. Hermione had no such commitments, and so she’d spent the morning in what the hospital staff cheerfully called “The Pit”.
There, she had magically knitted flesh back together, been splattered in various bodily fluids, and had seen firsthand why experimental potions should not be brewed in the same room as homemade ale. She was tired, hungry, behind on her actual work and—despite multiple scourigfies—still convinced she could smell vomit on her person. Please don’t let it be in her hair. She had already washed her hair this week.
Her desk was a riot of papers and memos that had flown in her absence, and she knew lunch would not be an option that day. Not that she felt like eating, smell of vomit and all. She was triaging each request in different piles when she made a deliberate choice to ignore the person who hovered at her doorway. They didn’t set off her Sneakascope or her carefully honed intuition. No doubt it was one of the hospital administrators coming to ask her to fill in for some other deliriously happy and loved member of staff who had something to do, but she also had something to do. Her work.
“Hello, Kit.”
Her intuition and Sneakascope had both failed her. The deep voice that reverberated around her office wasn’t that of an administrator. And it called her a name she hadn’t heard in 16 years.
One that heralded danger.
She didn’t turn. Couldn’t turn. There was no way her eyes could confirm what her brain already knew. Besides, she’d already been bled, vomited and sweated on; she didn’t need to add her own tears to the mix.
“So it’s true then?” the voice continued, “Curious.”
Hermione swallowed the lump at the back of her throat and tried to clear her mind. She’d been practising Occlumency for 15 years, and while it had been useful with her work and made Christmases at The Burrow and Grimmauld Place more pleasant, she couldn’t say she’d ever needed it until now. She taped up the moving boxes of her thoughts until she could finally turn and look over the man she hadn’t seen in person since they were barely adults.
“Mr Malfoy, I wasn’t aware we had an appointment today,” she said, standing, her tone light and airy.
Yet she knew that if offered her hand, the way one should when greeting someone, it would be shaking. No, her hands would stay clasped together, even if doing so inevitably proved the ridiculous belief that Muggles were poorly mannered. She hated proving her critics right, but there was no way in hell she would survive touching him.
“Really, Miss Granger? You’re going to try to play this off as a meeting between distant acquaintances? You and I both know that we are so much more than that.”
Draco Malfoy wasn’t exactly as she remembered him. He was taller, or maybe she had shrunk him in her recollections. He was older; that wasn’t a trick of memory. He had fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Unlike hers, they made him look more assured. Distinguished. The way he spoke to her was still the same, though: a teasing tone that reminded her of one of her cats playing with their food. Danger wrapped in playfulness.
“So now you are wondering how this could be possible. You might be wondering how a memory charm you cast has failed after, oh, how many years has it been, Kit?”
Draco took a step closer and then another, and for a second, Hermione wondered if he was going to reach out and tug on one of the curls that had come loose around her face the way he used to do. She shoved the memory back in its box and attacked it with masking tape. The last thing she needed was thoughts like that escaping.
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Mr Malfoy,” she said cautiously, taking a tiny step back.
“Sure you do, darling. Otherwise, you’d be calling me Malfoy and threatening to slap me for my insolence as I remember you doing at school.”
“I was a little tempestuous at school, but I can assure you in the last 16 years I’ve-”
“Ah! So it’s been 16 years, then?”
Draco smirked, and Hermione closed her eyes, wondering how to get out of this room. How could she erase this moment? Her hand itched to grab her wand and cast her way of escape.
“Doing it again won’t help you, Granger,” Draco said, and Hermione reluctantly opened her eyes to find his grey ones studying her intently.
“Your first charm held,” he continued, and Hermione felt a tiny itch of relief.
Yet, he knew something. The name proved it. Which meant there was another source. It should have been impossible.
“My mother died recently,” Draco continued, looking out the window momentarily.
Hermione felt a stab of empathy. She knew, probably better than anyone, how much his mother meant to him. Tape it up. No, she didn’t.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
The polite and practised words came easily.
“Are you?” Draco’s gaze was back on her now, “I’m not sure I am. We’d fallen out of touch over the years. Anyway, her death allowed me to return to The Manor for the first time in many years. Sixteen, in fact.”
He paused and let the significance of the time sink in. Hermione swallowed uncomfortably but didn’t say anything. Don’t speak. She couldn’t be held accountable by the words she didn’t say.
The pause stretched until Draco chuckled.
“Oh, you are good,” he purred, “Not tempestuous anymore, it seems. I wonder if I taught you that.”
He shook his head, and if Hermione didn’t know him so well, she could have mistaken the expression for fondness. There was a hardness in his eyes, however, one that she knew meant she was on perilous ground indeed.
“Anyway, I was going through my boyhood bedroom, looking for some sort of material to wank to, and imagine my surprise when I found journals written by me detailing the months from September 1998 to June 1999.”
Journals. After 16 years, it was all going to tumble down because Draco Malfoy kept a bloody journal? What was it with Slytherins and diaries?.
“Then imagine my surprise when they detailed events of which I had no recollection. Very extensive time spent with one Golden Girl, Saviour of the Wizarding World. And I will confess, I haven’t read them in their entirety as I was quite verbose in my retelling. There are multiple notebooks all going on and on, but I got the sense from the parts I did read, that you and I were in a relationship of sorts. One that, should I have kept reading, would have resulted in me writing my own masturbatory aid.”
Hermione flinched at his crudeness. He was doing it on purpose. He always had. He used to say it was because he found nothing prettier than her blush, but she was older now, wiser. She knew that it was about throwing her off balance. Maintaining his power.
“Now, I considered that maybe it was all fiction, however, I can still remember all the other fictional scenarios that my teenage brain had created prior to 8th year, and I have to tell you Granger, those didn’t dilly-dally so much. Were more straight to the good stuff, and by straight to the good stuff, I mean you on your knees-”
“-Malfoy!” Hermione couldn’t help but snap at him, her cheeks burning. She immediately regretted it, even before his lips curled up into a snide grin.
“Well, hello, Granger. I was wondering if you were still in there.”
Masking tape and boxes. Crooked stacks and endless rows. She shut down her reaction, her anger, and let calm wash over her. Like slipping into a lake in the height of summer.
“No, you don’t want to play? Shame,” he tsked, “Oh well, back to my story. So I sat in my room, reading eighteen-year-old me wax lyrical over your ankles or some such nonsense, wondering what the hell was going on, when I remembered a tiny spot of gossip about a decade ago. That war hero Hermione Granger had a private hearing for the crime of using memory magic on Muggles. Pardoned, of course, as it was an essential use given wartime. However, it made me wonder whether it was a signature move of yours.”
Masking tape and boxes. She needed so much masking tape.
“I mean, it was apparent that I’d had my memory tampered with; it was just a question of by whom. You’ll like this, but for a short while, I blamed my mother,” he looked at her then to gauge her reaction, and when she stayed, still and unyielding, he leaned back against the wall and continued. “She would have been aghast to learn what we were getting up to in the library while we studied. She would’ve been willing to do anything to stop it. Then I realised that if she had gone to all the trouble to obliviate her only child, she probably would have destroyed the journals that had sat in her house for a decade and a half, that gave the game away. That, and if my mother had used a memory charm to erase a relationship between us, she would have had to contend with the Gryffindor princess charging at her gate to win me back. No, the more I thought about it, the clearer it became that the only person who could have removed Hermione Granger from my life so completely was Hermione Granger herself.”
He pushed away from the wall then, coming closer to where she stood, frozen in the middle of her office. It was her space, but, right now, he owned it.
“And so, now I am here, in the office of Hermione Granger, to ask the only question I still have.
Why?”
Chapter Text
Potter's Mudblood had the book that he needed. For over 30 minutes, she stared off into the distance without reading, neither making notes nor turning pages. He was going to be waiting for a long time yet. This meant he had two choices, well three, but going back to the eighth year common room where he would have to ask one of his contemporaries to borrow their book was not an actual choice. Not in his eyes, anyway. Which left him with two: stay and stare or...
With a sigh, he pushed himself back from his table, not caring if his chair shrieked as it scraped along the floor. Maybe the noise would shake her from her reverie. No such luck. She was still lost in her own thoughts.
“Granger, are you done with that book?”
The direct question was enough to reach her, though it took her a while to return to herself. Her eyes—brown, he noticed for the first time—darted around a little, her pupils shrinking as she turned to look at him.
“Sorry?” she said, looking up. Her features sharpened, and he could have pinpointed the moment she realised to whom she was speaking.
“The book. The one you have been staring at and not reading-”
“-How do you know I wasn’t reading it?” she snapped.
Gods, it was tempting to snipe right back at her. See what name he could call her to make her cheeks flame red with anger. However, in this library, in this world, he knew she could keep the book from him, and no one would dare correct her. So he took a deep breath and attempted to keep his tone calm.
“Your eyes haven’t moved. So if you are going to get lost in your daydreams of heroics or, heaven forbid, Weasley’s pale arse, can you give me the book?”
Granger narrowed her eyes at him. He thought his presence would be the most controversial of all the students enrolled in the so-called eighth year. A hybrid program that aimed to fill in the blanks from the year prior and give room for independent study. A fine idea in theory, but the only students that slept in the newly created "inter-house dormitory" were the ones ordered to by the Wizengamot, or their mindhealer. And Granger, who had come voluntarily and been praised endlessly by the staff for her commitment to knowledge.
The Brightest Witch of Her Age.
Hoarder of Books and star of his nightmares.
Fuck, he hoped she argued some more. It would all make sense if she argued some more.
“Fine,” she said, and it was almost completely unsatisfying except for the daggers she glared at him, “Take it.”
She slammed the cover shut and pushed it towards him. He smirked and picked it up, sauntering away, feeling better than he had in ages.
***
Stealing Granger's books became somewhat of a routine. He didn’t go to claim them straight away. Eventually, he would have no choice but to stalk over to her table because the witch would, at some point, disappear into that mind of hers, her face going blank and eyes searching for something on the back wall.
Each time, he tried to see how close he could get to an insult without actually casting the curse, so to speak. Watch as her eyes narrowed and metaphorical hackles rose. She usually didn’t talk back, but she didn't need to. He could feel the hate when she pushed the book his way. It would follow him back to his table twelve feet away. Keep him company while he studied.
And oh, how he studied. He was sure it was almost as much as she did. Partly because an acceptable number of NEWTs, including one in Muggle Studies, was a condition of his release and partly because if he was in the library, he was alone. He had no interest in seeing Pansy, Theo, Blaise or fucking Padma Patil. They kept wanting to talk to him. Better he was alone in the library, seeing exactly how far he could push Hermione Granger until she snapped.
It took three weeks. Three weeks of him sauntering over and her pushing the book across.
“I need that book, Granger,” Draco stated, his grey eyes focused on a point near her left ear rather than her face. He didn't want to look at her; the war had changed her expression in small ways. If he didn't look, he could pretend this was all before. Back when insulting her had been a sport.
Hermione sighed and went to close the cover to push it to him. When she paused, something shifted in the atmosphere, and his fingers itched for his wand, just in case.
“No,” she said defiantly, reopening the book and flicking back to her previous page.
“Really? No?” Draco repeated, incredulous.
“I believe it’s a complete sentence,” she said, not looking at him this time—stubborn bint.
“You aren’t even reading it!”
He wasn’t leaving. He either wanted the book or the argument that had been brewing for weeks. Maybe she would curse him. Send something school children think is menacing right at his chest.
“I took a short break to think, but I am still using it.”
“Of all the swotty bullshit things you could say-”
“-I am still using it, Malfoy. I will put it on the reshelving cart when I’m done.”
He scoffed and folded his arms across his chest. So prim and fucking proper. And so damn polite. They weren't polite to each other. They never were before, and he didn't see why they should be after. He'd watched her piss herself as she'd writhed under his Aunt's wand, and now she wouldn't even raise her voice. Fine, she wanted to pretend they could be cordial. He'd call her out on being cordial.
“Oh, you won’t even deign to bring it over? Nice, Granger.”
The air around them changed again. Granger's hair seemed to crackle. Bingo. He'd won.
“Why do you keep bothering me for books anyway, Malfoy? In all the years we’ve shared classes together, you’ve never once needed a book from the library when I’m using it!”
“Which is a fucking miracle; you hoard books like some sort of literary goblin.”
“I’ve always hoarded books, given half the time I’m the only one reading them, it’s never been a problem. What’s the need this year? Professors making you study for your grades now that Daddy isn’t a threat?”
The mention of Lucius was like a knife to the side. Fuck Lucius. He had nothing to do with any of this, except in the way he’d left Draco a shit storm to work through.
“I’ve never seen you work for your grades before. Never seen you studying in the library, and you’ve never needed my books before, so what is it? Is it a way to get under my skin without getting yourself in more trouble? Why do you keep taking my books?”
“I can’t afford to buy them anymore!”
Fuck. He hadn't meant to say that.
The truth had no place in this argument. It would have been better if she'd hexed him than have him reveal the truth. He was borrowing books from the library for the first time in his life because he couldn’t just buy his own personal copies when he needed them.
There was that shift in atmosphere again. Little Miss Bleeding Heart didn’t hex a wizard while he was down. No, she extended a hand to help him up, except he didn’t want her to.
“Don’t fucking say it, Granger,” Draco growled at her, “and wipe that pitying expression off your face while you are at it. I don’t ever want to hear the words ‘I’m sorry’ directed to me for as long as we both fucking live.”
Hermione swallowed. Her delicate throat moved up and down, and the tiny round scar left moved with the motion. He knew where it was from.
“I have no intention of ever apologising to you, Malfoy,” she said after a minute, chin raised, her tone returning to cold and angry.
Good girl, he thought. Don’t forget who we are to each other, Granger. Don’t even think about changing another thing for me. He nodded at her once and stalked away. He didn’t need her fucking books. He would get through this year without them.
***
It was a point of pride now.
He would get the grades he needed and ask her for nothing. If he only had his textbooks, the horrible, tattered one that McGonagall had retrieved from the “School’s Benevolence Fund” and the leftovers after Granger had taken her pick of the chosen topic, so be it. He would make it work.
He tried his best to ignore her. Not notice when her caramel-coloured eyes picked a spot on the far wall and completely disappeared into herself. It was none of his business. Isolate and ignore. It was a strategy that had served him well in the past.
It worked perfectly until the witch in question dumped a stack of books in the centre of his table, pulled out a chair and sat down next to him. Without a word, she pulled out her parchment and returned to whatever she was working on.
“Granger… what are you doing?” he asked after ten minutes when it became apparent that she would not be elaborating.
“It’s called sharing, Malfoy. I know it’s unfamiliar to us only children, but you should get used to it if you don’t have any money.”
The presumptuous little bitch. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands to stop himself from saying the words out loud. That would cross the line.
“Malfoys don’t share,” he said; it was the only thing he could think of to say. He didn’t dare touch the books as much as he wanted to. It felt like a trap.
“What about Dracos?” she asked with a sigh, looking directly into his eyes for possibly the first time in their lives, “Do they share?”
Her use of his given name was like hot honey. Sliding over him and making him feel equal parts warm and discomforted. Who was the last person to call him Draco? Professors didn’t; his contemporaries didn’t. Maybe his mother. Before the trials.
Granger gave up waiting for him to respond and looked back at her study. He could get away with not answering her. But Draco wanted to.
“I don’t know.”
The answer was quiet, followed by movement as Draco decided that he was allowed to share books after all.
***
They worked in silence. Most afternoons and all their free periods. They didn’t speak, but whenever one disappeared into the stacks, they lay the spoils in the middle of the table for both to use when they returned. It was Switzerland, that table in the middle of the library.
At first, he only allowed it because it meant he could get through his assignments more quickly, but, well, he’d never noticed that Granger had smelled so good before, like coffee and vanilla. In his mind, he had always assumed that if Granger had a smell, it would be something unpleasant. Dirty. Animalesque. Not like a bakery on a Sunday morning. It was so inconsistent with his understanding.
Then there were other inconsistencies. Her handwriting, for one. Absolute chicken scrawl. Almost impossible to read. It fit with his understanding of Muggles, their education and intelligence, but that was meant to be the one way Granger differed from other Muggles. Somehow, the chit must have received a decent education and that was why she had beaten him in every class they had had together since first year. She wasn’t meant to have bad handwriting.
“Why are you taking Astrology?”
The words tumbled out one day before he could stop them.
“What?” Hermione looked up from the essay she was working on: astrology. He’d been working on the same. In silence. Why on earth would they speak to each other?
“Astrology. It’s a form of Divination, and the whole castle knows how you feel about Divination.”
Hermione didn’t answer him, just stared. Right. They didn’t speak. He would just look back at his papers and return to using her for her books only.
“Your exit from the subject in third year,” Draco's mouth was operating on its own again. “The story of your telling off of Trelawney made it all the way to the dungeons. I mean, it was Gryffindor bullshit but highly entertaining.”
It must have been because he didn’t want to be ignored. That was the only explanation as to why he kept talking. She must be partly thick; she just kept staring rather than answering him.
“My dad is an amateur astronomer,” she said, after the silence had stretched for longer than was polite, “so it was the only school subject I could talk to him about in the holidays that he had any chance of understanding.”
“Because he’s a Muggle?” Draco immediately followed up. In the past, he would have pointed it out just to be cruel, and if anyone asked, that was exactly what he was doing.
“Yes, because he’s a Muggle,” Hermione agreed, seemingly taking no offence, “and I suppose we all know why you take it.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. Presumptuous again. He wouldn’t reward such audacity with a response. He didn’t need to. She dared to continue the thought.
“Draco, Sirius, Andromeda, Bellatrix,” she said his Aunt’s name like a dare, “The Blacks weren’t very subtle with their interests. It would be like if my parents named me ‘Molar’ or ‘Bicuspid’.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Granger. Besides, that’s not why I’m taking astrology,” he replied, trying to ignore how his skin prickled at the mention of Bellatrix. They were getting further away from before, both in speaking at all and in the subject.
“Oh then, enlighten me, why did Draco Malfoy take astrology?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
She was so casual, so familiar, so-
“Well, it was always Daphne Greengrass’s favourite subject, and I always thought she was fit,” he shrugged and looked back down at his work. Let her ruminate on that. He hated when people made assumptions about him.
Hermione snorted. She snorted. As if the information he’d given her was amusing.
“Really, Daphne Greengrass? I thought it was always Pansy you were after. She was the one that was draped all over you after all,” she smiled as she spoke.
She smiled. As if she knew him. As if this was something she could talk about with any authority. Now, it was Draco’s turn to snort.
“Goes to show you how little you know boys, Granger. We always want what we can’t have. It’s why Weasley never looked your way for longer than two minutes. You were always painfully available to him.”
Granger’s cheeks flushed red, and she dropped her gaze. Perfect, best she not forget her place.
“Well,” she sniffed, picking up her quill, ready to continue, “I’m not available to him anymore.”
Oh, that was new information. He doubted it was true, but still-
“No?” he pressed.
“No,” she was firm in her confirmation.
Interesting. Malfoys might not have money anymore, but information was something even the ministry couldn’t take away from him. This piece of information about the most beloved trio in the wizarding world? Priceless.
“What about Daphne? Is she still what you can’t have?” she asked, and her curious tone made him pause before telling her it was none of her business.
Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to tell her. If for no other reason than that the information was publicly available anyway, but him telling her would make her think they had some sort of understanding. Some sort of trust.
“Even more so. I believe she’s been married off to some Italian pureblood.”
“Already?” she asked.
The explanations about pureblood marriage timelines were on the tip of his tongue, but then she looked at him, and the caramel of her eyes made his mouth say something different instead.
“No one was going to wait around until the ministry decided what to do with the Malfoy vaults, Granger. If you haven’t noticed, even Pansy is hanging all over a different pureblood these days.”
That wasn’t publicly available. It was even a little embarrassing, though as a mudblood, she had no idea the extent to which his shambles of a marriage prospect insulted him and his family. Still, it felt good to voice it. Salazar knows he’d wanted to bitch and rage about Pansy and the way she had ignored him in favour of Theo since the beginning of term.
Hermione just blinked. There was a slight softening in her eyes, and Draco wondered if an apology was on the tip of her tongue. He didn’t want it, so he just glared until her expression hardened; she went back to her work, and he went back to his.
***
The dam had been broken. Silent work gave way to mostly silent work. Questions had started to be peppered among the occasional glances and sharing of books. He could start to investigate the inconsistencies that Granger was riddled with.
“Did you get the top mark in Arthimacy again?” (Yes, she had, and then proceeded to tell him how it was quite simple if you applied algebraic principles to the work. When he asked what algebraic principles were, she replied that they were Muggle, so did he want to know? He hadn’t answered, and she’d explained anyway.)
“Where were you yesterday?” (Tea with Hagrid. It made sense that the two would spend time together, given their breeding).
“Why did you add powdered moonstone to your lung-clearing potion?” (It had been her asking that one. As a general rule, she was far less curious than he was and needed to engage in broader reading about the mitigation of potion side effects if she was asking. Which is why he’d gone into the stacks, found some appropriate books and dumped them in front of her in response.)
It never went on longer than it needed to. It never had any sort of falseness or even warmth, really. But it was a conversation. Draco didn’t have many of those anymore.
“Why are you fidgeting so much?” he asked one afternoon when the witch across from him wouldn’t sit still, their shared table shaking.
“Excuse me?” she asked, pulling at her skirt, the first one he’d seen her wear in place of jeans since the term had begun.
“You’re moving around over there like a nervous first-year, and it’s not only distracting as fuck, but it’s making the table shake, and unlike some people, I don’t like to submit work with barely legible handwriting.”
“There is nothing wrong with my handwriting!”
“Depends on your standard, Granger. Regardless, point remains: stop fidgeting.”
“I’m not,” she sniped back at him and immediately shifted in her seat while tucking her hair back behind her ears.
“Honestly… either spit it out or move tables. I genuinely do not care which.”
“It’s nothing.”
“The table two over looks like it has fantastic light; why don’t you go check for me?”
“Fine, it’s just, well, Ron and Harry are coming to visit.”
“Really? Is that why you’re wearing the hideous skirt? Unable to sit still with anticipation.”
“What’s wrong with my skirt?”
“Too much to go into and rewrite my Charms work. Why don’t you just go then? Go primp or whatever you girls do when you’re looking forward to a date.”
“It’s not a date!” her voice was shrill, and it was enough for Draco to look up from his paper.
Even though they had progressed to occasionally speaking, they rarely looked at each other. Now, he took a moment to truly study her as she moved even more under his inspection. Her bottom lip was redder than normal and swollen as if she had been chewing on it; her hair was twisted into what he thought was meant to be some sort of up-do—she would have been better served by leaving it down. Her eyes flicked around the room, never resting, and her fingers tapped a nervous beat on the desk.
“You’re nervous,” he said finally, giving her the courtesy of looking back down to his paper and giving her a respite from his gaze.
She didn’t even bother denying it.
“It’s just the last time we saw each other; there was a bit of a row.”
There it was, more information. More priceless information. However, the wobble of uncertainty in her voice meant he couldn’t even enjoy it. Not that he pitied her. Draco guessed that Granger would want his pity about as much as he wanted hers, but she was clearly the brains behind the trio, breeding aside. Without her, Weaslby and Potter had no chance, and so the fact they had made her feel like she had something to worry about was outrageous. More outrageous was he had seen this witch go toe to toe with the most terrifying humans he’d ever met, and it was her friends that made her falter.
“So much for Gryffindor courage. I thought you were meant to be a roaring lioness. Here you are, a cowering kitten in a hideous skirt.”
“I am not cowering!”
He looked at her again, just a second of calculating perusal. She met his eye and held it, and the way curls escaped that hideous updo and shimmered around her face reminded him that she had come over and sat with him, a man who clearly didn’t like her, for some unknown reason.
“No, I supposed you’re not. Fine, just a regular kitten. Still in a hideous skirt, though.”
Hermione just huffed. Crossed her arms over her chest, which made her tits look far more inviting than they had any right to. Shit. She was a filthy mudblood; looking at her tits was not what he should be doing.
“They’re your friends, Granger. If you can sit with me multiple hours a week and walk away unscathed, I am sure you can handle an evening with them.”
He wasn’t sure why he said it but it seemed to work. She stopped fidgeting and returned to her homework. He looked back down at his paper and tried his best to stop thinking about her tits. But she wasn’t done.
“Is it really that bad? My skirt?”
Malfoy just sighed. This was beyond investigating inconsistencies in her character. This was bordering on friendly.
“Yes,” he said, captivated by the flicker of hurt on her face. Beautiful agony. She bit her bottom lip again, this time so hard he saw blood swell from the mark, red, jewel-toned. He knew it was that colour, of course. Had watched as the house elves scrubbed it off his drawing room floor.
“That said, I don’t think anyone has listed your clothing as a reason to care for you, Granger. So it doesn’t matter.”
“We can’t all have custom wardrobes, brand new for each season,” she said, her brows furrowing together and her fight returning.
“No, I’m learning that,” he fought the smile but was unsuccessful, “Luckily, I look amazing in everything.”
Then she laughed. Not a snort or a scoff but a peel of giggles, the likes of which Draco hadn’t heard since before times and never in response to him. Pureblood girls didn’t laugh like that, and it was a shame because it was the sound of joy. It was contagious—his laugh joined hers deeper and richer and just as unfamiliar. Rarer still was as they laughed, they actually looked each other in the eyes until their laughter faded into something softer, and Hermione’s expression changed from mirth to something more layered. Partly sad, partly angry, partly intrigued.
“What brings Potter and Weasley to visit anyway?” he asked, maintaining eye contact. Later, he would tell himself it was a strategic decision to ask her that. A chance for more priceless information.
She hesitated momentarily, and Draco was sure she would brush him off. Which was fine. He didn’t want to know, really.
“It’s my birthday,” she finally confessed.
The polite thing to do was to wish her Happy Birthday. He could. He didn’t even have to mean it. But he couldn’t force the words.
“Hmm, so you’re a Virgo,” he said, still looking at her, his face impassive, “that makes sense.”
Notes:
And Teenage Draco has entered the chat.
Just a note, these chapters are meant to be what Draco is learning about their relationship from his journals. Hence the POV shift. He's about reliable in relaying information as any of us are in our journals. So keep that in mind.
Thank you to everyone who has read and commented. Comments are writing fuel. xx
Chapter Text
The next day, she went to work early. Between covering the Pit and her conversation with Draco, Hermione was terribly behind on her cases. The only way she’d been able to escape the situation the day before was by pretending she had a consult in another part of the hospital and fleeing home early instead. Until she’d come up with that plan, she’d stayed silent. Let him speak and give him nothing that could be used against her later.
There had always been a chance, when she’d made her choice all those years ago, that this could happen. She’d assumed that it would have been early on, though. If her spell was going to fail or there was some evidence she’d overlooked, the consequences would have been swift, maybe six months after, not sixteen years.
She’d relaxed.
She’d stopped making contingencies.
Without a clear plan of what to do, running home had been the logical choice.
Hermione opened the door to her office and swished her wand to turn on the lights, only to find Draco Malfoy sitting at her desk, still in the same clothes as yesterday.
“Good morning, Kit,” he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him, “Have you finished cowering yet?”
Hermione froze, her scarf only half unwound from her neck.
“I don’t suppose you brought any tea with you? I have to say, your office is sizable, but aside from the packet of hobnobs I found in your top drawer, it’s woefully understocked.”
“You ate my biscuits?” she asked because she wasn’t sure what else she could say.
“You erased my memory; I would say, let’s call it even, but a few biscuits don’t even begin to cover it.”
The implied threat hung in the air between them.
“Now, I know for a fact you have no appointments this morning,” he cast a hand towards her appointment book, which he’d gotten out of her drawer over night and clearly read without consent, “Plenty of time for you to answer my questions.”
Hermione slowly divested herself of her scarf and coat, looking anywhere but at him.
“Mr Malfoy,” she started cautiously, “I can tell you are distressed, but I don’t know-”
“Granger, cut the bullshit. I have a gap in my memory and no explanation as to why. We can either discuss this now, or I can take my evidence to the DMLE and have them investigate you. Maybe I should have done that anyway,” Draco sighed and leaned back, eyes to the ceiling for a moment before looking back at her, his lingering gaze on her forearm. “I just felt, given what I do remember, I might owe you a chance to explain yourself first.”
Hermione didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She was too busy managing her reaction to the first glimpse of the man she thought she had known all those years ago. Arrogant and flippant but with a heart juggling kindness, remorse, and growth. He’d looked at her like that back then, too.
Before.
“Or maybe I don’t owe you anything. Maybe we’ve already settled that score. See, that’s the thing, Granger, I can’t remember.”
Hermione swallowed. She would not be able to get out of this by ignoring it. She had considered, just briefly, trying to acquire the journals and then removing Draco’s memory of reading them. However, aside from the fact she had never been to Malfoy Manor and knew she would never make it through the wards, she also knew Draco. He was too smart to let the journals be the only evidence now. He wouldn’t trust her not to do it again and so would have created a failsafe. Maybe more than one.
With a deep breath, she pulled her patient chair across the room and sat down, facing him. There was no escaping this now; there was just minimizing the damage.
“We had a relationship of sorts,” she confessed, and moving boxes in her mind started to rattle.
So much history begging to be aired, but he would only be getting that sentence. Draco nodded curtly, but his eyes shuttered.
“How long?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.
“I don’t know how to answer that; we never really discussed it, so my timeline and yours might be completely different,” she obfuscated.
“Estimate for me,” he drawled.
“Roughly February 1999 to the end of school,” she said, keeping with the most simple timeline for him.
“And you wiped the memory of it from my mind?” he asked.
Hermione shifted nervously again, her fingers tapping out an indecisive rhythm on her thigh, “I don’t think, given everything-”
“Right,” Draco interrupted her, “You won’t confirm that as it’s akin to a confession and could be used against you at a later date. Were you this calculating when we started dating?”
“No,” Hermione was able to be completely truthful, “And dating is a generous term for what we did.”
Draco relaxed just slightly at that. As if it was what he expected.
“So we were just fucking?”
Hermione would have liked to say yes. It would have been so much simpler if the answer had been yes.
“No, there was a little more to it than that.”
Again, that accepting nod, but with a clench of the jaw, a tiny shift in his seat.
“And then my question, again. Why? Why did you feel the need to remove any recollection of it?”
The box with the answer rattled, but it was so well reinforced, Hermione knew nothing would get out.
“It’s really not important,” she said.
“Were you embarrassed that you’d let a Death Eater into your knickers? Is that it? You wanted to make sure I couldn’t blackmail you with that information at a later date?”
“Former Death Eater,” she corrected automatically.
“Excuse me?” The edge was back in his gaze and tone, and Hermione recognised the need to tread carefully.
“You weren’t loyal to Voldemort or blood politics at the time we were dating, fucking, whatever it was. You were a former Death Eater.”
“Granger, given I can’t remember what I thought and felt about blood politics at the time we were dating, fucking, whatever, you’re awfully confident. Did I tell you that? That I was done with it all?”
She regretted bringing it up at all. In truth, she didn’t know for sure. They had never spoken about it. She had inferred it at the time. Using the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, the way he seemed to understand her, as evidence. But it was all an assumption. One she had no way of knowing with certainty, and the way it ended should have given her cause to hesitate. She never did, though. She kept telling herself the narrative that he was reformed; deep down, he didn’t believe any hateful things.
“I didn’t think so,” Draco took her silence as an answer, and she was grateful. She didn’t want to have to say it. “So, sweeping declarations of my personality aside, was it shame? Worried you would wake up one morning to see the headline “Death-Eater Whore” above your photo?”
“No, I was quite used to Rita writing foul things by then,” she mused darkly.
“So why the secret?”
Hermione didn’t answer him. It was on the list of things she wouldn’t talk about. To tell him that would be pulling on the first thread of why it ended.
“Not going to answer?”
“It’s really not important,” she said.
“It clearly is, or I would have my memories of it.”
“Draco-” she started, and the use of his first name made him look like she’d slapped him. She stopped speaking at once.
“So,” he regained some control of himself and prodded in the silence, “What am I to take from this is you won’t be telling me why.”
“No, what you should take from it is that the why doesn’t matter. It was a few months of a mostly superficial relationship. A school relationship. You lose nothing from not remembering, trust me.”
She wanted him to drop it. He didn’t need to remember her or them. They would both be happier if he didn’t.
“I’m not going to drop this, Granger,” he said, rising and brushing the nonexistent creases from his trousers.
“You should,” she said, also standing. Might as well be polite to the man who could destroy her life.
“I’m not. But I am also not going to sit through a conversation where you deflect and give me non-answers. I have the journals. I’ve just skimmed them, but I can read them,” he said, “go searching for the answer among the paragraphs describing all the times I pushed you up against a bookshelf and made you come all over my fingers.”
He was being crude again. She forced herself not to react.
“That’s your choice,” was all she replied.
“Or maybe I’ll do away with searching, and you’ll just have an Auror come to your door instead. They can figure it out.”
“That would also be your choice,” she whispered. She didn’t want to face the consequences, but maybe she should. It would be easier than opening that box again.
“I can’t figure out if you are being brave, stupid, or if I once taught you so well that now I can’t tell that I’m being played. But, I am going to learn exactly what happened, Granger. I’ll be back when I have better questions to ask. ”
And then he was gone, leaving Hermione with a rapidly pounding heart and sweaty palms. Her knees gave out just as she reached her desk chair. It was still warm from the heat of his body and still smelt like him. She didn’t understand how something could be so familiar after sixteen years, nor could she stop the wracking sob that tore from her chest.
***
“Granger was back in the library today after missing dinner last night; presumably, she dined with Potter and Weaselby outside the castle. Probably the Three Broomsticks. I am sure they thought it was quite a treat to celebrate her birthday. Idiots have no idea how to stage a proper celebration. Or maybe they do and just don’t care to, not when Granger seems happy with their scraps-”
Draco was sitting in her office chair again when she returned from her staff meeting. Feet propped on the desk, reading aloud from a black, leather-bound journal. She thought she had experienced all the pain that their relationship could provide, that she was numb to it now. However, hearing his dismissive words stung more than it should. She remembered the day after her birthday; she had speculated as to his thoughts. She had been way off in her assumptions.
“-She was back in jeans again, which, given her taste in skirts, is probably a blessing. The woman wouldn’t know good fashion if it jumped out of a closet like a Boggart-”
He paused and ran an appraising eye over her outfit. It was a perfectly respectable pair of tailored trousers and a pure silk blouse. She still didn’t like skirts, but not for the reason he assumed.
“-Still, she looks happier this morning than before she left. Hard to tell if she has what Dolohov and Jugson called a ‘freshly-fucked’ look, and that’s what’s put her in such a good mood. As much as she insists that she isn’t available to Weasley anymore, I find it hard to believe. Unless she means she has her heart set on Potter after all that time together in a tent-”
She really needed to figure out how he was bypassing all the security and getting into her office when she wasn’t there. It was the third time that week she’d come back to find him at her desk.
Part of her had considered reporting him to security. It might lead to him being stopped in the lobby. An even smaller, darker part of her considered how it could look if a former Death Eater was reported to be stalking her, a famous Muggleborn. She had contacts. She could use them. The only thing that stopped her was the fact that he hadn’t pulled his trigger.
The trial for her parent’s obliviation had been awful. Her allies had tried to make it as easy as it could be for her. Closed courtroom. Multiple witnesses to speak on her behalf. But there had still been a trial. There had still been a sector of their society that thought she should have been used as an example that the rules would apply to everyone, regardless of social status. It was that sector that had insisted on the trial in the first place. She had walked away with a full pardon. She didn’t know if she would get the same treatment a second time around. And she didn’t know if her allies would stand with her if the whole truth came out.
“She didn’t seem inclined to talk about it when she sat at our table in the library, which is a shame. Information on Potter and Weasley could be worth a lot in the right circles. I thought she was finally starting to open up after yesterday, but perhaps it will take a little more time.”
Draco paused his dramatic reading and looked at her.
“Is that why you wiped my memories of it? You’d confided too much in me about the Boy Wonder and needed to protect him? It would be very on-brand for you.”
Hermione considered just agreeing. It would make him leave. It might make this whole thing stop.
“For me to accept that as the reason, you would have to tell me the grand secret you protected. Otherwise, I am just going to keep reading, keep coming back here,” he said, and Hermione checked her mental walls. They were intact.
“You’re a talented Occlumens, but it does naught when the truth is in your eyes,” he said, closing the journal and slipping it back into the pocket of his robes. “Did I teach you? Occlumency, I mean, not how to communicate your every thought with your eyes.”
Hermione shook her head.
“I didn’t even know you were an Occlumens,” she confessed, uneasily. She thought she knew all the important things.
“The fact you didn’t tells me our relationship was closer to just fucking than you maybe believed.”
God, he was good at being casually cruel. She ignored him. It was the fastest way to make him leave.
“So, it wasn’t to protect Potter?” he asked, more a statement than a question.
“No, we didn’t really talk about other people all that much. Not in a way that would reveal any secrets, anyway.”
Draco just nodded, taking it all in.
“Shame, if I were using you purely for information, it would make more sense. Although, maybe not just information. I found a great section last night where I wrote about discovering that you had tits. I can read it to you if you like? I have it marked.”
Hermione again chose to ignore him, and her lack of reaction caused him to move on.
“You didn’t marry Potter,” he said finally.
“No,” Hermione smiled, “That was always going to be Ginny. And as hard as it may be to believe, after the war, I had no interest in him or Ron.”
“Why not?” Draco asked, “I didn’t think to ask back then apparently, or maybe I did but didn’t find your answer interesting enough to write down. Either way, colour me curious.”
Hermione considered telling him. It would be so easy. There was something about Draco that always made it easy to tell him things. Maybe it was just that he was one of the few people who asked. She’d been sucked into that trap before, and look where it had gotten them.
“It’s not pertinent here,” she said, and Draco stood abruptly.
“Yes, you do seem to like being in complete control of what is and is not ‘pertinent’. I’ll be back when I have my next question, Granger. Don’t hurt yourself thinking of ways to avoid me. I assure you it can’t be done, and if it can, I’ll just send the Aurors.”
Notes:
Are we all ready for two damaged people?
Thank you so much for everyone who has been commenting and liking. It's always so lovely when you realise that someone else finds your story interesting, especially when said story has these two idiots being idiotic.
Chapter Text
Granger was in a tizzy. She had sat down and completely ignored the rules of studying together mostly in silence, and started talking immediately.
“I can’t believe, after everything we all went through, there are still professors who would make such outrageous claims,” she ranted, cheeks flushed, looking frantically around the room.
Draco had no idea what was going on.
“Which professor?” he asked, seeking some form of clarity. Just so she would be quiet, of course. He wasn’t actually interested.
“Professor Grant,” she huffed, “I went to seek some deliniation on how partial species transfiguration differed from animagus transfiguration, and he took it as an invitation to explain how certain bloodlines were naturally gifted in the art. So thinly veiled it might as well have been see-through!”
Draco tried his best to keep his eyebrows from raising into his hairline. He didn’t think Grant had it in him. While he was a well-established member of certain circles, the new transfiguration professor had shown no signs of sharing those beliefs publicly, especially not in his very public role as McGonagall’s replacement.
“Aside from the fact there is no evidence that “blood status” has anything to do with ability, not that the wizarding world would know enough about the scientific method to gather evidence, he didn’t even answer my question!”
She had taken his reaction as curiosity. Either that, or she didn’t care if he was interested, and she would continue to rant. Thinking back to vague scenes of her lecturing Potty and Weasel, that actually seemed to be right in character. He wondered what it would take to stop her when she was on a roll like this. How he would like to succeed where Potter and Weasley had failed.
“Instead, I had to listen to him talk about how he’s from a long line of transfiguration prodigies, and that was probably why he’d always had an innate understanding of the underlying differences in spellwork-”
He was, and Draco thought that it was completely reasonable to assume that is why the man had gained the position. It was in his blood. Some things could not be taught.
“And then he said, some things just can’t be taught!” Hermione finished shrilly.
She paused.As if it was finally time for his input. He suppressed his first response. Then, the second.
“Granger, are you trying to start a conversation about blood politics with me?” he asked, which still might have been the wrong thing to say judging by the way her blush deepened and shoulders slumped.
“Well, I just assumed, given everything, that you had-”
Draco cut her off before she forced him to make a declaration that neither of them were ready for.
“Are you, or are you not, a Gryffindor war hero?” he asked, and she looked uneasy. Too bloody modest to claim the title, probably. Fucking ‘good guys’. “You really are a little kitten, aren’t you? Ok, listen to me carefully, Kit, because I’m going to tell you something you would never have heard in all those years in the Lion’s Den. You have leverage. If you don’t like what this professor is saying, use it and get rid of him.”
It was a harsh outcome for Grant if Granger listened to him, but the distraction from her original statement was working. He had no loyalty to the man.
“So I just go to McGonagall and demand he be fired?” she asked, and Draco couldn’t help but laugh.
“Oh, Kit, you are lucky that some things can be taught. You don’t go at it head-on,” he said, and Hermione cocked her head quizzically.
In for a knut, in for a galleon.
“You have tea with the headmistress? Occasionally see important people at the Ministry? On the board of Governors?”
Hermione shifted uncomfortably.
“They’re my friends,” she said, looking down.
“They are your contacts,” he rephrased for her, “Next time you see McGonagall, just casually mention that Grant said something about transfiguration being an innate skill, or better yet, ask your question about partial transfiguration again without mentioning Grant at all. When she asks what you think of Grant after she answers you, and she will, at first, say you don’t want to speak out of turn, and when she pushes you, mention he has made certain comments about blood purity that have made you feel uneasy. Also, go floo call the bespeckled saviour and say the same thing, and I’ll bet he’ll be complaining to Kingsley before Friday dinner.”
Hermione considered that.
“That will work?” she asked after a while.
Draco smirked in the affirmative.
She pondered a little longer, so long that Draco considered going back to his homework now that she was finally quiet enough that he could concentrate, she spoke before he did.
“And you think I should?” she followed up.
“Irrelevant. No one has cared what I think for quite some time. They care what you think, though, and you’d be a fool not to use that to shape the world you want.”
The statement hung in the air for a little while and Draco realised that the world she wanted may not have a place for him. No matter; he didn’t want the place carved out in the before world anyway. There was no loss for him either way.
“Thank you, Draco,” Hermione said quietly, opening her books ready to study.
Three weeks later, Grant was sent packing from Hogwarts, and Hermione met Draco every day with a smile that was far too kind for someone like him.
***
Winter exams destroyed their sanctuary. The first day Hermione entered the library and saw that it wasn’t just him in their corner with a sea of empty tables, she turned and walked straight back out.
It wasn’t a surprise. The fact that the Golden Girl didn’t want to sit with him where people could see. Circe, he didn’t want to sit with her, either. Not when, no matter how much had changed, there were still plenty of pureblood scions who were more than happy to write gossip in their letters home, and that gossip would undoubtedly make its way back to his mother. The woman would not know what to make of the information that he was sharing a table with the Mudblood Princess herself.
Eventually, the people in the library became too much for Draco. He could feel them watching him—judging him. Homework and study be damned. He went to find respite. Hard to do when the walls of the castle were inflicted on him as punishment. He wanted to go home.
It made sense to go outside. It was cold, and everyone was studying; logic dictated that he should have all the space he needed.
He’d forgotten that Hermione Granger defied all standard definitions of logic. He found her sitting on the ground, back against a tree, charming piles of snow into little animals that danced around her.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asked, because he couldn’t not speak to her once they had made eye contact.
“Warming charms,” she said with a shrug.
“Warming charms don’t keep you dry when you sit on snow,” he said, offering a hand to help her off the ground.
Etiquette training.
Hermione looked as surprised as he felt and stared at his extended hand as if to give him a moment to take it back. When he didn’t, she accepted it, and he pulled her to her feet.
Like everything else about her, her hand defied expectation. He thought it would be rough. Rumour had it that the Golden Trio had been camping for much of the previous year, and Hermione’s appearance that day in April had done little to assuage the idea they had been roughing it. However, her skin was soft and warm. Hands not too small, but refined with long fingers and perfectly shaped nails. Narcissa would have approved.
She cast a quick drying charm on her clothes, and Draco had to willfully ignore the questions he had about why a war hero was happy to sit, damp in the snow. Alone.
“I was going to walk,” he said, not quite an invitation but not a goodbye.
“I like to walk,” Hermione replied, not quite an acceptance but not a refusal. When Draco started down the narrow path next to the lake, she followed.
It crossed Draco’s mind that this was quite the leap from Mostly Silent studying, but at the same time, it didn’t feel forced or engineered. He should know; most things he’d experienced fell into one of those two categories.
Winter birdsong and their footsteps were the only sounds as they started on their path. Draco occasionally drifted off the worn gravel to kick a stone or climb a tree root. It felt good to move his body again.
He could feel Granger watching him as she followed, and he wondered if his behaviour confused her. It would serve her right. Payback for all the times she had confused him in the last two months.
She didn’t ask anything, just adjusted her gait so she stayed behind him no matter how far he meandered. She either had greater self-control than he did or didn’t find him as intriguing as he found her. Both thoughts left a sour taste, his discontent only growing the longer they walked in silence.
“What are you doing for the Christmas holidays?” Draco asked, wanting something from her besides the sound of her breathing and constant presence.
“I’m staying here,” she said.
He was too. Ministry orders. She either knew that or wasn’t interested enough to ask.
“I didn’t think your sidekicks would let you. Don’t you need to all gather together to toast the better world you’ve built and pat each other on the back?”
It was crueler than it needed to be, but it felt good. The falter in her step let him know that his barb had found its mark, and it felt normal. Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger didn’t walk together.
“Right,” she said, stopping completely, “I’m going back to the castle. Enjoy being a prick by yourself, Malfoy.”
She dusted off her robes as if a casual stroll had made them dirty and turned on her heel to return to the castle. Whatever he had been hoping to gain, it wasn’t that.
“Wait!” he called after her, gratified when she stopped. Her back was still to him, but it was better than nothing, “I’ll stop.”
“Stop what?” she asked, and Draco had to curse her sense for asking him to clarify. In his experience, girls didn’t. You just needed to tell them something vague, and they would fill in the blanks with what they wanted to hear.
“Stop being a prick.”
And he would, because as much as he didn’t like the feeling that had overcome him during their peaceful walk, at that very moment, he knew being alone would be even worse.
She didn’t give-in immediately, just stared back at the castle, her shoulders moving with her long, steady breaths. There was an itching in his palm to offer a hand to her again, but he just dug his fingernails into his skin and felt the sting.
“Fine,” was the eventual answer, and her face was carefully schooled as they picked up their journey; his steps wide and unnecessary, hers careful and slow.
She didn’t try to engage him, and he tried to let the silent company be enough, but there were those inconsistencies between what he expected and what he observed that he needed to know more about.
“So why aren’t you with your parents then? If you're not spending it with the Wonder Twins? Do Muggles not celebrate Christmas?”
“Muggles celebrate Christmas,” she said, her breath appearing in little white puffs in front of her as she spoke, “My parents are in Australia.”
“You’re Australian?” he asked; her accent was similar to his, so it seemed unlikely.
“No,” she said, and he waited for her to elaborate.
She didn’t. She finally overtook him and strode down the path, Draco needed to abandon his long looping path to keep up with her. She powered on until she reached a rocky outcrop into the lake and stood at the very edge, her face toward the wind, overlooking the water.
“I don’t mean to complain, but you are a shocking conversationalist,” he said, coming to stand next to her—the warmth of her overtaking his right side as he did so.
“I don’t really want to talk, Malfoy,” she said.
“Ok,” he shrugged, “Do you want to keep walking?”
She just shook her head, and if it had been Pansy standing there in the cold, it would have been a test. There would have been a correct way to respond, but he would have had to figure it out. This felt different. Like she was in her own private moment; she didn’t want anything from him but he was allowed to be there..
“What do you want?” he asked because if it wasn’t a test, there was no reason he couldn’t.
“Just to feel,” she said, closing her eyes as the next gust of wind pierced through his cloak and the warmth to his right disappeared. She had dropped her warming charm.
He could have recast it for her, but she’d said it herself; she wanted to feel. He assumed that meant the cold. Whether it was some strange Muggle practice or some bizarre reaction from the war, he didn’t know. Yet standing next to her, allowed to see this, made him feel something he hadn’t since long before the war. It was something akin to pride.
Her lips were tinged blue by the time she turned to face him. He was sure his were too; the cold in his extremities was painful. She looked into his eyes briefly, hands loose by her side, before she surged forward, hands looping behind his neck and fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. She pushed to her tiptoes, and in an instant, her lips met his. Cold gave way to burning.
It was instinct to respond. That’s what he told himself later. His mouth opened a little in surprise, and when he felt the brush of her tongue probing delicately, he couldn’t help but meet it with his own. When her lips moved to deepen the kiss, it was thousands of years of humanity that had him nipping at her bottom lip in response. Yet, before he could bring his hands to wrap around her waist and pull her closer, she stepped away. Brown eyes searched him like they had been searching the horizon moments before.
She said nothing, just brought her fingers to her lips and stared.
“Don’t think,” Draco said, as much to himself as her. He could feel his mind ready to propel him towards a cliff he hadn’t noticed was there, “Just feel.”
Her fingers remained on her mouth, but she nodded at him, then turned and strode back to the castle. Draco didn’t move. He took his own advice and stood there, revelling in the first gentle touch he’d received in months.
Notes:
It's happening... It's happening... you'll note the lack of slow burn tag on this one...
Thank you so much for everyone who is reading, commenting and kudos-ing. The support means so much!
Chapter Text
“Your parents are in Australia.”
Draco was not in her office when she arrived at work the following day. He was also not there when she finished her staff meeting. Every time she walked back to an empty room, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had never been more appreciative of a dark, empty room.
It had been enough time without a sighting that Hermione had loosened her grip on her occlumency. Been able to lose herself in case files and notes. It was a relief, not having a tiny part of her brain ready to protect herself at any moment. Then she’d decided to go down to the tea shop on the first floor for a mid-afternoon pick-me-up, and there he was. Leaning against a large planter as if he had been waiting for her.
“I read about it last night. You didn’t go to Christmas with them because they were in Australia,” he stalked toward her, takeaway cup already in hand.
“Am I allowed to get tea first?” she asked, sighing deeply and checking that her moving boxes were all still taped tightly. The returning weight on her mind pinched like a grass seed stuck on the inside of a sleeve.
“You can get a cup of tea during, darling. I’ll just stand with you in line and continue asking questions where anyone can overhear.”
Hermione sighed and turned back to the elevators. She could feel his smirk as he followed. Once they were ensconced in the car, no other passengers, thank goodness, she turned to face him.
“Your questions?” she asked. Maybe if this were quick, she would have time to return and get a tea. She still hadn’t replaced the biscuits he’d stolen; she needed something.
“I don’t know why you’re the one who’s acting put out. I’m the one who’s been wronged,” he said.
She waited. And waited. The lights blinked on each button as they went past each floor.
“Do you want me to start here?” he asked after a minute, “I never took you for someone who enjoyed being exposed in semi-public places, Granger, but maybe I have that delightful section to come in my journal.”
“You do realise this innuendo does nothing, don’t you? We had sex. I have since had sex with other people. As have you. I’m also a doctor, very familiar with how it all works,” she said flatly as his nostrils flared and lips tightened.
“No foreplay then,” he muttered as the elevator stopped on her floor, and Draco led the way to her office.
“Your parents,” he repeated once she had shut and silenced the door.
“Yes, I have parents,” she said.
“They were the Muggles you were charged with tampering with all those years ago.”
Hermione felt her throat tighten. She preferred it when he was making lewd comments.
“That was never made public. And the trial happened well after our time together,” she raised her chin just a little to meet his gaze.
“Yes, but you spoke of them to me in eighth year. Told me they were in Australia.”
She had told him a lot more than that by the time their relationship was through.
“Your trial was spoken about in hushed whispers, of course, some appalled, some with barely suppressed glee-”
She wondered which he was.
“-The Golden Girl, ready to be hoisted on her own petard. It was poetic. Campaigning for equality only to be forced to front for her war crimes the same as any of us. No one knew who you had meddled with, though. Until I read about the day you told me they were in Australia. Then it all made sense.”
Hermione took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.
“Their charm was irreversible,” she confirmed, “and the Wizengamot agreed that due to their lack of knowledge and the ever-present threat to them by purely being related to me, a woman they couldn’t even remember, their identities and location were to be suppressed.”
“But you told me about them?” Draco asked, his voice softening.
She wasn’t sure if he meant just their existence or their location, or if he was alluding to all the times they had stayed up studying memory charms together and how he had held her while she mourned their loss.
Probably would depend on whether he had read about that yet. Or whether he had even considered it important enough to write down at the time.
“I did,” she confirmed.
“Is that why you did it? Worried that once we’d stopped fucking I would pass that information on to one of my old comrades? Put them in danger?”
It was Hermione’s turn to chuckle darkly.
“I probably should have. Worried about that, I mean. But no.”
She sighed again and leaned against the wall near the door. For a brief moment, she just wanted a tiny bit of support, even if it was from a wall.
“No?”
“No, I believed that you were completely reformed. And even if you weren’t, you never had the taste for murder.”
Draco considered her for a minute. Taking his now-established place at her desk chair, he put his cup of tea on her papers.
“You know, it’s ironic. It seems you believed in me a great deal more than most people did in eighth year,” he said, tone wistful. And while it would have been so easy to relax, she knew she had to keep her guard up. “And yet at the end of it all, you were the one to treat me the worst. Did I see it coming? Have a moment when I registered the betrayal? Have a moment when I tried to talk you out of it?”
Hermione pushed away from the wall but said nothing, looking into his grey eyes. The grey eyes she knew and loved so well. So, so disappointed with her now.
“Oh right,” he said with a chuckle, “To answer that would be tantamount to confessing.”
Silence was her best friend. He was running out of steam again and he didn’t seem angry or sad, just resigned. Hopefully, he would be done soon.
“Well, I suppose it’s back to my reading then,” he said, getting up.
Hermione unlocked the door and held it open for him. Still wordless. Almost holding her breath.
“Just one more thing, Granger,” Draco said as he came to stand level with her, “Why did you kiss me that day at the lake? I wrote a lot about it but had no idea why you did it.”
The memory was just there. She knew the box well. On nights when she was particularly lonely, she sometimes took it out and revisited it.
She had been so cold that day; it was almost painful, which she remembered was better than being numb. She was never numb when she was around Draco Malfoy. She’d also never had a first kiss that could come close in comparison. The way it filled her chest. Talking about it was a slippery slope to a place she couldn’t go back to.
“It was such a long time ago now, Malfoy. I promise, it really-”
“-doesn’t matter. You’re nothing if not predictable, Granger. I’ll give you that.”
Draco tapped the door frame and left with a nod. Hermione saw his cup of tea still on her desk and, assuming it was empty, went to throw it in the bin. She was surprised by the weight; it was still full. Without a thought, she took it to the hallway, ready to return it.
“Draco, your tea!” she said, catching him at the lift doors.
“Keep it, Granger. You’re a doctor, after all. If you get tired, you could kill someone, and we can’t have another thing on your conscience.”
Notes:
I know, this is late. I have been away on a family vacation. I wasn't going to post until I had conquered the mountain of laundry that tends to form after these things but then I got such a lovely comment from BeACowgirlBaby, that I decided that clean clothes were overrated.
Enjoy... or whatever it is appropriate to do when you are reading about two repressed and damaged people who are really good at hurting each other.
Chapter Text
They had ignored each other for the Christmas break, even though only a handful of students were around. On Christmas Day, Draco had been forced to sit across from her while she pushed turkey around her plate and eventually put on one of the ridiculous cracker hats at the continued urging of that oaf, Hagrid. It looked ridiculous, some orange thing, which was unfortunate given she had one of the few complexions that looked as good in green as red. Who made an orange Christmas hat anyway?
There were no more frosty walks together, even though Draco took one daily. He’d progressed from wandering off the path to kick and climb and jump, to jogging along the lakeside. It felt good to move his body. It felt good to feel his lungs burn with exertion. It felt good to be so focused on his next step, his next breath, that his brain had no space to think about how good it had felt to kiss Hermione Granger.
As much as he tried to chalk it up to instinct, his dreams had warped from scene-for-scene flashbacks of the war to a twisted narrative where his dream-self’s only mission was to kiss her again. He only hoped that wherever she was in the castle, she was as tormented by her thoughts as he was. He’d told her not to think; he’d lied. He wanted thoughts of him to unravel her completely.
It wasn’t until classes restarted that he went back to the library. She was there, at their table, an offering of books piled in the middle, hair up, long neck exposed. He didn’t speak as he walked over to her, just moved past her chair, close enough that the cuff of his sleeve brushed her bare neck. Close enough that he could see the spray of goosebumps that erupted at the touch. Close enough, he could smell the coffee and vanilla.
He didn’t speak as he pulled out his Transfiguration essay. He was already mostly done; there were gaps where he’d left space for the needed references. She was watching him; no more nervous eyes searching for nothing on the back wall or the horizon. Just considered him, calmly studying his face.
She selected a book and slid it over to him. It was the one he needed. He took it from her, making sure the tips of his fingers skated along hers as he did so.
She didn’t flinch.
She didn’t look away.
So began a new game. Studying in mostly silence and covertly touching. Fingers and hands were the easiest prey. Salazar knows they didn’t need to exchange paper, ink, and quills nearly as much as they did, but the glances of skin against skin as they did so weaved their way through his nightmares night after night.
Feet and ankles were other easy targets. He could stretch out under the table. Claim the space and feel his trouser leg graze against her. If only she had worn skirts more often, like other girls in their free time, he might have a chance of brushing bare skin. As it was, he had to make do with the days she came still in uniform. The thinner fabric of her knee socks was more gratifying than the thick feel of denim.
The bolder he got, the more options were presented to him. If he ran a finger over the back of her chair as he passed, he could feel the lines of her back. If he came up behind her as she reached for a book, he could feel the heat of her body against his, and when she shuffled back infinitesimally, feel the full flush of her curves against him. His dreams twisted again until there were no more images of war, just soft curves. And coffee and vanilla.
He was grateful for the distraction. Lucius’ sentencing date was one of the first on the Wizengamot’s docket for the New Year. Already found guilty, Azkaban was a certainty. Draco was grateful for that. The man could rot, and he would happily dance on whatever decomposed corpse was left. However, Malfoy Manor and the Malfoy vaults were still in the balance.
The Black vaults, of which he was the rightful heir by blood, had already been redirected to one Harry Fucking Potter. As if it wasn’t bad enough, he’d taken up residence in the Black London townhouse. If the Wizengamot decided that the Malfoy holdings were better directed to someone else or to be used as bloody war reparations, he and his mother would be looking for a hovel alongside the Weasleys. He doubted Narcissa could cope with employment; without his inheritance, it would be up to him to ensure they would still eat.
Narcissa wrote to him often. She wrote of the ministry officials who passed files during the sentencing hearing. She wrote of his father, still too proud to make a statement asking for the consideration of his wife and son. Then, on the day their fate was to be decided, she wrote of the “victim statement” read in the court.
‘Ms Granger’s statement was most unexpected. Not read by her, of course, but Minerva McGonagall, who made a special trip from Hogwarts. I must confess, having the headmistress there, such a powerful symbol, reading such complimentary words about your dedication to your studies and Miss Granger’s belief that you were too young to be held responsible for your father’s choices. Well, I have to say, I think it swayed the Wizengamot. They only deliberated for 53 minutes before they reentered and declared that while they expected 20% of our funds to be paid to war reparations and a further 7% to Hogwarts, we would keep the remaining 73% and all property. It was a better outcome than we could have hoped for, darling, one that brings me much relief. Whatever you have done to endear yourself to your professor and classmate, I encourage you to continue. While our funds have been mostly restored, there is much to do before our reputation can say the same.’
At first, Draco had wanted to storm the library. Grab Granger by that hideous mop of hair and ensure that she listened when he told her to stay the hell away from his life and even further away from his mother. But he couldn’t. Not when the letter from his mother felt like a weight lifting from his chest, and he could finally breathe again.
He was not going to be responsible for his mother. He would not have to see her lose the last of her dignity as her robes grew out of date and her home was boarded up. He would not have to face rejection letter after rejection letter as he applied for jobs he would have needed, but no one would have been willing to give him. He had to sit with the uncomfortable feeling in his chest and accept that it was gratitude.
He was used to feeling anger towards Hermione Granger. Knew what to do when he felt it. Gratitude, however, especially this type of deep, overwhelming gratitude that sat in his gut and blocked out all other feelings, was completely new. If it had been anyone else, he would have known he could repay them by way of favours, as was the Slytherin way. How did one thank a Gryffindor? He couldn’t say he’d ever been in that position.
The idea came to him while he was at the library, watching her fidget, brushing her jean-clad ankles with his own. He wrote a quick note that night and sent it off with his owl in the morning. Then, for two days, he watched as the post was delivered.
Granger was not a morning person. That much was clear as he watched her sitting alone. She also paid no attention to the post as it came, which made the day that an owl dropped a package in front of her all the more sweet. It landed on whatever book she was reading, startling her and making her look around the hall in surprise. Draco quickly looked down at his eggs, keeping his face deliberately blank. When he looked up again, she had unwrapped the brown paper neatly. He noted there wasn’t ripped or scrunched paper around her as she held up the item he’d purchased for her.
It was olive green. Not Slytherin green, though he was sure he could have gotten some sort of perverse pleasure seeing her in that. Olive, as it would compliment her skin tone beautifully. Raw silk cut on the bias, the hem hitting her knee. A new skirt. One that any girl of his acquaintance would be pleased to wear.
Most importantly, it was from a Muggle tailor, one he had instructed his new ‘man of business’ to ensure was quite well known and therefore, Granger would know it was Muggle. He thought the gesture for her would be worth more than the skirt. The way her cheeks flushed red seemed to confirm his beliefs.
As soon as she clocked what it was, she looked for him across the room and raised an eyebrow. Would the Gryffindor lion be bold enough to come over and speak to him about it? There was no note enclosed, another strict instruction. If she wanted to know, she would have to ask. And given that his mother had explicitly told him to keep cultivating that relationship, the gossips could relay their conversation all they wanted. It was just a matter if the little lioness was brave enough to walk over to him in front of all to see.
There was one second where he thought she would. The eye contact continued, and he saw her bite her lip in indecision. Then, some sixth year leaned across the table to ask her what she had, and her blush deepened as she shoved the skirt into her bag. Still a kitten, it seemed.
When she entered the library after classes, she was wearing the skirt, her cheeks a little pink as she made her way towards him.
“Nice skirt, Kit,” he said when she sat across from him.
He immediately stretched his legs out under the table and was gratified when he felt them brush against bare skin.
“Kit?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes, a little Gryffindor kitten in a not hideous skirt,” he replied.
“And not quivering,” she said, raising her chin.
She had mixed up the words—he’d described her as cowering the last time they spoke of this. The description of ‘quivering’ had his mind go somewhere else, and he moved his feet closer to her, entwining their ankles.
“No, not quivering,” he agreed, though, in his head, he wondered what that might look like.
***
He had a new potions partner, and Draco had to wonder whether his mother had bribed Slughorn, because it was none other than one Hermione Granger. His body, which had left so much space between him and his partner in first year when sitting at the narrow workbenches for two, had grown, and now for an hour and a half on a Tuesday afternoon, his thigh and shoulder pressed against her. In front of everyone.
“Now for a little fun, I thought we might see how you all handle a NEWT level potion,” Slughorn rattled off one afternoon, holding a small clay pot in the air and waving it around. “In this cup are the names of all seven NEWT level potions you will be expected to brew for your final exam. Given that most of you have had some experience brewing at the level, each pair will draw a potion name from the cup and brew it. It will give me a baseline to see where your skills are.”
Draco felt Hermione fidget a little.
“Nervous, Kit?” he asked under his breath.
In their little eighth-year cohort, she was the only one who had never been in a Seventh Year Potions class, the one student excluded by Slughorn’s ‘mostly’.
“I’ll be gentle with you for your first time… brewing, that is,” he continued, pleased when pink tinged her cheeks, and she fidgeted in her seat again.
“Just because I’ve never been in a seventh-grade potions class doesn’t mean it’s the first time I’ve ever brewed a NEWT-level potion,” she huffed.
Draco ran through the list silently: Felix Felicis, Veritaserum, Polyjuice, Draught of the Living Dead, Amortentia, Everlasting Elixir, Universal Poison Antidote. It would make sense if she had focused on poison antidotes during the war. Or perhaps she brewed Potter his own personal supply of Felix Felicis, and that’s how they won it.
“So, you did try brewing and slipping Weaselby Amortentia, then?” he asked, bristling at the thought of her attention being anywhere but on him, even in an imaginary scenario he’d made up to tease her. “I thought it might have been a Slytherin common room rumour.”
Hermione’s colour darkened. Anger this time, he guessed. Also satisfying but not as much as the former.
“Hardly,” she hissed but offered no more information. That wouldn’t do.
“Well, do tell, Granger,” he prompted, and Hermione turned to look at him then.
She studied his person carefully, not caring that she was openly interacting with him in front of a room full of their peers. He didn’t know what she hoped to see, but whatever she did caused her to start speaking.
“Well, obviously, I didn’t go on the run with Harry for a year without having a well-stocked collection of poison antidotes,” she said, and Draco felt the sweet sensation of being right.
But she wasn’t done.
“And there was that time I brewed Polyjuice Potion in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom in Second Year so Harry and Ron could break into the Slytherin common room as Crabbe and Goyle and interrogate you about the Chamber of Secrets.”
Draco was speechless. Of all the things she could say. The amount of information in that one statement! She brewed Polyjuice Potion in Second Year… in a bathroom!
Weaselby and Potter had interrogated him? He would like to reject the premise immediately, except he did remember a peculiar conversation he’d had with his old friends. One where they seemed abnormally interested in what he knew and didn’t remember the password to the common room. It fit. And yet the sheer brazenness was shocking.
“You brewed Polyjuice at age twelve?” he asked, as if his asking the question again was going to herald a different answer.
“Well, technically, I was thirteen… September birthday, remember?” she said, and the hint of smugness in her voice would have put his own to shame.
He immediately wanted to know more. Felt a thousand questions bubble under his tongue. And he would have liked to claim it was another inconsistency with her character that intrigued him, spurring on his conversation, but even he had to admit that this scenario fit with the portrait of the witch he was building. Well, all except one thing.
“Why didn’t you come to grill me about my misdeeds?” he asked, “It’s not like you to let Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee go off on their own.”
A look of surprise crossed her face and Draco registered that it must have been in response to his casual reference to Alice in Wonderland. Lewis Carroll passed himself off as a Muggle for most of his life but was a half-blood wizard. Worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office. Granger clearly hadn’t learnt that little tidbit. Which was preposterous; the white rabbit was so clearly an animagus she should have worked it out by now.
“I was waylaid,” she finally said, “and unable to join them.”
“What do you mean, waylaid?” he pressed. What could have been more important than his interrogation?
“IaccidentallytransformedintoMillicentBullstrode’scat,” she whispered in a rush.
The words were hurried and barely understandable. Still, he thought she’d said…
“You might have to say that again, Granger. In a speed mere humans can follow.”
“I said, ‘I accidentally transformed into Millicent Bullstrode’s cat,’” she hissed, not looking amused, “It was a simple mistake to make; I took what I thought was her hair from her robes and well…”
Draco was able to stifle the laugh but couldn’t stop the broad grin that overtook his face.
“You mean to say that my Kit was quite literally a kitten?” he asked.
The possessive pronoun just happened. He didn’t mean to say it, but the mirth he’d felt had loosened his chest and knocked it free. She’d heard it, too. It was in the way her hands stilled, and her tongue darted out to wet her lip. It was her move. Draco couldn’t breathe.
“Yes,” she said finally, “but I was not trembling, even when I had to go to Madame Pomfrey to help me get rid of the ears.”
She refused to look embarrassed, refused to drop her gaze. And as much as he should have walked his slip back, seeing her steadfast in the aftermath made him want to lean into it. She was drawing him in. Like a moth to light, when she gave him a little glimpse of herself like that, it made him unable to look away.
“Now your turn, Mister Malfoy, Miss Granger!”
Slughorn came up beside them and shoved the pot between them, obliterating whatever had been there.
“Who’s going to choose?” he asked, rocking jollily back on his heels. Granger gestured to Draco, and he reached in and curled his fingers around a slip of parchment.
Amortentia.
Of course it bloody was.
“Excellent!” Slughorn said, “I’ll be keen to see what you make of it. Always tempting to see when you have two outstanding students working together. The possibilities…”
With a flick of his wand, recipes appeared on the board.
“Ok, class, instructions are up there. Off you go!”
Draco and Hermione didn’t speak again. Not with words, anyway. However, the way Granger curled her fingers around the knife handle, brushing against his reaching hand as she did so, spoke volumes. As did the way he reached around her to adjust the flame beneath the cauldron, his arm grazing her lower back. There was never much of a gap between them, and they worked instinctually off one another; Draco didn’t have to ask for an ingredient before it appeared. Granger held out a hand for a stirring rod, a lid, a spoon, and Draco put exactly what she needed in it.
Draco had just leaned over her shoulder to inspect the brew, his cheek close enough to hers to feel the heat before he heard an unwelcome interruption from behind them.
“Professor!” Pansy called, her arm in the air and dead gaze on Draco and Hermione, “Professor, I can’t see the board, what with Granger's hair in the way.”
The complaint shocked Draco to pull back. Hermione blushed again, this one his least favourite of all the colours of her face, embarrassment.
“Ah yes, I may have to rearrange the tables for next week,” chuckled Slughorn, “Or supply some hair smoothing potion at the door to combat the humidity.”
“Sorry, Professor,” Hermione said, pulling a claw clip out of her bag and using it to tame her mane into the semblance of a bun.
Without looking at Draco, she walked toward the store cupboard, empty bowl in hand, but to get which ingredient Draco didn’t know. They had all they needed in front of them.
Their potion was boiling nicely. There was nothing left to prepare. His fingers tapped on the tabletop, waiting. He would later tell himself that he weighed the pros and cons. That he considered the connections of both parties involved to decide which course of action would be most beneficial to him. But it was only 30 seconds of drumming before he turned around and grabbed Pansy’s textbook from where it lay closed on her desk. Another twenty-two seconds to scan the index and open it to the page titled “Everlasting Elixir” with a pointed glare. Twelve seconds more to stand and stalk to the supply cupboard, where he found Hermione staring at a far-off point past the rows of vials and jars.
“Draco?” she said, turning to face him, the empty bowl clutched to her chest.
Seven seconds to close the door and the distance between them. Five to reach behind her and take the ugly clip from her hair. Four for it to fall around her face. Three for him to pull a curl between his fingers. Two for her to question him with a quirk of her brow. One for him to press his lips against hers for a second time.
Then, time stopped altogether.
His hands were buried in her hair, and his lips were moving steadily against hers, wanting to draw her in closer the exact way she bewitched him. She sighed against him, her movements soft and answering.
She yielded.
It tasted exactly as he had remembered that day on the lake. Not like any flavour he’d encountered before, but one he’d been craving ever since.
One of his hands left her hair, trailing down her back, the line of which he knew far better than he should, given who they were to one another. All those covert touches and he’d created a map in his mind. One so worn, that when his hand landed on the small of Hermione’s back to gather her closer, it felt like it was returning home.
There was a clatter to pierce the silence, sudden enough that they both jumped back. Granger had dropped the pewter bowl she’d been holding. She looked stunned like she didn’t even realise the sound had come from her. He knew he should say something, but he wasn’t sure what. Salazar knew he hadn’t been planning on that when he walked into the cupboard.
No, he’d intended to walk in, tell her to buck up and stop expecting him to do all the work and get out again. At least, that’s what he would tell himself his plan was. He couldn’t say anything now; just drank in her stunned look and fought the urge to tug on a curl again.
Before he lost to his worse angels, he grabbed a vial of something off the shelf for cover and returned to their workstation, not caring if Granger followed. In fact, it might be better if she didn’t. She looked well kissed. It would be better for everyone if she stayed in the cupboard and cried because Pansy had been a tiny bit mean. That’s what would have happened before.
When he returned to his table, he saw their potion had taken on the distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen it needed. The steam was rising in the signature heart-shaped patterns, and when he sat down in front of it, he inhaled the scent. Before the war, it had smelt like the Manor in spring, expensive perfume and broom polish. Now it smelt of books, winter air… and coffee and vanilla.
Of course, it fucking did.
Notes:
I love this chapter. It was like... how many of my favourite tropes can I fit in one chapter?
This was also the point that my beta Jelly_Roll commented "You're right- I am going to hate you at the end of this"... with affection I am assuming.
Chapter Text
He’d taken to waiting for her outside the hospital when she finished work, which made things more complicated. As much as she wanted to go straight home, and her flat was only a short walk from the hospital, she also didn’t want him to know where she lived. Draco at the hospital was one thing. Draco in her home was another.
So, she had to wander aimlessly through Muggle London, eating far too many Boots’ sandwiches for dinner—she also had no desire to sit with him for a meal—while he trailed after her, talking about what he’d read until he got bored and went home. Only then could she backtrack to her flat, take her shoes off her poor, tired feet and sink into her couch with a glass of wine.
She suspected he knew she was tired as they walked. Likely, it was another technique to wear her down. Unfortunately for him, she was determined to wait until he gave up. She had more determination than he did. Unless something drastic had changed in the last sixteen years, when it came to overcoming adversity and being persistent, she would be the victor every time.
“You know, Granger,” Draco said, “I’ve been thinking about the spell used to take my memory. If it was a simple Obliviation, the journals should have been destroyed as well.”
Hermione had already puzzled over the survival of the journals. She’d gone over the details repeatedly the night she learnt about their existence. When she had obliviated her parents, everything had disappeared. All references to her in correspondence, all the photos of her on the walls in their home. The only things that had survived were the small stack of keepsakes she’d kept for herself in a warded box while she cast the spell.
“I mean, I considered that perhaps you created a new spell just for me, which I have to confess made me feel rather special; I’m sure you don’t do that for all the boys.”
He flashed her a smile—one that she remembered from the golden light of the library. He used to smile at her like that just before he kissed her. Like he knew he was both the victor and the prize.
“-but you were only nineteen, and while there have been many inches of newspaper columns and books dedicated to your brilliance, I don’t know if I can believe that you created an entirely new spell at such a tender age.”
“Twenty,” she corrected automatically before realising what she’d almost confessed to, and tacked on to clarify, “I was twenty when we stopped seeing each other.”
Draco smiled and it felt predatory. That had been an unnecessary piece of information. A careless slip. A week of getting home late was taking its toll on her.
“So it was a new spell, then? Is that what you’re saying?”
Hermione rolled her eyes and kept walking. Her soggy cheese and tomato sandwich was unsatisfying. Maybe she could find somewhere that also sold ice cream, she’d definitely earnt the treat and Draco didn’t seem to be losing feverency tonight; they might be walking a while yet.
They used to walk together a lot. Before. Around the lake at Hogwarts and then later, through the streets of the Muggle world . Only the Muggle world, of course. He’d bought her ice cream then. Suddenly, any thoughts of a sweet treat disappeared. The memory would ensure it tasted like ash in her mouth.
She would be better served to find the most run-down, smelly alleyway she could and hope it offended him so much that he left. If her intransigence didn’t dissuade him, let the realities of the city do it.
“For Merlin’s sake, you won’t even share with me in a purely theoretical sense?” Draco’s frustrated voice cut through her mental games, “You can preface it by saying ‘hypothetically’ if it makes you feel any better, but it’s been driving me bonkers, and even though I have access to the full Manor library again, I still can’t figure it out.”
He used to be like this when they were studying. It’s how she ended up teaching him algebra before they were even really friends. Like her, he couldn’t stand not knowing or understanding something. Maybe she was just tired. Maybe she just missed him. She dropped her hands from where they crossed her chest and started to speak.
“Hypothetically,” she began, “if there was evidence of something that was being removed from one's mind hidden behind certain wards, the ward may be able to negate the effects of the obliviation. I would assume Malfoy Manor, as one of the most heavily warded buildings in England, would have offered that type of protection. And, hypothetically, if the caster was unaware of the evidence or assumed that you would never take any part of them into your home, it might slip through the cracks.”
Draco nodded, lowering his own arms. Hermione altered her path so she was just a little further away from him. He’d made that move before, on their walks around the lake, and she wondered if it was on purpose this time. They’d both lower their hands and wait for the brush of skin on skin. The anticipation had made her younger heart thud. But she didn’t want the glancing blow this time.
She didn’t want to know if it still made her blood sing.
“It was a big risk, hypothetically. There could have been all manner of things that tied me to you in my home. A Gryffindor tie, a love note.”
Hermione shook her head.
“I never worried about you keeping reminders of us. I was fairly sure the only part of me in the Manor was my blood stain on the floor,” she said.
She chanced a look at his face as she said it, hoping to see the tightening of his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes.
“Was there anything else? That survived the great cull?” he asked, ignoring the reference to her blood. His arms were crossed over his chest again.
She should have said no immediately; it was the tiny hesitation that ruined her.
“I swear to Merlin, Granger if you lie to me about this,” he took a deep breath, “I think I’m being a patient man. But heaven help me-”
It was the reference to heaven. The comfortable use of a muggle phrase.
“There’s a polaroid,” she confessed and then realised she would need to add context, “A polaroid is like a Muggle-”
“I know what a polaroid is, Granger. I am a pureblood, not a simpleton. Can I see it?”
She’d been the first one to show him an instant camera. She wondered who he had learnt it from the second time.
“I’ll bring it for you tomorrow,” she said, desperately wanting to go home. There were too many parallels tonight. It made her limbs heavy, and her chest hurt.
“Why can’t I see it now?” he asked, quickening his pace enough that Hermione had to trot to keep up.
“It’s in my flat, Malfoy, and I’d prefer that-”
“-you mean your flat at 180 Tyland Lane?” he said, and Hermione stopped in her tracks, “Come on now, do you really think I would have come to your office and accused you of tampering with my memory if I hadn’t already had someone look into you. I’m surprised at you. It should have been obvious.”
Hermione felt a crackling rage fill her. All week. She had been enduring bad sandwiches and lamplit walks all week.
“You mean, I have been walking miles every evening after working full shifts for no reason?” she sputtered, “Why? Did you think it was funny? Watching me try to maintain some semblance of privacy.”
Draco walked back so they were face to face. All humour in his expression gone.
“Here I was thinking that we were enjoying our time together, Kit. Rekindling the romance, so to speak.”
He didn’t mean the words. Not when his tone was so cold.
“Or maybe,” he was close enough now she could feel his body heat, any personal space was gone, “maybe, I felt that given you cut out a section of my mind that was pretty fucking fundamental, I was owed as much of your time as I wanted. Maybe, despite your assurances that it was ‘nothing’ and ‘didn’t matter’, I remember enough of myself from eighth year to judge that even if the only thing that happened was I once bent you over a desk in the Restricted Section and made you moan my name, it would have been a pivotal fucking moment in the way I put myself back together after the war and I probably have a right to the memory.”
She couldn’t drop his gaze. When Draco let his control slip and turned his attention to her, she had no chance of escaping his pull. She never had. The only way she could side-step him, was giving him enough of what he wanted that he moved on.
“Fine,” she said, taking a tiny step out of his orbit. Draco nodded at her and then spun on his heel, leading them to the flat he had known about the whole time.
***
The low fence denoted the edge of the wards. A little white picket gate and grey bricks.
“I’ll need your palm,” she said, grateful no one was around.
“Oh, blood wards, kinky Granger. Did I teach you that?” he asked, extending his hand. His anger from earlier had dissipated.
“You strongly encouraged them, yes,” she confessed.
She pulled her wand out of the back pocket of her trousers, twirling it in her fingers and stalling for another few seconds. She was going to have to touch him.
“You were the one complaining about being tired. Let me in, give me the photograph, and I’ll go home.”
Clenching her teeth, she reached for him, cradling the back of his hand in her palm. It was warm. She tried to focus on her cold toes instead. A quick slash of her wand, a band of blood appeared and she guided it to the gate, wiping his palm against the wood and whispering the enchantments. The smear of red disappeared and Draco pulled his hand away. Hermione raised her wand to heal him, only to be met with a shake of his head and a disapproving frown.
“No, thank you,” he said, his own wand shooting out of a wrist holder ready for use, “I think I’d prefer to stay away from your spell casting if I can help it.”
Leaving him to heal himself, she walked to the front door. She lived in a ground-floor flat in a small building, where she was the only witch. It was peaceful. As soon as she opened the door and switched on the lights, her two cats, Syd and Nancy, came running out to meet her.
“Well, hello,” Draco said, reaching down to scratch Nancy, who was winding her way around his legs, “Aren’t you a pretty girl?”
He scooped her up and Hermione was appalled that the little cat just let him. No loyalty, cats. She had hoped that they were at least good judges of character, but apparently not.
“I have to say, your choice in decor is much like your choice in clothes, Granger. Incredibly dull. Would it kill you to get a potted plant? Or lord, even one of those dreadfully common art prints you can pick up from any museum gift store would be an improvement.”
Hermione looked around her flat, trying to see it as he might. It was tidy and serviceable. An open plan kitchen and living room, with a small bedroom and ensuite. She hadn’t bothered with much furniture, but everything she had was inoffensive. The type of pieces that were meant to fit any space. She had no decor or trinkets but found she didn’t need them. Her first flat in London had been different. Full of little souvenirs and nostalgic pieces. When she’d moved, leaving them behind had been freeing. A snake shedding its skin.
She walked over and took Nancy out of his arms.
“It’s not like anyone’s asking you to live here, Malfoy,” she said, taking both cats and locking them in her bedroom, away from him.
On her way back, she went via her bookshelf, looking for her worn copy of Wuthering Heights. Ironically, it was only after her apprenticeship that she read the novel for the first time. Maybe she would have been more prepared if she had read it in her youth.
She flicked through the yellowed pages until the familiar Polaroid fell out. They’d taken it in their final weeks at Hogwarts. A rush of students to the library had sent them once more to the lake. This time, it was warm. She’d spent many hours lying in between the sunshine and Draco’s arms while he traced her features and worshipped her body.
His final Muggle Studies project was to research a piece of technology that Muggles had for which magic had no substitute. She had offered him many options: instant communication, and vaccinations. But it was the Polaroid camera that caught his attention. He’d enjoyed snapping all manner of pictures of her as they lay on their picnic blanket, delighted as the images appeared after a few moments of waving the cardstock in the air. He’d never taken any of them with him when he returned to his room each night, and as most of them were of just her, she had destroyed the majority. The one she’d kept, preserved in a tale far more tragedy than love story, showed them together, the moment before their lips touched.
The sun was behind them, and Hermione was flat on her back, curls out and free. Draco had the camera in one hand, angling the lens toward them, but his other cradled her cheek. Making sure that she could look nowhere else, not that she’d wanted to. It was a miracle he’d gotten the shot at all, not when he was looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.
“Here,” she said, pushing the Polaroid towards him.
There was an instant sting of loss as he took it. Would she ever see it again? Not that she looked at it often, but it was a part of them that she’d kept for herself. There really would be nothing but memories soon.
Draco studied the photo with a scowl, his focus entirely on the picture. His eyes darted back and forth and Hermione watched him, waiting for a reaction. She realised there was a tiny part of her that worried the image would trigger his memories. An even smaller part hoped that it would. The silence stretched until he crumpled the photo in his fist.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” he said, tone low and angry. “Was this revenge, Granger?”
“Revenge?” she had no idea what he meant.
“Yes, revenge. You lured me in when I was broken after the war-”
“Oh yes, because you were the only one who was broken after the war.”
“ -seduce me, intrigue me, convince me that you care with all false words and pretend touches, and then when I was completely where you wanted me, take it all away.”
Hermione couldn’t help but snort. Dramatic fool.
“Really? You think I was play-acting at being in love with you. Your version of events is I faked that, just to make you feel something, so I could take it away and then ensure you have no memory of that loss whatsoever? Surely you can see the holes in that logic?”
“This picture, I look-” he paused and clenched his jaw, “and you do too, and I’m telling you it doesn’t make sense.”
“I won’t argue with you on that. It didn’t make any sense,” she agreed. “But look at that photo. Does that look like pretend?”
He said nothing and Hermione saw an opening.
“Think about it, Malfoy. Before you read those journals, were you hurting? Before you saw that photo, did you feel any pain over me? Can you see perhaps that it really was better left alone?” she said cautiously while he stared at her.
Draco didn’t speak; he just studied her face. Then, in a move that could only be explained by muscle memory, he reached forward and pulled at one of the curls that had escaped its bun and hung around her face.
“Humans need pain, Kit. It’s the only way we know when something is wrong,” he said. Then he ran his hand over his eyes, suddenly looking much more tired and older than his years.
“Thank you for the photo,” he said, smoothing it flat. The cracks from where he’d scrunched it up were permanent scars across the image. “I’ll see you when I’ve read some more.”
Notes:
Ok- so this is one of my favourite chapters in the whole fic. I am sorry for hurting everyone but the title is "Everyone Will Hate This".
These two little twisted babies are so damages and yet so firmly orbiting each nothing, nothing can pull them out.
Also apologies for not updating yesterday, when I went to, Ao3 was down.
Chapter Text
There were so many places in the library one could kiss their secret… whatever Hermione was. Unfortunately, he couldn’t describe her as a lover yet, and study partner didn’t seem to quite cover it when he had her pushed up against the bookshelves, his fingers creeping under the edge of her jumper, lips on her throat.
Hermione Granger was addictive and undeniable. After that day in the potions store cupboard, he stopped trying to deny her. They had never explicitly said that they would keep it private but it was implied. And frankly, there was something intoxicating about having her in secret.
The first time he’d been brave enough to reach under her blouse, he had almost come in his pants at the feel of her soft skin. He’d pushed his luck a week later, letting his fingers trail up the inside of her thigh, and she had not only let him but reciprocated in kind, easing down his zipper and reaching inside his slacks to wrap an innocent hand around his length.
Gods, he loved her inexperience. During the war, the Death Eaters used to talk about Muggle women. Muggle women had no proprietary when it came to sex, he was told, mudbloods either. Unlike pureblood witches, they were happy to whore themselves out. Little better than animals, they used to say. The only good thing about them was you were allowed to fuck them like one.
And yet, despite Draco’s assumptions, Granger seemed completely untouched. She’d somehow lived in a tent with two boys for a year and yet blushed the first time he’d pressed his hard cock against her while they kissed up against the stacks in the library. He couldn’t pretend that having what both Weasley and Potter were denied didn’t turn him on even more. She was enthusiastic, but it was clear that she didn’t know what she was doing. Not that he did either, but he wasn’t about to let her know that.
Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy had been very clear when he was growing up. As the heir, he was not to risk a child unless it was with a woman who could be considered as a wife. Furthermore, he would not disrespect any woman worthy of becoming a Malfoy wife by doing anything before a betrothal contract was established. He’d abided by their rulings, and so, aside from a few awkward fumbles over the clothes with a half-blood Ravenclaw in fifth year, he’d had little experience.
The day Hermione Granger had made him come with her unsteady strokes and shaking grasp was the first time he’d come with anything but his own hand. The blush she wore throughout the act was one of the prettiest things he’d seen. He made it his mission to turn her that colour as often as possible.
They still met in the library, but it was a new game now. One where they pretended to study and only hid their touches from the people walking past. Not that there were too many of those; occasionally, Madame Pince. Mostly, it was their own little kingdom.
“Have you got that book?” Hermione asked, looking through her stack of papers as if it would magically appear.
Draco was sitting across from her, planning how he’d take advantage of the skirt she’d worn that day.
He’d bought her three more skirts since the first green one. All made by Muggles. All delivered anonymously with the owl post. Neither said anything about them, but she wore them for him the day after each arrived.
“The one we need to do the Astrology assignment,” she continued, twisting her hair up and stabbing it with her wand to keep it there.
She really had no sense of propriety when it came to her wand. It wasn’t some meaningless tool to use carelessly. He always had his in a custom holster, either at his hip or on his forearm. One’s wand was a representation of oneself. How you treated it, set the standard.
Besides, he hated her hair being up. She looked wrong. He reached across and plucked the Vinewood from her hair, tossing it to the desk, pleased as the curls fell around her. They were his to tug on now.
“Draco,” she said, her tone playfully put upon, “The astronomy book?”
“Kit,” he mirrored her tone back to her, “do you mean to tell me you haven’t finished the astronomy assignment yet?”
He looked around, and when he’d confirmed that they were completely alone, he moved closer so he could trail his nose along her neck.
“Are you slipping, Golden Girl?” he said, pleased when she sighed and relaxed.
The way he felt when she just gave into him. It had been years since he felt so influential.
“Well, you see,” she said, tilting her head to give him better access, “Someone keeps distracting me whenever I sit down to study.”
Draco sunk his teeth into her neck then. Just enough that he would be able to see a swell of pink when he pulled back, not enough to permanently mark her. There was a line. What happened in the library had to stay in the library.
“I’ve managed to finish the assignment,” he gloated. He got to kiss her and be better than her; he really was the victor, and he knew just what he wanted as his prize.
Hermione twisted in her chair, her mouth finding his and sinking into a lazy kiss.
“Clearly, I’m not as good at distracting you as you are at distracting me,” she said, her hand leaving the paper in front of her and twisting into his shirt.
Another kiss and her hand started drifting down. Draco could lean back. Could let her undo his trousers and watch as her hands worked his cock. Her bright eyes studying his body, learning it with the same fervour as she approached anything new.
He might even be able to persuade her to get on her knees for him and lower that mouth over the head of his cock and suck. Sink his hands into her hair.Hold her head until she choked on him.
That particular fantasy predated eighth year. He’d first imagined it in sixth year when he was tired and stressed and dealing with the fucking cabinet that would not be repaired, and she’d been shimmying around the castle. Darling of the Slug Club, topping every class, blushing when professors commented about the record she would likely set when she completed her N.E.W.T.s.
As his grades slipped and he could barely sleep from the stress, he took solace in daydreams of the world that would come after Voldemort succeeded. In that world, Hermione Granger would be little more than dirt. Powerless. In that world, he could bend her to his wants, his desires. He could force her to her knees and take what he wanted.
He pulled back from her then. His hands going to her wrists and stilling her movements.
Her face dropped, and an embarrassed flush took over her cheeks.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, “I should have-”
Draco cut her off. He didn’t want to hear what she thought she should or shouldn’t do.
“Only good girls who have finished their essays are allowed to play in the library,” he said with a smirk, finding the book she needed in his own stack of papers and tossing it to her.
She flamed brighter and immediately set to work. Not answering back, not arguing. It was magnificent. He moved further away, across the table from her, with full intentions to return to his own work.
Until he had a better idea.
He knew exactly how to take full advantage of that skirt. And with her looking all flustered and chastised, he couldn’t imagine she’d stop him.
Without a word, he slid from his chair until he was crawling under the table. He could see her knees covered with the pale pink linen. He rocked back as much as he could on his heels and pushed the fabric upwards, exposing her knees and touching her thighs.
Hermione jumped and immediately pushed her knees together.
“Draco!” she hissed and Draco chuckled as he grasped her knees again and pushed them apart. Far wider than they were just moments earlier.
He placed a soft kiss on the inside of her knee before he answered her.
“Yes?” he asked, moving to decorate the inside of the other with flick of his tongue.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, though her movements away from him had stilled.
It made him bold enough to keep going. His hand trailed up the inside of her thighs and spread her wider.
“I’ve finished my essay,” he said, his hands reaching up to her arse, grabbing both sides and pulling her closer to the edge of the chair, “I’ve got time to play.”
Hermione’s breath stuttered as her new position moved his face closer to her cunt. He could smell her arousal. Tangy. Earthy.
“Can I play, Kit?” he asked, running his tongue along the inside of her thigh to let her know exactly what he intended.
Her thighs parted a tiny bit wider.
“Yes,” she said, her voice shaky, and Draco smiled into her skin.
He could see her knickers.
Predictably boring, light grey cotton.
He ran the back of a knuckle along her, over the fabric. She was warm and shuddered at the touch. So responsive. He just needed to decide: knickers on and pushed to the side or knickers off. The first option would be easier; safer should this be one of the rare days that Madame Pince walked past them to reshelve something.
Yet, the thought of her spread, completely bare on the hard chair, her desire dripping on the wood, her mind always a tiny bit worried that someone was going to come in and find her like that, had him reaching for the waistband and easing her pants down.
He ran the pads of his thumbs along the edge of her lips, listening for how her breath stuttered. If he was cruel, he could insist that she keep studying while he played with her. In part just because he enjoyed giving the command and watching her follow it, even when it was difficult. He wouldn’t, though. Not when it meant that her attention would be split. When he did this, he wanted all her attention. He wanted her so focused on him that if her so-called best friends were to enter the room, the only thing they would hear was her gasping his name. The only thing they would see was her head thrown back in pleasure.
He wasn’t completely sure how to go about this next part. He’d stumbled his way through using his fingers based on overblown conversation in the Slytherin common room, where Flint had bragged about the first time he’d made his girlfriend come, and a few other boys from his year had joined in and explained to the younger audience exactly what a clitoris was.
They’d never bragged about this, though. And for good reason, respectable men didn’t put their tongue there. They might enjoy receiving, if they were in the position to, but they would never debase themselves by giving.
Using his hands, he cautiously parted Hermione’s folds. The smell of her arousal intensified, and he could see her glistening. He’d done that to her. Just him. He shifted his thumb to circle her clit and listened as she let out a breathy sigh. He’d made her do that, too. He was completely in control of how she felt right now. That power was intoxicating.
Without hesitation, he leaned forward and licked. The taste of her of was the kind of discovery that men were willing to be crucified for. The way she surged forward, pliant and eager for him was even better. It made him delve forward again, repeating the action, licking from bottom to top. And this time, he didn’t back away. He held himself there, licking, sucking, circling her clit with his tongue and using his mouth to devour her. The whole time, he listened as her breathing changed, her hands scrambled for purchase on the table above him, and her hips squirmed against him.
Just when he felt her ready to fall into her orgasm, he pulled away. Her groan was guttural. He chuckled to himself, but before she had gathered herself enough to ask him what was going on, he plunged a finger into her sopping cunt and went back to worshipping her clit with his tongue.
It was easier to pull away the second time. He didn’t need to rely as much on the way her toes pressed into his thighs where he knelt or the moans that spilled from her lips. Not when he could feel every twitch and quiver of her cunt. Just before she came, he pulled away again, removing his finger from inside her and watching as she went to clench around nothing. Beautiful. The slam of a palm on the tabletop above him, combined with his name that sounded like a curse, was just further music to his ears.
When he was sure she was back from the brink, he started his work again. Two fingers this time. Long, slow thrusts that he matched with long, slow licks. Hermione ground against him, her inhibition completely overtaken by her lust. His. Ready to be taken apart however he wanted.
He increased his pace, listening as Hermione started toward the edge again. Her breaths grew heavier, and her legs opened wider. Then he heard it—a single breathy whine.
Please
The Golden Girl was begging. For him.
One hand came down below the desk and grabbed the back of his head. Held his mouth to her. He thought of stopping again. Just to punish her for her fucking presumption. He was doing this for her, and instead of taking what he was offering with gratitude, she insisted on more. But then there was another single word.
Draco
She made his name sound like the answer to a question she’d been asking with no solution. Like it was the answer to everything. She didn’t need her hand to keep him there then. Nothing could have made him stop.
He worked her quickly, his fingers moving easily in her drenched cunt, his tongue eagerly lapping up everything she had. He felt the telltale movements, the little gasps and then everything pulled taut. Another moment frozen in time. A moment he would guard furiously and embed into his very being. Then she slumped forward, and Draco lapped at her softly, guiding her back to him and reality.
He got up from under the table, grinning and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand when he knew she could see him. Pulling her across the desk for a kiss, he grinned against her lips.
“Do you like the taste of yourself, Kit?” he asked, watching as pink crested her cheekbones, “because I think you’re fucking delicious.”
He had her speechless, exactly where he wanted her. It was only a moment before, with a quick look over her shoulder, she got up and walked over to him. Her hands went around his neck so she could play with the hair she seemed to favour at his nape, and she perched on his lap.
She’d never sat like this before, and he loved it. His arms went around her, gathering her to his chest, hoarding her closer. His lips found hers for a slow kiss. The kind of kiss one indulged in when they had all the time in the world.
She shifted her attention from his mouth to his neck, just below his ear.
“You know, I could try and reciprocate,” she said, her hands moving down his torso, “I’ve never- but I could-”
The image of her on her knees before him slammed into his mind. Hands in hair, mouth hot and wet, tears at the corners of her eyes as she looked up at him.
Draco shifted uncomfortably and eased her off his lap.
“Did you somehow finish your essay while you were pushing my face into your cunt?” he asked playfully. Deflecting.
There was his favourite colour, splashed fresh across her cheeks at his coarse language.
“I didn’t think so,” he said, walking her back to her seat and tucking her in, “Only good girls who have finished their essays are allowed to play in the library.”
He leaned across and pulled the books and papers closer that she’d pushed away as she’d cried out for him.
“I’m going to go so you can study, Kit,” he said, absently leaning forward to kiss her temple, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She looked surprised but nodded, and Draco summoned all his things as quickly as he could. His pace was quick and determined as he left her behind. Ready to return to his bedroom, where he could fist his cock while he imagined her choking on it.
Notes:
It's getting hot in here... so take off all your clothes....
If you did not automatically sing those two line above you, I am not sure if you are old enough to read this fic. I mean, you probably are, but let this elder millennial pretend.
Anyway! Hope you enjoy thing getting steamy!
Chapter Text
Free periods were now always occupied by study. After the day in the library where he had made her come with his mouth and then teased her for not having finished her essay, it seemed to be an unspoken rule she made with herself. While she was in her school uniform, there was no chance of distracting her. Shame really. Hermione Granger made the school uniform look far better than it had any right to.
They had spent their study time occupied with Transfiguration. The professor that replaced Grant was an American, Professor Taft, full of modern ideals and techniques. Granger was ecstatic. She threw herself into the subject with more vigor than before, excitedly shoving books his way when she found more connections between the ancient texts and the experimental magic Taft had told them about.
In some ways, it was more distracting than when she let him touch her. Watching her glow. Watching her hunt knowledge. If she had been a pureblood, the marriage contract would be finalised by now; Granger would have been made a Malfoy. It was ridiculous and not something he should want. Not really. If she was a pureblood his family would own her, but at the moment, Hermione was just Draco’s. He liked that more.
He’d been musing the what ifs when Hermione started packing up her books a touch earlier than normal. He wanted to know where she was going. He did not want her to know that he wanted to know.
“I’ll see you tonight?” he asked, refusing to look up from his homework.
Hermione shifted from side to side before she answered.
“Not tonight,” she answered finally.
That had his attention but he kept his eyes on his paper, determined that she wouldn’t see the way her rejection hit him. Nighttime study sessions had no such rules or restrictions as the ones during class time. They hadn’t missed one since they’d started… whatever they were doing. He let the silence dangle around them. She would fill it. She usually did.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” she said after a moment, and the admission had him looking up.
“Yes, the gaudy decorations the Hufflepuffs put up in the halls certainly give that away. Or at least I assume it was the Hufflepuffs that put them up, no one else would be stupid enough to care about it,” he drawled, but as lazy as his tone was, his heart was pounding.
“Right, well, Harry was coming to the castle to take Ginny out,” she said, not making eye contact with him.
Draco felt something harden in his gut.
“Ah, and I suppose Weaselby is tagging along to take you out too? You can sit at some table in Madame Puddifoot’s like the cliche you all are? Press waiting outside to capture a picture of the War Heroes in love?”
“No,” Hermione’s tone was one that was asking for pause, for consideration, but he wasn’t done.
“What about after? Are you going back to the Weasley family hovel with him? Show him all the things you’ve learnt while ‘studying’ in the library. Just make sure you moan the right name if the idiot manages to find your clit. I hope you don’t have high expectations. Rumour has it the last time it was difficult for Weaselby to find something, he just up and abandoned you.”
“Draco,” she tried again, her books clutched to her chest.
“I mean, I’d heard about girls acting desperate when it came to Valentine’s Day, so if you’re willing to lower yourself that much, I suppose that’s up to you. Just make sure, if you wear one of the skirts that I gave you, you leave the knickers behind, make it as easy as possible for Ronnykins, because Salazar knows-”
“Draco Malfoy!” she all but yelled the name, her anger echoing around the empty space.
They both paused, waiting for Madame Pince to come and scold them, but when she didn’t, Hermione swallowed and tightened her hold on her books.
“Harry and Ron are coming to have a friend’s dinner with Ginny and I before Harry and Ginny go away for the weekend,” she said, angry red splotches blooming on her face and chest.
“Ron is then going back to London where he is going to help Seamus run a speed dating night at the Leaky Cauldron. Not that it matters, as even if he was staying around, we wouldn’t be going on a date. I would never, ever go on a date with someone else. Not while we’re-”
And then she ran out of words. Her mouth opened and closed as she no doubt tried to find the right explanation for what they were doing in her head and had nothing.
“We’re what, Granger?” he asked, enjoying watching her struggle with it.
“While we’re together,” she finally settled on, “In any capacity. I don’t need a name for it to know that it would be wrong to date someone else.”
Draco ground his back teeth together. He couldn’t figure out what pissed him off more. The fact that she was no closer to understanding what they were doing than he was, or the fact that the fucking Gryffindor princess was still so confident in what was right and what was wrong.
“And as for Valentine’s Day,” she said, the red flaming anew, “I happen to like the decorations, and the prompt for people to find a tiny bit of happiness where they can. But it’s never been something that I’ve ever participated in and I wasn’t expecting to anytime soon.”
She stared at him for a minute. Not angry, just waiting. He could have counted each of the 60 seconds in his head. Maybe she was, ensuring it was perfectly fair for him like the arbiter of justice she was. He just stared her down. Neither looked away. Neither flinched. Until the 60 seconds were up and she left without a word.
***
Draco couldn’t stay in the library after she’d left. He gathered his things, tossed them in his room as quickly as possible so he had no chance of running into her in the common room and went to the lakeside for a run.
It was a good plan in theory. In practice, but he arrived back just to see her leave with her friends. She was in jeans. Her hair was up. She was smiling at something the she-Weasley was saying, her arm looped casually through hers.
Seeing her so at home with other people turned his mood even darker. She was alone in the library; it wasn’t ridiculous to assume she was alone outside it as well.
He thought about going straight to dinner. Undoubtedly there would be fewer eighth years to annoy him; they would all be taking advantage of their freedom to celebrate the ridiculous non-holiday that was Valentine’s. He was sure Theo would whisk Pansy off somewhere. Maybe he’d propose. If it had been him, and the Malfoy name was not in tatters, there would certainly be pressure from Mrs Parkinson and his mother to propose on Valentine’s Day. Give them both a romantic story to tell all their friends.
Not that he wanted to be at a Valentine’s dinner with Pansy. He didn’t want his future dictated by contracts. Theo could have it all. With his best wishes. He didn’t want to eat in the dining hall either. Looking at the empty spots vacated by people who had lives and loved ones. He wanted to be studying in the library with Granger. The same way he did every evening.
With a huff, he made a turn for the dungeons. Despite his exclusion from the Slytherin dormitories, he did still have one place he could go that was his to hide. The non descript door just past the potions classroom.
Erythonium Hendersonii
The password hadn’t changed since his godfather had told him it in seventh year.
“A place to go,” he’d told Draco, “in case everything goes sideways.”
Little did Draco know then, Snape was more concerned about the Order losing than winning at that point. He’d often wondered which scenario Snape thought Draco should fear.
He went into the little flat, one room, except for the bathroom. Draco had cleared away all of Severus’s personal effects and put them in a box at the start of term. What he was going to do with the box, he wasn’t sure. Snape had no one as far as Draco knew. No one to care what was in that box.
He lay back on the single bed and stared at the stone ceiling. He wanted nothing in his mind, and yet he couldn’t stop imagining Hermione out at dinner. Would she smile? Would she laugh? Would she share her latest thoughts on transfiguration theory? Not that anyone at that table would be able to understand it. Not like he did. Would she think about him? Would she speak of him?
Not tell anyone that they were… together. Her word, not his. He was fairly certain she would keep that a secret but she could tell them that they studied together. She might have even told Potter that she had written a statement of support for the Malfoy properties being returned to him. He didn’t want anyone to know they were involved, but he wouldn’t mind people knowing that he had earnt her respect. Her interest. Her.
Not that he had her.
Especially after they had stared at each other for a full minute that afternoon and he hadn’t said a word. He loved having her in secret. But secret ties were so easy to break.
***
She didn’t get back to the Gryffindor Tower until after eleven. He knew because he was waiting for her, disillusioned by the entrance. Thankfully, no one had bothered to walk her back. They were that careless with her. At least it made her easy to grab before she could slip into the common room.
She didn’t scream.Her eyes went wild and her arms lashed out, but she didn’t scream. Like him, she’d learnt the only thing more dangerous than being grabbed, was giving away her position. One assailant was possible to overcome. More was not.
“It’s me, Granger,” he whispered, pulling her back flush against his front, “It’s just me.”
She sagged, her hand slipping to grasp at his as his arms came to wrap around her chest. He could feel the pounding of her heart.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Draco,” she wheezed, not flinching when the tip of his wand touched her to extend the disillusionment charm over her as well, “Was that really necessary?”
He breathed in deeply, so satisfied she wasn’t fighting him.
“You smell different,” he said, ignoring her question. She stiffened again.
“I imagine I smell like spilt butterbeer and tobacco smoke. We went for a drink after dinner,” she said as she started to disentangle herself from him, “which is why I was planning on going straight to my room for a shower.”
“No, come with me instead,” Draco said, not letting go of her hand, even when she tried to pull it away from him.
“Draco, it’s late. I smell-”
“Please,” he asked and the word felt unfamiliar on his tongue.
She immediately stopped fighting again and allowed him to lead her through the darkened corridors, to the small flat that was meant to be his salvation.
He watched her face as he opened the door. He already knew what was behind it. The simple white tablecloth, the candles, the vase with a single red rose, two bowls of ice cream he had bribed the house elves to give him.
“I don’t understand,” she said, turning to face him.
“I couldn’t take you to dinner, those two idiots of yours beat me to it, but it’s still Valentine’s Day and you were such a sad sack about it earlier, I thought that if you hadn’t had dessert you might consider sharing it with me.”
The force of her as she threw herself into his arms and claimed his mouth had him stumbling backwards. Once he had regained his footing, he was more than eager to match her. He spun them, so her back was up against the door, lifting her until her legs were around his waist.
The smell still bothered him. She smelt like other people. Other people had hugged her tonight. Other people had brushed up against her, their smoke, their drinks, their scents all caressing her body in ways only he should be allowed. Driven mad by the thought, he reached for her jumper and pulled it over her head, her long sleeved henley coming with it.
She froze. Eyes wide and cautious and there was tiny movement in her arms, as if she was readying to cover herself.
In all the things they had done together, she had never been undressed before him. The only item of clothing she had ever shed in his presence were the grey cotton underwear he’d allowed himself to keep for just one day, before burning them in his wastepaper bin so no one would ever see them.
“The smell,” he said, pushing her hair back over her shoulder and burying his nose into the soft skin at the juncture of her neck, “I need you to smell like you again.”
Before she could answer, he sunk his teeth into her flesh, not caring this time if he left a mark. Why shouldn’t he? In this she was his, completely. With the rough bite, Hermione slackened in his arms, her head rolling back and moaning.
He decided to continue his path, claiming her body. From her neck, to her shoulder and then kissing a path down the line of her bra. It was a surprise for him, not grey utilitarian cotton but pale pink silk, edged in lace. When he considered that she’d worn it for her dinner with someone else, he bit down hard on her nipple, the padding of the cup the only thing protecting her body from the sting of his teeth.
If she felt the harshness of his touch, she didn’t seem to mind it. She ground against him, her hands in his hair, pulling at it with the same ferocity while his mouth worked her. She whined as he kissed his way over and along the line of her breast and he let his lips and tongue savour every taste.
He wasn’t content with just the top half of her though, even though he was sure that in her current state, she would let him peel the bra from her body and finally see the tits that had been tempting him since September. He needed all of her. He needed her begging for him. He needed her completely in his control.
The flagstone was hard against his knees but easy to ignore when Hermione was looking at him like the only man that had ever existed. He kissed her stomach and then slowly and deliberately unbuttoned her jeans, maintaining eye contact as he peeled them down her legs.
It would have been perfect, except in his rush to undress her, he had forgotten that she was wearing shoes. And not delicate little slippers, but heavy boots, appropriate for walking in the snow.
“Oh fuck,” he said, as the denim tangled in them.
“Sorry!” Hermione said, embarrassment painted on her face. She leaned forward to try and help him, her movements too bumbling and quick, her forehead bumping against his.
With a single hand, he pushed her back against the door and with the other, he retrieved his wand from its holster and proceeded to vanish not only the jeans, but the boots, socks, and her underwear as well.
“Draco!” Hermione yelped, her arm coming across her now bare breasts, her legs crossing to try and shield more of her nudity.
“Be brave, Kit. You’re fucking glorious,” he said, hands stroking reverently up and down her legs, “Let me look.”
He leaned in to kiss her hip, his tongue drawing designs on her and Hermione lowered her arms.
“Good girl,” he whispered and then, ready to reward her for doing exactly what he wanted, he eased one of her legs over his shoulder, and lowered his mouth to her cunt.
There was no pulling back after the first lick this time. He had no intention to tease her. He wanted her to come all over his face in the quickest time possible, preferably screaming his name.
He used his tongue to trace circles around her clit, pushing the little bud up and down as he went before sucking it into his mouth. He teased it, tasting as she grew wetter, and when he knew she could handle it, thrust two fingers inside her without ceremony or hesitation.
She felt incredible. The tightness around his fingers sent a surge of blood towards his cock. He couldn’t help himself, while he kept pumping into her, his other hand reached down to stroke himself over his trousers. Just a couple of times. He had plans on how he was going to come tonight, and it wasn’t in his pants with the help of his own hands.
Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to wait for long. Hermione’s orgasm was rapidly approaching, he could feel it in the way her cunt gripped him, trying to pull him closer. He could taste it on his tongue and the slick that ran down his chin.
She was coming apart at the seams.
When she finally exploded, Draco didn’t slow. No matter that she shrieked, her oversensitive flesh still probed by his rough hands, his tongue still hard against her clit even though she squirmed. He’d heard that women could come twice in a row. He’d heard that not everyone could make a woman do it, and he wanted to be one of the ones that could. One of the best.
As if she could read his mind, he felt the second orgasm overtake her. His perfect girl. Giving him exactly what he needed from her. Proving that he was better than anyone else who might want to bury their face in her cunt. Even if Weasley managed to find her clit by accident, there was no way he would be able to make her come twice. The thought had him smiling as he lapped up her release.
Hermione’s legs gave way, just in time for Draco to stand and pick her up in his arms. He was still fully dressed, down to his shoes, and he loved the way her naked body looked against the black of his cloak. He took her to the couch and arranged her gently, toeing off his shoes before lying next to her, playing with the curls around her face.
“You’re stunning when you come, you know,” he said, leaning down to kiss her neck, happy that she smelt more like sweat and sex than other people’s cologne now.
“I swear making me blush is your new sport,” she said, the aforementioned pink across her cheeks indicating that if it was a sport, he’d won.
“It’s just so beautiful,” he said, “I shouldn’t be denied beautiful things.”
Hermione rolled her eyes at him, and then snuggled into his side, picking at the buttons of his shirt hesitantly.
“How is it that I’m completely naked and you haven’t undone a single button?” she asked.
“Well I believe that’s because you’ve had two earth-shattering orgasms and I’m here with a hard cock and sore balls,” he sighed dramatically, running fingers over her bare back.
Perfect, soft skin.
“Oh, poor baby,” she said, undoing a shirt button, pausing, and when he neither spoke nor moved, continued to undress him, “I suppose I should help you with that.”
“Hmm,” he sighed, revelling in her hands skating across his chest. Those perfect hands that had surprised him the first time he’d held them, “Maybe you should.”
His clothes were pushed from his shoulders, leaving his chest completely bare. He closed his eyes and focused on the feel of her mouth kissing its way in broad crisscrosses along his body. Her naked breasts swung forward, nipples brushing his bare skin. It was so soft, so gentle, so calm. The antithesis of his life before.
“Are these the scars that Harry gave you?” she asked softly, puncturing his peace. He didn’t want to think about Potter right now.
He opened his eyes, trying his best not to scowl at her, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak and confirm it. That day had been the real start of the war for him. Which was outrageously naive, given by that stage he had a madman living in his home, threatening both him and his parents, a crazy Aunt hell-bent on “training” him, and a throbbing tattoo of a skull on his forearm. He’d stopped sleeping much or studying and every day he was aware at how close to failure he was.
That was all familiar pressure though; an extension of the etiquette lessons and the pressure to cultivate the “right” friends. The day that Potter had slung that curse at him, too stupid to realise what he was doing, was the day he understood that people he knew would want to kill him. That there were lines, he was on one side, and people on the other side—his classmates, his professors, his nurse—would all be hoping and working for his death.
At the time, it had just made him more determined to ensure that they died first. If they couldn’t be reasoned with about the new world, they had no place in it. Now, it was just a reminder that even in the after, there were people who hated him. Would happily see him suffer. It had been the start of his war; and he’d lost it in the end.
The witch in front of him was different. From the other side to him, but not one of the people who thought he deserved to suffer more in his defeat. She didn’t hate him, even if he gave her reason, but was gently stroking his face, her naked flesh pressed to him while he came back to himself.
“I was so angry at him,” she whispered softly, kissing his scarred chest once more, “If I could take it away, I would.”
Draco stared at her, waiting to see the flicker of hesitation, or deceit. He looked until the looking became painful and then, with a surge of energy, he moved their bodies until she was flush underneath him.
“Can I have you, Hermione?” he asked, pleading in his mind for her to say yes.
There was only a second’s hesitation, before she gave him a tiny nod. With a smile, Draco stood, removing his own clothes, retrieving his wand and turning it on her.
“Contraceptive charm,” he said, waiting for another nod before he cast against her. The glow on her abdomen lingered for just a minute, long enough for him to consider what would have happened if he’d forgotten.
Lucius would have gone spare. So would Potter and all the rest of the bumbling crew. But her body would grow and everyone who looked at her would know she belonged to him. That he had claimed her before anyone else. His cock bobbed against his stomach at the thought.
He resumed his place in between her thighs, his cock nestled between her wet folds. Even that felt amazing, and he was sure if he thrust his hips and let his cock glide between her legs, he would come within minutes. But then all he would achieve would be to paint her skin. Which wasn’t an unappealing prospect, but for another day. He wanted all of her this time.
Reaching down he made moves to position himself, breathing deeply to try and keep himself in control. Trying to focus on not finishing too soon.
“Um,” Hermione’s nervous voice caused him to pause, “I mean, you’ve probably already figured it out, but I’ve never…”
Her voice trailed off but she didn’t need to elaborate. He knew exactly what she was confessing to. As if it was something to worry about as opposed to something he adored. It could be the perfect moment, Draco could whisper the truth, neither had he, and this step they could take as equals and together. Yet he couldn’t.
“Do you trust me?” were the words that came instead and as soon as he said them, he felt his whole body freeze. Somehow this question might be worse. He’d unwittingly laid himself bare and given her the power to destroy him with a two letter word.
She didn’t. She smiled and it was like seeing the sun.
“Yes,” she said, nodding her head, “Yes.”
He was speechless again, this time for entirely different reasons. His chest felt uncomfortably full, and, as he leaned forward to kiss her, he slowly began to ease inside her.
It was a strange feeling. Completely blissful. That wasn’t in question. In the moment, he couldn’t understand why anyone who had had sex would have any issue casting a Patronus. Surely they could just remember the feel of a wet, hot cunt clenching around their cock and have everything they needed.
No, the strangeness came more from what he didn’t feel. He expected more resistance. Some sort of barrier trying to keep him out. Like something knew he wasn’t meant to be the one here, doing this. Instead there was an unspoken conversation between their bodies as he asked for more and she slowly accommodated him. A gradual ask and receive until he was fully seated inside her.
“Are you ok?” he checked, his hips flush with hers and every part of him screaming to move.
Hermione nodded, before pulling his head towards her to kiss him. It was a sweet kiss, more lips than tongue. He stroked the sides of her body and when he couldn’t fight the impulse anymore, he began to move.
The first drag of his hips was blissful torture. A slow slide that set his every nerve ending on fire. He experimented, three slow movements before a shorter, harder one. Hermione moaned underneath him at that and Draco buried his face into her neck and grinned. Her sounds were his permission, he could do whatever he liked as long as he made her sound like that.
It was her reactions that guided him as he continued to move. They urged him on, heightened his pleasure. Not that he needed long. Before he was ready, he felt all the warning signs he was going to come. Just enough warning to thrust as deeply as he could and fill her.
Unfortunately, there was no clenching of her cunt as he came. No telltale gush of arousal. He didn’t feel guilty exactly. He’d made her come twice with his tongue and his hands, and surely that had to count for something, but there was an echo of regret when he collapsed against her damp skin, breathing in the scent that was uniquely them together. What would it be like to come together. To feel her body pull taunt just as he did.
The echo of regret was matched by a hint of insecurity. What if she hadn’t liked it at all? If he opened his eyes and looked at her, he could probably judge how she felt about it all. Assess whether he had a chance of ever doing this again. Yet, he didn’t want to get up. Not while her arms were holding him to her. Not when their breaths were heavy and his body boneless.
It took time. Their heartbeats returned to a normal rhythm, and the arms that had simply been holding him earlier, stroked his back in calm, comforting patterns.
“Are you thinking, Draco?” Hermione asked eventually.
“No,” he responded and it was mostly truthful, “Just feeling.”
He swore he felt her smile.
They lay together for a while longer, until he grew soft and he felt himself slip out of her. His sticky spend, marking the inside of his thigh and hers. Only then did he roll himself to the side, tuck her under his arm and closed his eyes, content.
Sleep was coming for him. His limbs felt heavy and Hermione kept up her ministrations, soft trails of fingernails on his arms as he held her, lulling him to rest.
“Have you ever thought of trying to remove this?” she asked softly.
His eyes snapped open to see her tracing the lines of his Dark Mark, her expression contemplative. He wanted to push her away completely, as well as cover himself. Fighting the instinct, he settled for snatching his arm away.
“It isn’t able to be removed,” he said, hoping that would be enough to end the conversation, “I’ll keep it glamoured in the future.”
She smiled at him, though it did not reach her eyes.
“I never know whether to glamour this or not,” she confessed, raising her forearm so the Mudblood scar was easy for them both to see, “on the one hand, I know I shouldn’t be ashamed. On the other, it’s a reminder of so much that so many people want to forget and probably should be allowed to.”
He had no right to touch it. He knew that. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from tracing the letters, surprised when far from flinching, Hermione seemed to melt a little into his touch.
“You can’t remove it?” he asked as his finger made the loop of the second “o”.
“No, your aunt cast a spell to ensure that.”
The reminder of Bellatrix had him removing his fingers. Taking them from her arm, back to her hair, where he could tangle them amongst the soft curls and ground himself.
“Well, who knows Kit, every spell needs a counter-curse, maybe you’ll discover this one.”
Hermione snuggled closer to him, saying nothing, but after a time, he felt her breathing even out. He reached for his wand to summon a blanket, ready to wrap them both together on the couch. The flash of his Dark Mark as he made the cast reminded him of the truth in their circumstance, but he just glamoured it away. Hermione Granger was asleep in his arms after giving him her body; he was determined to soak up the pleasure in that.
Notes:
I know- what?!? Two 1999 chapters back to back. There are no rules here, baby. Or there are, until I can't make it work within the rules, and then I do what I want.
Sorry... feeling sassy today.
Enjoy another trip down memory lane!
Chapter 10: 2014
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
If Draco was waiting for her outside of the hospital the day after she gave him the photo, Hermione didn’t know. It was the first Friday of the month, and that meant she took a floo straight from the hospital to Grimmauld Place. There were some perks she envied Harry for; direct floo hookups everywhere in the wizarding world were one of them. The DMLE were told it was for his safety; Hermione knew it was just because he hated the attention he still got when he went out in public.
“Oh good, you’re here!”
Ginny met Hermione the moment she stepped out of the floo and thrust baby Lily into her arms.
“Harry has James and Winnie out at the park for at least another 25 minutes, I’m going to have a shower that lasts for 20 of them. There’s wine in the fridge. Lil’s just been fed and changed, so she should be fine. I’m going to cast a silencing charm over the bathroom, so when the phantom crying starts the moment I step into the hot water, I will know it’s my fucked up post-partum brain and not the baby.”
With agreement from Hermione and a wave, Ginny walked off down the hall, her hair a mess and clothes decorated in various stains that were probably better left not thinking about. After twins straight off the bat, James and Winnifred, Hermione didn’t think Ginny and Harry would have any more kids, but 8 years later, baby Lily had come along. Tiny, pink and perfect. The youngest by far in the large brood of Weasley grandchildren. Hermione didn’t like to play favourites, but Lily was definitely her favourite.
“Looks like it’s just you and me Lily-girl,” she said, shifting the smiling, pudgy five-month-old to her hip as she walked towards the nursery.
Grimmauld Place had been completely transformed in the years Harry and Ginny had lived there. Gone was any lingering darkness, as well as any lingering touches that spoke to darker dynasties and beliefs. Now there were simple white walls and framed children’s artwork. Family photos were everywhere, and not just ones of the five Potters who lived in the house now. Sirius, Harry’s Parents, all the Weasleys, Hagrid, Lupin and Tonks, Teddy. They all had a place. Hermione included, though she tended not to look at the ones from their school days. Or the ones from their first years living as adults in London.
Her favourite photo was the one of her holding Lily, the day she’d met the little girl in the hospital. She’d been there to meet the twins, obviously, as well as Ron’s five, George’s two, and she’d delivered one of Percy’s, but Lily was different. When Harry had lowered the swaddled babe into her arms, his face tired but elated, she felt something she’d never experienced holding all the others. Longing.
She’d looked at Lily’s sweet face and felt a desire that she was sure had skipped her entirely. She’d finally allowed Ginny to set her up with a colleague from The Prophet not long after.
It hadn’t worked. Of course, it hadn’t worked. Hermione didn’t do relationships. Not in the way one needed to share a life and child with someone, anyway. But, thanks to Muggle medicine, she didn’t need a relationship to have a child. There was a drawer full of flyers in her desk at home that proved that. She had almost been ready to call and make her appointments. Except she couldn’t. Not now. Not when at any point Aurors could knock on her door.
She gathered the little girl in her arms closer and took a deep breath, inhaling just the tiniest hint of the baby smell that was rapidly disappearing as Lily aged.
“So what would you like to do, Miss Lil?” she asked, ignoring the dull ache in her chest as she sank to the carpeted floor of the nursery ready to play with her pseudo niece for as long as she could.
***
Dinner was delicious. It always was. Harry had spent a lot of time at Mrs Weasley’s side after the war learning how to cook. It healed something in both of them, spending that time together and now their meals worked to heal something in others.
The conversation had been easy. She hadn’t needed to talk much, other than to ask questions. Harry shared his latest tales from Hogwarts, where he worked as the Defense Against Dark Arts professor, and Ginny told stories of the children. And she had the treat of holding a sleeping Lily in her arms while Ginny poured some wine and Harry put the twins to bed.
“She’s perfect, Gin,” Hermione said, accepting the wine she was offered and sinking back into the cushions of the armchair, the warm weight of the baby against her.
“She is, isn’t she?” Ginny agreed, smiling at her daughter with a look of pride. Then her gaze returned to Hermione and her expression changed.
“You know,” she said cautiously, “There’s a new reporter on the financial beat at the paper. He’s tall, American, quite clever. I could get you his number?”
Hermione shook her head with a soft chuckle.
“It’s not a good time for that,” she said, putting down her glass and running a finger over Lily’s soft, downy hair. It was still early, but if Hermione had to guess, the girl would have her mother’s fiery locks. Which was lucky; Winnie and James were carbon copies of their father.
It made her wonder what her children would look like if she ever had them. Whether they would have her unruly curls or take after their father. If she went the donor route, she would get to choose some of those characteristics. She would have probably chosen a brunette like her, but she had always wondered if blonde curls would be as cute as she thought they would be.
“Work still busy?” Ginny asked, knowing by now there was no point in pushing Hermione about dating.
“Always,” she said, before launching off on tales from the hospital that were both comical and artfully edited.
She knew what people liked to hear from her. The parts of her work that would entertain, rather than bore. She didn’t know what would happen if she turned around and told Ginny about her current predicament with Malfoy. She would have to start from the very beginning. The very, very beginning. And then she would have to tell her the end as well, and she didn’t want to face that.
Especially as she didn’t know if she would ever get the comfort she craved. The war was long ago, but if anyone knew how long it took for some wounds to heal, Hermione did. So she said nothing but the stories that made her friends laugh, she felt the warmth of the baby in her arms. She had learnt long ago that the secret was focusing on what she had right in front of her, instead of wondering about the “what could have beens”.
***
“Where have you been?”
A fuming Draco Malfoy was waiting for her on her front step as she walked herself home just before eleven. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he wore a scowl that was eerily reminiscent of the boy who had called her a mudblood.
She considered refusing to answer. He had no right to know. But she didn’t want a fight that evening; she just wanted him gone.
“I had dinner with the Potters,” she said with a sigh, pushing past him to let herself into her flat. As expected, he followed close behind, but she didn’t have any fight left in her to keep him out.
“Still following Harry around looking for scraps then?” he sneered. Hermione ignored him, in favour of taking off her coat and shoes.
Her silence seemed to goad him further.
“Does Potter know? About his saintly little friend? Did you tell him about our tryst, about what you did to keep it hidden?”
His vitriol would have hurt if she let herself listen to it. She didn’t know what she had done to earn it that evening. Not when she’d already spent the night holding what she wanted and would never have.
“I bet he would find it funny. How you got one over Draco Malfoy. That is, unless he was so disgusted with you spreading your legs for me in the first place that he lost his temper.”
Hermione heard herself breathe a sharp intake of breath. His ability to find her fears was something that hadn’t changed. He’d once used that ability to soothe them. That was not his plan now.
This wasn’t the Draco she knew from eighth year, nor the one who had been following her around for the past month. This was the Draco from before the war, the bully.
“It always was Potter’s first reaction when you disappointed him, wasn’t it?” his tone was lighter, happier now he had found the pressure point. “Everyone in the castle watched as you would sit alone, because you’d done something to upset the great Potter and Weaselby.”
Hermione felt her throat tighten. She had already dealt with her feelings about that, and besides, Harry and Ron wouldn’t do that now. She was sure. Mostly sure.
“Why are you here, Malfoy?” she forced out. She needed him to leave. “Do you have another question, or did you just feel like stopping by to throw insults? If you’re drawing from your greatest hits, can we skip ahead to where you call me a filthy mudblood, so I can go to bed? I have an early start tomorrow.”
Draco froze. His momentum from earlier gone, his expression crumpling for the briefest of moments. Hermione didn’t want to look at him as his veneer fell. It felt too intimate. Thankfully, he recovered quickly. His chin came back u,p and his sneer returned.
“Perhaps I’m just trying to figure out what it was I ever saw in you,” he hissed.
Hermione smiled sadly and shook her head.
“If you figure it out, let me know,” she said, giving herself thirty seconds to think back to stolen moments and golden afternoons, of future plans and babies with little blond curls, “I never understood it either.”
Whatever Draco was about to say died, along with his ire. He stared at her for a moment longer, ignoring the cat that was winding its way around his legs like he was a long-lost friend finally home.
She waited for the next blow. Watched his hand as it flexed, although whether it was to reach for his wand or her, she didn’t know. They were both frozen in the silence. Then, he let himself out without saying a thin,g and Hermione wished she could find satisfaction in getting the last word.
Notes:
Oh, what's that? Is that the halfway mark that I spy? Sort of... it's hard to have a half way mark when a) there are an odd number of chapters and b) a certain author is really bad at adding to the chapter count as she goes (that's me... I am the certain author).
Thank you so much for everyone who has commented and kudos and recc'd. It seriously makes my heart just sing and my fingers type.
Chapter 11: 1999
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione Granger had the ability to make any space seem warmer. Snape’s sad little dungeon rooms were transformed with her influence. It was small things at first. The coffee she drank there when they woke up together, the aroma lingering long after she was gone.
Then it was her books and notes. Pages of parchment with her awful handwriting littered across the table, each a tiny glimpse into her mind. Her terrifying and brilliant mind.
Then it was spare clothes in the wardrobe. She complained he relied too heavily on vanishing her clothes when it suited him, and that she needed back ups. He’d started hanging his robes up next to hers when he entered the room just to see what they looked like. He always took them when he left though.
The small room in the dungeon had made her braver. A brush of hands when they passed in the corridor. A look across the Great Hall when the mail arrived. He should have known that sleeping with the Golden Girl would have made her reckless. She wasn’t measured. Had no sense of self-preservation. He’d raised the stakes, and she had raised them right back.
And yet, in the same way the room had made her braver, it also made their world seem claustrophobic. The library was suddenly too small, their table not enough. Their little secret had grown bigger, and it was harder to contain.
“I want to leave the castle.”
Granger had been alternating between sighing and flicking pages too fast to actually be reading them.
“Go into Hogsmeade then,” Draco replied, refusing to look at her.
There was a challenge in her voice that he was automatically wary of. She wanted to change something. He could feel it. His instincts said she was going to push him off balance the moment he looked up.
“Hmmm,” she hummed, her tone in no way convincing. It was Saturday morning. Most of the seventh and eighth years would be in Hogsmeade. She could go and join them. He wouldn’t miss her that much. Maybe he should tell her that.
Draco felt a brush against his ankle as her legs stretched out towards him and goosebump broke out over his body. He trapped her foot between his legs but did not look at her. Not yet. She was getting better at burying the lead, but he could still tell there was a lead.
“If I go into Hogsmeade, everyone will ask me questions,” she said, not bothering to try to pull her foot free. “Where’s Harry? How’s Ron? Is it true you rode a dragon?”
Draco snorted. She had indeed ridden a dragon, and not just out of Gringotts.
“Stop that,” she scolded him. It was enough to make him look up at her. Just long enough to get trapped in her gaze.
“If I wanted to go somewhere other than Hogsmeade, would you come with me?” she asked, eyes alight.
“Where would you want to go?” he asked warily. His tone didn’t dissuade her. She was starting to glow.
“Somewhere I can hold your hand while we walk and no one will look twice,” she said, and Draco thought she must be completely crazy.
“You’re as delusional as Loony Lovegood if you think that place exists, Granger.”
She smiled at him, tilting her head as if weighing something up. Probably whether to chastise him for insulting Lovegood. Not wanting to encourage her, he looked back down at his work, hoping she would finally settle and let the matter rest. Instead, she slid her foot up his leg, teasing the inside of his thigh. He closed his eyes and fought a moan.
“If I knew of a place, an actual place, where we could walk down the street holding hands like a real couple, would you come with me?”
Draco clenched his fist, feeling his nails press into his flesh. It wasn’t the suggestion that they go somewhere that made him want to snap at her; it was the definition. She had sure felt real last night when he’d laid her across the bed and made her come with his fingers, tongue and cock in that order.
“Please?” she added softly, drawing his gaze again. She looked nervous, fidgeting. His little Gryffindor kitten. He sighed.
“Sure, Granger, let’s go to this place you’ve made up in your head.”
***
She had refused to tell him where they were going, just said to meet him behind the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, and she would apparate them from there. He’d been checking over his shoulder his whole walk down. Convinced someone would see him and know everything.
If Hermione was worried, she didn’t show it. Instead of grabbing his arm and immediately whisking them away, she’d tutted at his robes and set about transfiguring them into a black wool coat, mumbling to herself about him being a poncy prat. He was about to defend himself when she finished with a flourish, grabbed his arm and they were both sucked into the darkness.
It was the noise that struck him first when they arrived. Even though they were in an abandoned alley, it was so loud. He looked around, trying to figure out where they were, when he felt Hermione reach for his hand, her fingers entwining with his.
“We’re in Edinburgh,” she answered his unspoken question, smiling up at him shyly as she started to pull him towards the street.
He immediately jerked his hand back, unsure whether he should feel guilty or gloat at the look of hurt on her face.
“It might not be London, Granger, but people will still care if we’re walking down the street together holding hands,” he hissed at her, looking around the alley and wondering if it was safer for him to just apparate home immediately.
“Not wizarding Edinburgh,” she said with an eye roll, “Muggle Edinburgh.”
Now it was a different type of dread that flowed through him. One akin to something he felt in the war, when he knew he wasn’t safe. She was taking him behind enemy lines.
Hermione held out her hand, tentative and blushing. “Will you come with me?”
It would have taken him a mere moment to leave. He could justify it later. Apologise and make her understand. But there was an itch of something that stopped him. Something he felt when he let himself become lost in her caramel eyes. She was right there. A nice witch who did not deserve to be disappointed. She just wanted to walk down the street holding hands with him.
Merlin, help him if he were developing a conscience. They had always seemed particularly inconvenient.
He reached for her and basked in her smile as she tangled their fingers back together.
If it was loud in the alley, it was deafening when they got onto the main street. Cars roared past; people were everywhere.
“What’s your plan here, Granger?” he asked, tightening his hold on her hand. Looking around at the people, feeling like any one of them might recognise him or pose a danger.
She squeezed back.
“No real plan. I thought we could make our way towards the high street and the old town. Maybe find something to eat? Go to a bookstore?”
Of course, she wanted to go to a bookstore. Though what she hoped to find of use in a Muggle one, he had no idea.
Rather than answering, he looked around him. People streamed past, all wearing clothes so similar to Hermione’s. A boy about his age watched with interest as they approached. Draco pinned him with a glare, turning to see the boy look at Granger’s arse in her tight jeans as they walked by. As if his hand in hers didn’t immediately signify she was off-limits.
Muggles and Blood Traitors; they had no respect. He pulled his hand from hers, and wrapped it around her waist, his hand coming to rest snugly in the back pocket of her jeans.
It was borderline disrespectful. To touch her like that in public. No other girl he knew would have allowed it. But Hermione just tucked herself closer and he couldn’t help just flash a fuck you sneer at the boy who couldn’t keep his eyes to himself.
“Are you hungry?” Hermione asked, slowing her pace, her breaths long and deep.
“Not yet,” he replied, still looking around, trying to take everything in. The cars were going far too fast for his liking, and he was glad that he stood between them and Hermione.
“Ok, what the fuck is that?” he reached out with the hand that was not tucked in Hermione’s back pocket and pointed to the bus that had just turned the corner.
It was big, red, with garish signage on the side and seemed to be missing the roof on the top level.
“Oh, it’s a Hop On, Hop Off bus!” she said, “You know, for tourists.”
“Well, obviously I don’t know or I wouldn’t be asking, Granger. Why is half of it missing?”
He’d stopped to gape.
“So you can sit up there and get a better view,” Hermione said, before looking up at him with a mischievous grin. “Do you want to go on it?”
He wanted nothing less. It hardly seemed safe. Or dignified. But she didn’t give him a chance to voice his feelings before she was barrelling towards it, and Draco had no option but to follow.
She immediately stepped on and talked to the driver, pulling out unfamiliar money and exchanging it for two tickets. He tried not to grimace as he stepped up next to her, pulled towards her by her broad grin. Once in arm’s reach, he immediately slipped his hand back into her pocket. If he was going to suffer the indignity of having someone else pay for him, and risk his life in this Muggle contraption, he was going to keep her close so he could either blame her as they careened towards certain death or die happy appreciating her finer assets.
“Do you want to sit up top?” she asked, shuffling them down the aisle.
“Bold of you to assume I want to sit anywhere on this contraption,” he muttered. Hermione nudged him with her shoulder playfully and immediately led them up the stairs and down the aisle of the top level.
Draco searched the faces of the people watching them go by. They were studying them, but there was no flicker of recognition.
It was… nice.
Hermione pushed him into a pair of seats, letting him take the windowseat. Before she herself sat down, the bus lurched forward, causing her to stumble into his lap with a giggle.
“I knew this thing was definitely not safe,” Draco muttered, but he tightened his hands on her waist where he had reached to steady her.
Far from fighting against him or arguing, Hermione lent forward and pressed her smiling lips to his in a chaste kiss. It was over far too soon before she eased herself into her own seat.
Welcome Aboard Travellers! If you look out the left, you’ll see Nicolson Square, one of our beautiful city’s green spaces-
The distorted voice made Draco jump, his hand automatically reaching for his wand at his hip.
“It’s ok,” Hermione said, laying her hand over his forearm and lowering her voice, “It’s just a speaker.”
What in Salazar’s name was a speaker?
“See?” Hermione pointed to a black box embedded into the wall near his knees and then another on the wall opposite. “The driver downstairs has a microphone, and the voice comes through the speakers here. So we can hear the tour.”
“Oh.” Draco didn’t know what to say.
There was a burning in his face as he realised that a speaker was something ubiquitous and he’d massively overreacted. He burned hotter when he couldn’t force himself to relax, not when the disembodied voice had shaken him so much.
It reminded him of the way the Dark Lord could communicate directly into his mind, and the horror of that memory made him feel with every inch of his being that he’d been caught doing something wrong. He looked at his arm around the Muggleborn witch beside him and remembered exactly what it could mean if they were found out.
Or what it would have meant before. In the past. What it would mean now, he couldn’t begin to guess.
He tried to focus on what the voice was saying. A slightly bored monologue on the history of the square, which Granger, ever the swot, was completely transfixed by.
Without her attention, he moved his elsewhere and glanced around at the other people on the bus.
No one was looking at them. It made the tension in his shoulder ease just the smallest bit.
There was a family right at the front. A mother and father with two children sitting between them. Every time the youngest saw something exciting he shot up in his seat and made a loud noise. Rather than chastising him, his parents just smiled indulgently both at the child and then at each other.
Further down the bus was a group of older ladies with large hats and paper maps flapping in the breeze. They were quite well-dressed, at least he assumed so. His knowledge of Muggle fashion was limited but he knew expensive fabrics and real gemstones and these women were clothed in both. They seemed more focused on the map than the sites around the bus, but one thing they were certainly not interested in was the witch and wizard sitting up the back.
Finally, he spotted another couple. Older than Draco and Hermione, but like Draco and Hermione, the woman was tucked under her partner's arm and her hand was resting appropriately on his thigh. They were too absorbed in their own little bubble to care about anyone else. They were just a couple. On a trip. Together. And no one in the world cared.
Suddenly, the Muggle world was quieter than the wizarding world would ever be.
They stayed on the bus for two loops. Hermione eventually started talking over the tinny voice from the speaker, adding in more historical detail when she felt the guide was lacking. She gripped his forearm when she was particularly passionate about something and watched his face instead of the site she was talking about. Annoyingly, she didn’t allow him to do the same.
After the bus, he had indulged her on a trip to a bookstore. He was unable to say no when she suggested it, hopefully bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Muggle bookstores, he learnt, were much like magical ones. None of the pictures moved, but when it came to overly smug authors trying to elicit a sale from their author portrait, it possibly wasn’t a bad thing. Hermione behaved exactly as expected, insisting on browsing every single section. He trailed after her, his hands finding ways to touch her just like he had in the library when all he had hoped for was to feel a brush of her skin for a second.
In the history section, she took it upon herself to find a book for him. Offering him book after book to try and grasp his interest. Biographies, histories of politics and battles. Each time he shook his head, her brow furrowed, and the determined glint in her eye grew stronger. Eventually, he agreed to read a biography of one of the figures they’d heard about on the tour who seemed halfway interesting. He was probably a wizard in secret, something Draco was going to look up as soon as he could.
But her face when he’d accepted it. So golden and perfect. She had thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly in front of everyone. He knew she was easy to please—Merlin knew she’d subsisted on scraps of attention from her so-called friends for so long the bar was on the floor—but he couldn’t help feel smug that he’d made her look at him like that. And that kiss was much more satisfying than holding her hand in public.
The satisfaction was dimmed slightly when he had to rely on her and her strange purse of money to pay for the books and the ice cream they had purchased soon after, but when he tasted the sweet chocolate on her lips as they kissed in a crowded street, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He’d had her for a whole day, and everyone who saw them knew. And no one had cared.
They’d returned to the castle separately, and Draco had fought with himself not to rush to the basement room or persuade her to do the same. He should have had his fill after an entire day.
He forced himself to go to dinner, and sit across from Theo, Pansy, and Blaise as they all talked about Hogsmeade. Smiled into his soup when he saw Hermione looking across at him furtively, one of the books they’d purchased together keeping her company for her meal.
He didn’t expect her to go to their room that evening, she had said she should probably show her face in her own common room, but it didn’t stop him from checking. Just on the off-chance that she felt the same hunger in her gut that he did.
She wasn’t there, but before he could grow too disappointed, he saw a note in her awful handwriting, and underneath it, a stack of the strange paper money she had carried around all day.
Next time, you can buy me books and ice cream.
His hand crushed the paper, fixating on two words. Next time.
***
The oddity that was eighth year came with another unknown to Draco. Career planning. No longer satisfied with handing out N.E.W.T.S and leaving them all to it, the ministry or the school or a dastardly combination of both, expected that seventh and eighth year students had a plan for life post-Hogwarts. A way for them to contribute to the broader wizarding community.
Eighth year students had an additional burden placed on them. An independent research project that needed to be in some way connected to the career they hoped to pursue in adulthood.
It was a thinly veiled attempt at ensuring the probationary Slytherins weren’t planning on retreating to their ancestral seats and using their gold to plan another war. It didn’t stop Hermione from taking it seriously. Nor did it stop every professor in the castle from pulling her to the side to hand her flyers and offer their opinions on what they thought she should do.
“I think the most practical thing to do is narrow down the career, and then from there we can choose a topic for the independent study,” Hermione said, the moment he sat down across from her during their free period.
She was surrounded by mountains of paper. He recognised the seals on some of them. Different universities and ministry departments.
“And I suppose I should consider whether I’d like to investigate Muggle education as well,” she muttered to herself, reaching across to make a note on a piece of paper.
“Why?” Draco asked, thinking the whole farce was ridiculous. Hermione Granger did not need to career plan. She needed to decide what she wanted and tell her friends in high places. And she definitely didn’t need Muggle university.
“I think my parents would want me to consider it,” she said, shrugging and refusing to meet his eye.
Right, her Muggle parents. Best they not discuss that.
“There are Magical Branches in Cambridge and Oxford,” he offered instead, and Hermione rolled her eyes and made yet another note on another piece of paper.
“I know,” she said, and he wanted to swallow her know-it-all swotty tone in a kiss. Or fuck it out of her. Actually, the second. He definitely wanted the second.
Except her hair was reaching new heights; her brow was creased.
So he didn’t push. He didn’t scoff. He just looked at her, surrounded by everyone else’s opinions. Fucking would have to wait.
He reached forward and picked up a paper with a ministry seal. It was an invitation to meet with the head of the DMLE and discuss her future there. Another from the Department of Mysteries. One from the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures.
“What do you want to do?” he asked, putting the papers back in a neat stack, making note that she hadn’t made any moves to stop him from reading her mail.
“Well, I used to want to go into the Ministry,” she said, looking at the papers he’d just returned and a wistful smile graced her face, “I told my parents I was going to be the youngest ever Minister for Magic.”
That was definitely the Hermione Granger he knew. Before the war.
“And now?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged, “I’ve already been responsible for the future of the wizarding world, and it was… exhausting. Unrewarding. Oh god, it sounds terrible to say that. Unrewarding isn’t the right word. Maybe anti-climactic.”
He could make a joke at that. Watch the pretty blush spread across her cheeks and distract her from it all. But he didn’t.
“You’re allowed to change your mind, Kit.”
“Am I?” she asked, “Harry and Ron didn’t. They went straight into more of the same. Protecting us all from dark wizards.”
“More of the same got us in the position that the future of the wizarding world was in the hands of fucking school kids,” he said bitterly, “More of the same is not always a good idea.”
“And there would be lots of people who would be disappointed-”
“Fuck them,” he cut her off immediately, “You owe them nothing.”
She smiled at him, her teeth toying with her bottom lip.
“I have been a little intrigued by healing,” she said, pulling one of the stacks of papers closer, “I could do my independent study on counter-curses for dark marks and scars. And there are programs all around the world, Canada, America, Australia.”
Her voice warmed, her trademark passion returning. He could see her as a healer. It would suit her kindness and intellect. Plus, she would look stunning in green.
“Don’t forget St Mungo’s,” he added.
“Of course,” she said, “Although the anonymity of a program aboard is appealing. It’s one of the reasons I want to consider Muggle University as well. It would be like that day in Edinburgh, except permanent. I wouldn’t have to answer a question about the war ever again.”
Draco felt his heart rate increase. His robes felt heavy on his shoulders, and his wand seemed to dig into his side.
“You don’t need to be quite that dramatic, Granger. You can probably stay in the magical world and just tell people to fuck off.”
She smiled at him again, a teasing one.
“Well, when it comes to being dramatic, I suppose I can trust your definition.”
He pushed the chair back and stalked around behind her, nipping at her neck. It wasn’t quite the same tone as before, but still one that made him want to bend her over the desk and remind her of a few things.
“Cheeky witch,” he teased her back, “I think you might need another lesson about what happens when you provoke a man.”
“Do I?” she was coy as she leant back into him, “Here I was thinking I was a very quick learner.”
Stacks of letters and questions of the future were lost the moment he ran a hand along her jaw and claimed her mouth. They literally left them behind when he took her hand and led her into the stacks, deep enough that the light was low and no one would find them. There, he pressed her back against the spine of the books, grinding against her when her legs wrapped around his waist.
“I could keep you here,” he groaned against her lips, one hand going to his belt buckle, needing to claim her because distracting her from what happened after Hogwarts wasn’t enough. “You can’t deny that living your life in a library isn’t a dream of yours.”
Her hands joined his, fumbling to unzip his trousers.
“What, I become a librarian?” she asked, her hand wrapping around his length and stroking him from base to tip, causing him to hiss. He thanked the stars that she was still in her uniform, and it was easy to push a hand up her skirt and feel for the wetness between her thighs. She was ready for him, despite the fact that she had her own rules against this.
“Just my librarian,” he sighed, moving her knickers to the side, feeling her position him at the entrance. “No one else is allowed to see you in a library, especially not like this.”
He thrust into her, and her head fell back, hitting the shelf behind her. He took advantage of the way it bared her throat to him, running his teeth along the soft skin there.
“I have heard the Manor library is expansive. Might need a personal librarian,” she sighed, urging him forward with her heels.
Draco froze. It was just a second, and he didn’t think she noticed before he resumed. His hands still gripping her, his mouth still tasting her skin. He was faster and harder than he usually would be, but judging by her soft sighs and the way she tugged on his hair, he didn’t think she minded.
It didn’t feel the same to him, though. There was something ugly hovering over them again. She had ruined it. Their fun little fantasy ran cold at the mention of the one place she should never want to go again. But she had grown bolder. Hermione Granger wanted to leave the castle.
Notes:
I know, this is late! I'm sorry but in my defense, I got a new puppy this week and so I have been distracted. Her name is Dora (short for Nymphadora or Dora the Explorer, depending on if you ask me or my kids) and she is the most delightful floof. Also this weeks chapter is also delightful floof (with a hint of library sex and angst because I like what I like ok).
Enjoy!
NB: Yes I accidentally posted chapter 10 twice... but I fixed it now.
Chapter 12: 2014
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A hobnob and a cup of tea in her office had become Hermione’s 3 pm routine. She never scheduled a patient for that time, and preparing her tea in her office meant she had no way of running into a certain someone who liked to lurk in the lobby. Ever since his surprise visit to her flat, he hadn’t spoken to her. She’d seen him, though. A flash of blonde amongst the patients and visitors when she was in the public parts of the hospital. She felt him watching her, too. It was a familiar feeling. So disquieting in the way it transported her straight back to the library at Hogwarts and the broken girl she was after the war.
Box. Masking Tape.
It had been a challenge getting a kettle that would work in the hospital. She’d had success convincing the powers at be that electronics would be useful in the treatment of patients, but they’d never seen the virtue of having it run to the offices. Not even after she’d tried to explain how a computer could help manage patient case files. Her laptop battery had to suffice for the records, and a camping kettle set up for the tea.
“Granger.”
Her 3 pm tea break was not to be her sanctuary today, it seemed.
“Draco,” she said, turning to face him, her face fixed with what she called her “Patient Smile”. It was the face she used when she knew she had to be pleasant and calming, even if she had no desire to be.
“I have questions,” he said, walking forward and sitting in her chair. Never mind, there were two perfectly serviceable chairs along the wall, which were put there specifically for visitors. He had to sit in hers.
She cleared her mind. Reminded herself that this would only last a little while. Reminded herself that it was easier to keep everything taped up tight when he had just taken over her chair and not seared his presence in the flat she had moved to, to escape the memories of him in her last one.
“Can I get you a cup of tea?” she asked, finding the tone she used when she had to deliver bad news to a family.
“Yes,” came the gruff tone. He was distracted. The playfully charismatic man was nowhere to be found as he rifled through his pockets searching for something.
She set about making the tea and left him to search. Just as she stirred in the sugar, he sat up, black journal in hand.
“White with one and a half sugars, Granger. And I don’t subscribe to that Lipton's nonsense.”
“I know,” she said, placing the cup in front of him.
He scowled, sipping the tea suspiciously.
“It’s perfect,” he grumbled.
“It’s not the first time I’ve made you tea,” she added because she couldn’t help herself.
Something about Surly Draco was harder to leave alone than the charming one. He felt more like her Draco when he was being surly, and there was still a part of her that wanted to be the one to coax him back from that dark place.
“Yes, well, I didn’t see the need to write about our tea dates in here,” he lifted the book and waggled it. “In fact, all we seem to be doing at this point is fucking a lot. In some creative places and positions.”
He took another sip and raised an eyebrow at her.
“I don’t suppose you remember my preferences in that, too? You’re welcome to demonstrate your proficiency there if you’re so desperate to show off how well you know me.”
He spread his legs a little, leaned back and grinned. So public-facing arsehole was back then.
Hermione retreated to the other side of the room, refusing to acknowledge how his words had made something in her lower belly swirl. The absolute wanker.
“Your questions, Mr Malfoy?” she said, after she had arranged herself on the edge of the guest chair.
Draco similarly adjusted his seat and leaned towards her.
“So, when we were fucking on Severus’s desk, did it get you off knowing it was the same place he’d sat marking your assignments, forced by your own brilliance to give you an O?”
Hermione sighed.
“What does or does not get me off is none of your business, so if that is the entire line of questioning-” she trailed off and gestured towards the door.
She really had no time for this. Besides, the last thing Hermione wanted was for Draco to reveal what was in those journals about the first times they’d had sex.
As stupid as it made her seem, and despite everything that came after, Hermione didn’t regret Draco being her first. Her recollections of it were actually quite sweet. He wasn’t some sex god, and heaven knows there was an awful lot of bumbling and instances when he came too quickly. But he always made her feel safe during. Always made her feel cherished in the immediate moments after.
If she was forced to experience his recollections of the same moment and learn that he was laughing at her, or mocking her, it might break the tiny part of her from that time that still existed. She had been such a fool in so many ways when it came to Draco Malfoy; she didn’t want to hate herself even more.
“Fine, I wanted to talk to you about the counter-curse,” he said, when he realised she wasn’t going to say anything more, “For the curse on your arm? Did you figure it out? I wrote quite a lot about your little independant research project in between the fucking we were doing in many, many places. You wanted to get rid of that mark you got at the Manor and then realised I hadn’t seen it in the last month, and while you could have kept it glamoured…”
He trailed off, and Hermione sighed.
It had been Draco who had suggested she investigate counter-curses for cursed wounds and marks. They’d worked on it together in the library for months. And he’d obviously written about it. With no words to explain, she rolled up the sleeve of her blouse and turned her forearm to him.
A whispered “finite” and nothing happened. Her unblemished skin remained exactly as it was before.
“No glamour, it’s gone. I had the final breakthrough at the end of my first year of my healing apprenticeship,” she said.
“Didn’t want to keep it as a badge of honour?” he asked, his tone mean, though why she couldn’t guess. It was almost as if he resented her for removing it.
Ironically, she hadn’t wanted to keep it because it reminded her of him. Not in a bad way. She loved the way his fingers had traced it gently when they had been together, as if he was trying to take all her pain. No one had ever tried to do that for her before. When he was gone, the scar was a cruel reminder no one ever would again.
Hermione smiled to stop herself from succumbing to her tears, but remained silent. He didn’t pause long for an answer anyway.
“What about the other counter-curse you were working on, the one for the Dark Mark? Or once you had moved on from me, did your interests go elsewhere?”
Dramatic, obnoxious arsehole. She wasn’t capricious. She had worked on that cure through her tears. Had worked on it even when it hurt. Because when she made a promise, she kept it.
“Also discovered,” she said, working harder than she ever had to keep her tone calm. “Although the treatment process is a little more complex. It takes more than one session.”
She was curt but factual. Trying not to think about the accusation any longer than she had to.
Draco didn’t say anything. He just plucked at his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves.
“Then why do I still have it?” he sneered.
Hermione blinked. She’d seen so many Dark Marks over the years. She should have been immune. Especially because on an intellectual level, she knew he still had his. But seeing the grey skull and snake that marred his skin was still shocking. It was painful to look at and even more painful to have him showing her so blatantly, when all the time they were together, he’d done his best to keep it hidden.
“I don’t know,” she said, deciding to answer his question as simply as she could, tucking her fingers under her knees to stop herself from reaching out to trace it. “My research was published, and the clinic is well known; many other witches and wizards have come to see me to have it removed. All you would have had to do is ask for a referral from your primary healer, and you would have ended up in my office.”
She didn’t mention that she had waited for him for those first couple of years after her discovery. The Draco she knew hated that mark and would have done anything to have it removed. It was the main reason that she had kept working on the counter-curse, even while she had grieved their relationship. It was meant to be her final gift, an invisible apology. After the treatment was made public, she kept expecting to see him at her doorway. Prepared herself for a last meeting, a chance to part on good terms. He’d never come, and she’d tried not to be disappointed.
“It must have been your memory charm,” he leveled the accusation as one might a curse, “You must have taken the motivation to free myself from this along with all my memories. In my journals, I talk about hating it. I never wanted to see it. Always kept it glamoured.”
Hermione licked her lips and considered her words carefully. She didn’t need to answer him, but watching him tangle himself up hurt. Even after all these years.
“Hypothetically,” she began cautiously, “If a memory charm was used to erase a specific person or relationship, that is all it would erase. Your individual wants and motivations would remain untouched, especially if the caster was very careful. Especially if the caster didn’t want to hurt you in any way.”
Draco blanched.
“So you’re saying you didn’t want to hurt me. Or worse, are you saying that I want this? That when you were researching your little counter-curses in the library and I was sitting there helping you, my interest was purely in you and not in the work?”
Hermione had an unbidden memory of those grey eyes watching her while she worked, his ankles rubbing against her own and a smirk that let her know he wanted her to put the books down and pay attention to him.
“I don’t know what you wanted then, and I definitely don’t know what you want now, Mr Malfoy. I’m just giving you the medical background of certain curses and the options that have always been available to you.”
“Stop calling me, Mr Malfoy!” he shouted, standing. He pushed back against his chair so violently it toppled over. The loud crash causing an orderly from the hallway to look into the room and check if everything was okay.
“It’s fine, Oscar,” Hermione smiled at the young man who seemed wary of leaving her with a clearly seething Malfoy, “Mr Malfoy has the information he was looking for and was just leaving.”
It was a risky move. One she was sure wouldn’t work. She daredn’t look at Draco; she just kept her eyes trained on the orderly in his white scrubs, his gaze bouncing back and forth between her and Malfoy.
“Perhaps you could walk him to the elevators?” she pushed a little further.
The tension in her shoulders started to hurt as she held herself up and she could see Oscar reaching slowly towards his wand, reading the energy in the room the way good orderlies could do. He knew as well as she that they were moments away from a disaster.
Then, something changed. Malfoy’s demeanour changed. He righted her desk chair and dusted it off before exiting with a polite word to the young man. He didn’t look at Hermione. Didn’t part with some vague threat or promise. It was just empty. After weeks of feeling his presence, she felt nothing. Maybe it would be the last she would see of him, or maybe things were about to get even worse.
Notes:
So I really can't decide whether I like experiencing 2014 or 1999 more? I mean they are both fun for different reasons. Not this chapter. Nothing about this chapter is fun but like... Draco is going through it.
Just an update on the way this story goes. It is going to turn into a Duology. This one will be a standalone, and it will have an open ending. (They have finally told me how this is going to end and as promised I am telling you).
However, I am a sucker for a HEA and so the second fic in the series will have a HEA. It will have a different narrative structure and POV tempo which is why it will be in its own fic.
I hope you guys stick around even though the HEA is a whiles away. Thank you so much for everyone who is reading and commenting and thank you to all the other lovely Dramione writers I have been sprinting with while going "Why is the ending the hardest to write???"
Chapter 13: 1999
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
She was gone. The castle felt colder without her in it. Draco had gone to the library to try to study, but his mind kept drifting. Fucking witch. She had gotten him comfortable with her. Had gotten him used to having her around. Things like conversation and gentle touch—which he’d been just fine without, thank you very much—were now things he expected each day. And she was fucking gone.
Weaselby’s birthday was a reason, apparently, to leave the castle. Just for the weekend, but she had still gone. He was sure she knew exactly how he would feel about it too. They’d been sitting on the sofa in Snape’s flat in the evening, her curled up into his side, reading about dark marks, when she’d mentioned it. The blush that overtook her, the way her eyes darted nervously. She knew he wouldn’t like it.
He’d fucked her from behind for the first time after she’d told him. Bent over the back of the couch, her face wedged into the cushions and his hand in her hair and pulling. He’d felt like an animal. They’d come screaming at the same time.
His Friday alone had been fine. Saturday, less so. Sunday had been torture. Draco hated waiting. Hated wondering if she would come back early enough to see him. Wondering if she would smell different when she arrived.
He didn’t wait for her in the library. Not that he was waiting for her. He was merely spending time in the little flat that was his sanctuary. He liked his privacy even when it had nothing to do with her. She had the password and could use it if she wished. But he wasn’t waiting for her like some lackey.
Just after 8 pm, the door creaked open. A curious face looked around the frame and lit with a smile when she saw him sitting on the couch with a book. Her book. Not that he’d been reading it because he wanted to help her in her studies or anything. It was just nearby.
“Granger,” he drawled as she slipped in and shut the door behind her.
“Draco,” she replied, her smile as clear in her voice as it was on her face.
They stood staring at each other, her smiling, him searching.
“I missed you,” she confessed, and with the simple phrase, anything holding him back snapped.
The distance between them disappeared as he strode across the room to pull her into his arms. His hands were in her hair, holding her face and pulling it towards his own, and when their lips met it was a rapid tangle of tongues and desperation. A rush to be as close to each other as possible.
He walked her backwards until the door stopped her retreat, pushing his hips and chest against her. When that wasn’t nearly close enough, he paused just long enough to cast a spell, and all the clothes between them disappeared.
“Draco! You can’t keep vanishing all my clothes!” she tried to reason, but he was too busy pushing her naked body against the wood of the door. Too busy leaving his mark on her neck and her breasts. “You’ve already deprived me of my good walking boots and two pairs of jeans.”
“Fuck your jeans, Granger; I like you in skirts more anyway,” he said, thrusting his fingers inside her. They slid in easily.
“So fucking wet for me already, Kit. Did this start while you were saying goodbye? Half your attention on imagining exactly what I would do when I got my hands on you again? Desperate to come back here so I could do this.”
He brought his thumb up to play with her clit.
“I like my jeans, Malfoy,” she hissed, refusing to give in to him, even though he could feel the way she wanted to.
“Did you play with yourself this weekend and think of me? Tucked up in some tiny bed with rough sheets and a Weasley snoring nearby; did you spread your legs and make yourself come to the memory of my head between your thighs?”
He bent down and took a nipple into his mouth. Played with his tongue and smiled when the next noise she made was a moan of pleasure and not another word of argument.
Feeling the song of victory in his blood, he withdrew his hand just long enough to scoop her up and throw her on the bed. Fuck the Weasleys and the history they had with her. He was going to claim her, and her history was going to cease to exist.
Hermione was flat on her back against the green comforter. Hair fanned around her, golden gaze on him. So pliant. It never ceased to amaze him how he could reduce her to a boneless, willing mess. He knelt between her legs, bringing one of them to rest on his shoulder and positioning his cock at her entrance, ready to sink into her. The first inch was heaven: warm and wet and wanting.
“Draco,” Hermione interrupted him, “Contraceptive Charm.”
Draco sank into her a fraction more. Her cunt wanted him closer; he could feel it pulling him in. It would be so easy to keep going. But her hand, flat on his chest, stopped him. With a frustrated groan and all of his self-control, he pulled out of her again. He searched for his wand and watched her abdomen glow once the charm had been cast, admiring the gentle slopes of her body. Then, he threw his Hawthorne to the side and returned to his place on top of her. Ready to make her his once more.
***
The quiet after was almost as good as the act itself. Not that Draco would admit that to anyone in a million years. No man would. Yet, he’d grown up with magic, and none of it seemed to compare to the sorcery of lying sated with Hermione in his arms.
“How was your weekend away?” he asked, trying to sound casual but feeling anything but. He wanted it to be awful. He wanted it to feel so wrong she was never going to leave him in this stupid fucking castle ever again.
“It was hard,” she said with a sigh, and Draco was glad she couldn’t see his smile.
“What happened?”
Hermione sighed and snuggled closer.
“It started with an offhand comment, really. Arthur just pointed out that by Ron’s age, he was married and expecting Bill, and it was the happiest he remembers being,” she said.
It was a plebian thing to say, but Draco couldn’t really see the offence in it.
“And naturally, Ron assumed he was making a pointed comment about his single status, which given the last witch he dated was me…” she trailed off. Draco stayed quiet.
There was so much he wanted to say, all of them an insult to Weasley, but she wasn’t done. He could feel there was more, and the best way to have her explain it would be to keep silent and give her room to fill.
“So it set Ron off, and he made some pointed comments about how dating was easier when his dad was younger. Also it wasn’t like he had to deal with a freshly traumatised Molly in their relationship because of the war, which, to be fair, wasn’t an unreasonable point and not necessarily about me, except George thought that it was and felt the need to stick up for me and chew his brother out, reminding him that I had saved their arses enough through the war, that he shouldn’t have a bad word to say about me-”
The twins always were his favourite Weasleys.
“Which was kind, but put the entire family’s attention on me, and then Ron got defensive and said he wasn’t making a dig at me, he was just pointing out that dating wasn’t as easy as it was before a war, and that he and I had only just broken up and he was allowed to need some time to work through that-”
Draco didn’t understand why. Hermione seemed to have moved on quite well. He felt himself grow hard again at just how well. Fuck.
“So then Arthur felt terrible and tried to have a meaningful conversation with his son, because of course he did, because Arthur is that type of father-”
His growing hard-on disappeared. He might have been a penniless, plebian, blood traitor, but no one could deny that Arthur Weasley was a caring father. He did everything he could to stop himself imagining himself and Lucius in the same position. He knew he wouldn’t like the image.
“So I excused myself, because watching your ex be consoled by his father about the end of your relationship is very difficult. But I was fine, and I went upstairs to read when Molly came to find me to check that I was ok. And it turns out the only thing more awkward than watching your ex being comforted by his father, is having his mother come to talk to you about your feelings about the whole thing.”
Merlin, it sounded exhausting. And messy. And complicated past what was reasonably polite.
“Why do you put yourself through it, Granger?” he asked, winding a curl around his finger.
She snuggled closer to him.
“They’re the closest thing I have to family, I guess. Family is messy.”
Draco pulled the curl taut, watching his fingertip blanch white.
“Well, aside from your actual family, you mean?” he asked, but was cautious.
They didn’t really discuss families, and now that he’d said it, maybe she didn’t have her family. Maybe, after they had found out she was a witch, they had abandoned her. His understanding of Muggles had been that they were instantly fearful of anything different from them and therefore likely to lash out when faced with it.
“Draco, my parents aren’t in Australia because they're Australian,” she said, and Draco felt his stomach turn to stone as he realised they had shunned her because of her magic. It was worse than he’d expected, actually, because they had fled to the other side of the world to get away from her. Fucking Muggles, they really did not appreciate family. Filthy cowards.
“I’m sorry, Granger,” he said, trying to find the words, “It’s their loss. They’re idiots, really. You’re not all that different from them just because you’ve got magic.”
Hermione suddenly sat up and looked at him like he’d grown three heads. It was preferable to her crying, which honestly could have been where the conversation was going, but still.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I learnt about Muggles abandoning children because they were different. Barbaric really. I’m just really sorry that it happened to you.”
Hermione’s puzzlement softened, and, as she carded her hand through his hair, she took on the look she got when she just figured out something tricky. Satisfied. Soft.
“No, Draco, they never abandoned me,” she said, looking at him a beat longer before snuggling back under his arm, leaving him to contemplate the ceiling and her words. “They were quite proud I was a witch, actually. Wouldn’t let me feel sorry for myself for starting behind you all when I arrived, just told me to keep studying and I’d catch up.”
There was a fondness in her tone that she hadn’t had when she was speaking of the Weasleys.
“I wiped their memories and sent them to Australia before the war.”
It was Draco’s turn to sit up, shocked, turning to face the crazy witch.
“That’s incredibly illegal!” he said, trying to piece this together with his portrait of her.
“I know. I know exactly how horrible it was. I suppose I thought that, well, if I lived long enough to be held accountable, I might live long enough to reverse it. And there just wasn’t a lot of time. Dumbledore died, and then I had an invite to the Burrow for that summer, and I had to figure out a plan so quickly.”
He could imagine her seeking a solution. Tucked away in a childhood bedroom somewhere with whatever books she had managed to buy in the six years she’d been aware magic existed. In his mind, the bedroom was lavender.
“Anyway, before the school year started, I went with Harry to see if we could reverse it.” Her tone became more matter-of-fact, and Draco knew she wouldn’t take any more questions on it that evening. “We couldn’t. It’s not an Unforgivable, but it feels like it should be sometimes.”
She paused and looked at him, her brows drawn and face sallow.
“Are you going to report me?”
There was the tiniest bit of fear in her tone. She couldn’t hold his eye for long. He let his own gaze drift over her naked form, the hard letters of the slur catching his eye the way they always did. With nothing else for it, he lay back down and pulled her into his arms.
“No, of course not.”
He started to stroke the raised letters of the word he knew so well. He owed her far more than silence on this. Not when he could have been the one sent to hunt her parents, and he would have gone. Gladly.
“I just wanted them to be safe,” she said, relaxing into his touch the way she always did, “I wasn’t sure what a wizarding war entailed but I knew I didn’t want them anywhere near it, and I knew that I had no option but to be in the middle.”
He snorted at that; she was a teenage girl. She should have been far, far away from it all. They all should have been.
“Their new life in Australia seems nice. I sold our home here, made sure they had a lovely beach cottage just like they had always wanted. Shipped everything they’d want to keep, sold everything else. There is nothing left of our life for them to come back to anyway.”
M… U…D, each raised letter made him feel something new as he traced. Merlin, he wished that it was all different. He wished the word had nothing to do with her. If her parents had been wizards, she wouldn’t feel this pain. If her parents had been wizards, he could- well, madness lay in that way of thinking.
“Unfortunately, that meant after the battle, there was nowhere for me to go either. I asked McGonagall if I could stay in the castle until the new school year, help rebuild in return for my board and keep, but Harry told the Weasleys about my parents so I wouldn’t have to. They said I always have a home with them. So now my place is there. It’s where I fit in the world.”
She shrugged, and Draco felt more questions bubble on his tongue. Chief among which was how her relationship with Weaselby fit into all of this. Why was it Harry who had looked out for her? Was Weasley willing to leave her to mourn alone in the ruin of a castle?
“It’s not the only place for you,” he said a touch angrily, hardly believing the words were coming out of his mouth.
“No?” she asked, her lilt questioning and a little hopeful.
“No,” he answered strongly, “I mean, you fit very well just here, Granger.”
He squeezed her gently to make his point. She did fit so well in his arms. It was like she was made for him.
“In fact, I’d say that this place might be perfectly Granger-sized.”
She didn’t answer him with words, but as she leaned in to kiss his chest, he could feel her smiling against his skin.
***
Unlike Granger, Draco was not surprised when he got mail. His mother wrote to him often, and since the Malfoy vaults and property had been returned to him, so did various employees. So when the yellow parchment envelope was dropped onto his lap, he didn’t feel concerned or dread. Not until he saw the wax seal holding it together.
It was from the Crabbe family. Crabbe Senior was in Azkaban with his own father and Vincent had obviously not sent it. Which left either the mother or the younger sister, who last Draco was aware, had been sent to complete her education at Durmstrang. No matter which woman it was, Draco wanted nothing less than to read their words.
Draco’s friendship with Crabbe and Goyle had been complicated. They weren’t like Theo and Pansy, whose families had similar lineage and wealth as the Malfoys. He’d met both Crabbe and Goyle before he had arrived at Hogwarts, but it was never a social occasion that preceded the meeting.
Their fathers had come to the Manor to do business with Lucius and they would bring their sons to push them gleefully towards the nursery as soon as Lucius had said it was ok. Both Greg and Vince had been a little in awe of his house, his toys, and, he’d found out later their fathers had instructed them to treat him well; ensure Draco wanted to play with them again.
No doubt that’s why they always played what he wanted without argument and why, when they all got to Hogwarts, they would follow him around with no hesitation as to what he wanted to do. They only shared parts of themselves when asked, and Draco had to admit, he didn’t ask often. However, he knew Vincent loved his mother and his sister. So he knew he didn’t want to read their words about him after he was gone.
It was a risky move, given his probation, but he skipped his classes that day. Choosing instead to go out to the lake and sit staring at the envelope. It was fucking cold, even though they were well into March, but he didn’t care. Better he be numb.
“Hi.”
Granger found him sometime in the afternoon; it was hard to tell how late in the day it had gotten.
“Warming charms don’t work on the damp ground, you know,” she said, sitting beside him anyway.
“Glad to see you learnt something this year, Granger.”
He was not in the mood for her to be cute. He didn’t want her to come and sit with him with her curls and her perfume and make him smile.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked, and a retort was at the tip of his tongue.
“Trying to get away from you, Mudblood,” would be all it would take. She’d leave in a huff, and he’d be allowed to figure this out. Alone.
But then she ran her fingers down his forearm, and slotted them in between his, her head leaning sweetly on his shoulder.
Fuck, that simple touch felt good. It eased the tightness in his chest, the way nothing else had. Relaxing into it, he handed her the unopened letter in response to her question.
“Mrs Crabbe wrote to you?” she asked, turning the envelope around, inspecting it.
Draco nodded, “Or Vince’s sister. Not sure which.”
“What did she want?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t read it.”
Hermione’s thumb rubbed small circles on the back of his hand.
“Do you want to talk about him? Vincent, I mean.”
He turned to look at her, surprised by how foreign Vince’s first name sounded on her tongue. In all the years they had been in classes together, he didn’t think anyone outside of Slytherin House had called him Vincent. He was always Crabbe to them.
“It’s just sometimes I like to talk about my friends who aren’t here anymore. Makes me feel, I don’t know, less alone.”
Draco felt a prickle of something at her statement. He wanted to know who she was talking to, because it wasn’t him. He realised he didn’t even know who she had considered a friend that had died in the war. The Weasley twin, maybe? Were they friends, or was he just her friend's brother? There was a difference.
“Vince wasn’t exactly a friend,” he replied gruffily, waiting for her to ask more questions. She didn’t. Just kept her head on his shoulder and continued to rub small circles on his hand with her thumb.
“Our fathers worked together, but Crabbe Senior was a lot lower in the ranks. Vince was instructed to make himself useful to me.”
As he said it, he didn’t feel the same sense of pride he used to, back when having lieutenants while he was still in school made him feel important. Now he just wondered what she thought of that. If she thought it made him impressive (unlikely) or awful.
“I don’t think I miss him the way I would a friend,” he was honest, if she was going to think he was awful she might as well get the worst of it, “But Mrs Crabbe and Elise, they miss him the way they should.”
“I don’t think there is a right way to miss someone. At least, that’s what I tell myself.”
Draco didn’t know if he believed her, but the fact that she didn’t judge him was a soothing balm on a wound that had been open and throbbing all day. He didn’t know if he believed her, but if he leaned against her and focused on her warmth, it almost stopped hurting.
“Do you want to read the letter?” Hermione asked after a while, offering the paper package back to him on an open palm.
“No,” he said, not sure he could face the grief of a mother or a sister. He looked at Hermione for a minute and considered whether it was safe enough. “But maybe you could?”
His voice was quiet, hesitant.
“Maybe give me a summary of what they want. Make sure I don’t need to do anything.”
Hermione looked at him for a while, her eyes scanning his face the way only she could. Studying him for something invisible to most other people.
“Ok,” she finally agreed, taking the letter and opening it.
He watched her face as she read. It was cautiously blank, brown eyes darting back and forth across the page. Her expression gave nothing away, and she read the page twice before folding it up and looking at him.
“It was from his mother,” she began, calm and measured, “She hoped you were well and was pleased that you were not sent to Azkaban. She just wanted to know if Vincent said anything before he died. She expressed sadness that she wasn’t there to help him.”
Draco waited for Hermione or Mrs Crabbe via Hermione to ask if Draco had tried to help him. Neither did, which was good. He couldn’t remember the answer.
“I don’t think he did,” Draco whispered, feeling raw, “I can’t remember. But you were there too. Did he…”
Draco trailed off, remembering that he should have been dead. Hermione should have watched him die in the flames just like Vince. At the time, did she curse Harry for putting them all at risk just to save him? Part of him wanted to curse Harry for such a noble, reckless decision; it could have killed her.
“I can’t remember either. I remember the sound of the flames. I remember the heat. But that's all.”
She slipped herself back under his arm, and Draco felt his grip tighten. They sat in silence, holding each other, the spectre of that day all around them like a nightmare, while the evening grew softer and dimmed.
“Come on,” Hermione said, standing abruptly, just when the first stars were visible. She held a hand out to him, and though he had no idea what she was doing, he reached for her and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.
She didn’t let go of his hand as she pulled him back into the castle. Most students were at dinner, but she didn’t cast a disillusionment charm either. The portraits watched with silent interest as they passed.
Up several staircases, down different corridors, Draco didn’t realise where they were going until they were pacing the third-floor corridor he’d spent so much time in during his sixth year.
“Granger, it’s been destroyed-” he started.
“Shush!” she didn’t listen and just closed her eyes, as if focusing on something. Within minutes, a door appeared.
“Ready?” she asked, and Draco looked in awe at the door.
“Granger, we can’t go in there,” he said, as much as the door called to him to open it. “The room was so damaged, it’s too dangerous. I won’t risk you getting trapped.”
“Just trust me?” she asked, a question that filled his whole chest.
In lieu of an answer, he pushed the door open and led them inside.
The interior was burnt. That much was clear. He could see charred remains of artefacts he remembered from all the times he’d been in the room before. But the ceiling was different, and the layout. The remains had been artfully arranged in alcoves along the edges, the middle of the room was open with long benches. It looked like a church.
“I found it by accident,” Hermione said softly, “I was walking to class just wishing I had a chance to say goodbye to someone, and the door appeared.”
Part of him was furious that she’d let herself into this room, alone, without telling someone. What if the room had been too damaged to function? What if she had disappeared and no one had known where she was? He could have lost her. He tightened his grip on her hand.
She, oblivious to his turmoil, used her wand to conjure a small posy of white roses.
“I thought you might want to say goodbye to Vincent,” she said, handing the flowers to him, “Whatever he was to you, he was something. And no seventeen year old should have to see another burn.”
The other part of him, the part that was not furious, surged forward. This was his witch, kind and understanding to a fault.
He took the flowers without thanks because he didn’t trust his voice. She seemed to understand though, and he watched as she took a seat on a long bench, her eyes cast upwards to the high ceiling. Ready to wait for him. Ready to support him how he needed. Draco dragged his gaze away to examine the little arrangements of charred artefacts along the wall, and thought about Crabbe. Thought about that day.
He didn’t know how he knew Potter would go to the Room of Requirement. Something about watching him for years and learning his patterns, maybe? Or just some deeply honed sense told him to go there. Not one of self-preservation, given how everything ended up.
Everyone was preparing for battle, and he wanted it over. Quickly. Then, the fear that was consuming him could die with their bespeckled saviour, or Voldemort. He really didn’t care which at that point. Finding Potter, pushing him towards the Dark Lord and letting that play out seemed like the quickest way to do it. Vincent and Greg hadn’t ever questioned him, just followed the way they always did.
If they saw his hand shaking when he raised his wand, they said nothing. If they noticed his eyes darting nervously over the Golden Trio as he realised he’d be condemning them all to death, they never faltered. If they just wanted to leave the castle with the rest of the Slytherins, safe in the knowledge they would be ok, no matter who won, they didn’t say. They just followed him, so he wouldn’t be alone.
When he got to a small stone statue of a Quidditch player, he stopped. Crabbe may never have been a real friend, but he had been a teammate. Someone Draco could rely on, someone Draco could work with. With a sigh, he lay the flowers at the base of the statue and allowed himself to remember the times when they were together. Not friends, but something close. It felt good to remember. Then it was time to say goodbye.
He didn’t take long, and he spoke no words out loud. Just let something go he hadn’t realised he’d been holding on to.
She was still looking upwards when he returned to her. Giving him privacy or lost in her own memories, he didn’t know. So he just came up behind her to bury his face in the crook of her neck and breathe in her scent.
“Spend the night with me at our place?” he said, referring to the little flat in the dungeon the way he would a home. A home together. Wouldn’t that be an absolutely ridiculous idea.
“We should eat something,” Hermione replied. It wasn’t a no.
“I’ll bribe the House Elves again for some food,” he said, reaching out to her, wanting her closer. “I just need you tonight, ok?”
Hermione let herself be pulled back into him. Her body warm and pliant.
“Ok,” she said, turning her head to find his lips. “Of course, ok.”
Notes:
Well chapter 13- is it lucky or unlucky? who is to say?
I am almost finished writing this fic completely- currently halfway through chapter 20, although there is a chance the chapter count will increase by 1 and become 22. Stay tuned.
Thank you to all my writing friends who have listened to me complain how hard it is to finish a fic in the past week. Seriously guys, the first 50% just flows, the next 30% is slightly hard but still doable.... that last 20%. Like pulling teeth. So difficult!
Chapter 14: 2014
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
She’d had three days of reprieve. Not that it was much of a respite. He’d been so angry the last time she’d seen him that she’d been waiting on the Aurors all week.
It wasn’t the Aurors that came. It was a casually dressed Draco Malfoy, leaning on the brick wall at the front of her flat, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. The angry man from her office was nowhere to be found.
“Malfoy!” she hissed, as she pulled out the earphones she had just put in, ready to listen to Coldplay and lose herself in a walk, “You can’t just wait outside people’s houses. That’s called stalking and it’s illegal!”
“Granger,” he mirrored back, “You also can’t go around tampering with people’s memories. That’s an improper use of magic and also illegal.”
She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. She just wanted one morning without worrying. She was going to disappear into the Muggle world, go to her yoga class, maybe get a coffee, and have a day away from all of it.
“What do you want exactly?” she asked, maybe it would just be a quick question and she’d be able to do just that.
“Hmm,” he hummed while looking her up and down, “Haven’t decided yet. Will tell you when I do.”
Annoying, arrogant, prat!
“So your plan was to stand there, all day?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Granger. There is no point in my standing here when you’re so clearly going out.”
So he was going to leave? It didn’t seem likely. His smile was diabolical.
“So, where are you going?” he asked, as he tucked his hands into his jeans.
Draco Malfoy in jeans and t-shirt. He looked perfect. The only casual clothes she’d ever seen him in before were the ones she’d transfigured for him, and she had to begrudgingly admit that his tastes were better than hers. Apparently, he’d learnt something new in sixteen years, and it was dreadfully unfair.
He cleared his throat, interrupting her casual perusal—which was just curiosity. That was all.
“I’m going to yoga, Malfoy, which is a Muggle-”
“-You’re completely insane if you think yoga is solely Muggle-”
“-regardless, it’s a class I am going to. So ask your question and then we can both get on with our days.”
Draco tapped his lip with his index finger.
“You know, a yoga class might be just what I need, lead the way.”
Hermione threw her arms up in frustration, looking for any excuse why he couldn’t join her.
“Draco, you can’t be serious!”
“Very serious. You see, I’m under a lot of stress at the moment. A witch I used to sleep with wiped my mind sixteen years ago, and I’m trying to figure out why. Terribly stressful. A good downward dog might be just the ticket.”
“You’re wearing jeans.” She was definitely grasping now.
“Oh no!” he said, the mocking in his voice almost tangible, “If only one of us were a wizard who was adept in transfiguration?”
His smirk was its own entity.
“I would change them here, Granger, but I think you have a nosy neighbour wondering why the dowdy doctor has met up with a tall, dashing gentleman, so early on a Saturday. Don’t want to give her a heart attack by performing the charm. I, at least, respect the rules about when you can and can’t use certain types of magic.”
He gestured towards one of the windows, and there was Mrs Bludstone from 3B looking through her lace curtains.
“Oh, come on,” Hermione huffed, walking down the lane to get away from their audience.
Draco kept pace with her, not saying a word, just looking at the houses as they walked by them. He was too calm this morning, too jovial. He was planning something, but as he’d always told her, ‘when you were trying to engineer a situation to your advantage, you didn’t approach a problem head-on’.
“Do you go to yoga every Saturday, Granger?” he asked. Tone light and airy.
“Mostly,” she answered, deciding quickly that there was little harm he could do with the information, and yet the risk of his getting angry if she didn’t give him something and going to the Aurors was high, especially after their last meeting.
“Not after a date night?” he asked, the lascivious tone so predictable it was easy to ignore.
“Not after a night shift at the hospital, or if I am working on a Saturday.”
She made a sharp left, hoping he might keep walking straight, with no luck. He changed direction without even pausing the conversation.
“What a diligent girl you are, all that work,” he said. Hermione went back to ignoring him.
“Do you like it? Your work?” he asked, and Hermione raised an eyebrow. Did he expect her to just keep talking?
“Granger.” Draco stopped suddenly, forcing Hermione to do the same. “I spent half of last night sitting in my study, with a bottle of firewhiskey, trying to plan my visit to the Aurors today to tell them everything. And yet, when I dressed, I thought maybe I’ll just give her one more chance to help me understand. So are you helping me understand, or am I leaving now to go to the ministry?”
She was in a corner, and he knew it. She gave herself the sanctuary of one clarifying breath.
“I do. Like it, that is. Especially now I can focus solely on my specialty,” she said, giving in the way she always did when he was concerned. She could survive this. Try to find the answers that gave him enough information that he would be satisfied, but not so much that he could use it against her or give too much away.
She braced herself for the follow up question about the type of healing she did; Magical Rehabilitation and Dark Magic Mitigation was a little on the nose considering her own famous scar and the mark that was the last trace of Voldemort in the world. Countless newspapers had implied many things about the choice.
“You’ve always stayed at Mungo’s?”
She nodded, and he followed up with, “Why?”
So many answers she could give to him in response and in the end she settled with a partial truth.
“I work in Dark Magic Mitigation. Where else in the world has Dark Magic done so much damage recently?”
Without warning, she turned to the doorway of her favourite cafe. It was busy, though not as busy as it would be in an hour when all the morning cyclists finished their rides, and the parents came in with their toddlers in strollers.
“I thought we were going to yoga?” Draco asked, looking around, and Hermione wondered if he had ever been in a Muggle cafe. Well, aside from the times she had taken him to one, but he didn’t know about those.
“I have no desire to perform Salute to the Sun with you watching,” she said, making her way to the counter.
“Shame,” Draco followed her, looking very comfortable, “It would have been interesting to see if you were still as bendy as I described back in 1999.”
“You’re early today! The usual, Hermione?” the barista, Naomi, interrupted them with a smile as they reached the front of the line.
“Yes, please,” she responded and felt tall, blonde and annoying straighten beside her.
“And for your… friend?” Noami asked with a questioning wobble to her voice.
“Ex-lover,” Draco helpfully corrected, “And tea, please, none of that Liptons nonsense.”
“Oh please,” Naomi, “Do you really think we’d serve that; Hermione has better taste.”
“I don’t know, Hermione also chose to dump me, so I think her taste can be questioned.”
He was flirting with the girl. In front of her! Even though he was easily ten years older than poor Naomi, and heaven knew that he’d be unlikely to start anything serious with a Muggle. Unless he was just looking to fuck the Muggle in secret, the same way he had been more than content to fuck the Muggleborn as long as no one knew.
“Draco, why don’t you go get a table?” Hermione hissed pointedly, pulling out her purse to pay.
“No, I’ll get this. I insist, Kit,” he schmoozed, barely glancing at her, his beautiful smile directed to the young woman who was pressing buttons on the till and blushing.
“No, I’ve got it,” Hermione said through clenched teeth, Naomi looking at her strangely. Because to her, Draco looked perfectly lovely; a snake in sheep's clothing.
“So unwilling to cede control, you used to be much more keen on it,” he tutted, the double meaning in his words obvious to anyone with ears, but thankfully he walked away with an apologetic look towards the barista.
“Was that fun for you?” Hermione asked as she carried their drinks over to the table, all but flinging his sugar packets toward him.
“Was what fun? Ordering a tea?” he asked.
“Flirting with Naomi,” she answered, her annoyance subsiding now the situation had passed, and a tinge of regret seeped into her conscience.
“Granger, that wasn’t flirting, that was existing with a magnetic personality. I know it’s not something you have a lot of experience with, but that’s what it looks like to not be immediately off-putting to people.”
Ouch. She bit her lip as hard as she could until she tasted her own blood. There, the physical pain was always easier to focus on than the other. She didn’t need to think about his words anymore; she could feel the sting of her lip.
When she looked up, Draco was studying her intently, before he silently offered her a paper napkin from the middle of the table.
“So do you come here often, Granger?” he asked, sipping on his tea.
“Really, we’re doing more small talk?”
“I can go back over and entertain myself by flirting at the counter, but you seemed to dislike that.”
He was impossible.
“Yes, I come here every Saturday. Usually, after yoga.”
“And do you just sit and people watch, or do you meet friends here?” he continued to intrude.
“For heaven's sake, Malfoy, I usually read. There, I’ve given you a perfect opportunity to mock my dull, predictable personality,” Hermione rubbed her eyes until little black spots appeared on the backs of her eyelids.
“Then where is your book?”
Like a flipping dog with a bone, if this continued, she might turn herself into the Aurors. Maybe that was his plan.
“I usually stop by my favourite bookstore in between yoga and coffee and pick something new up for the week,” she recited.
“Oo, I do love a good bookstore. Why didn’t we do that this morning?”
“Because it’s seven thirty in the morning and I did not feel like dealing with you without caffeine in my bloodstream.”
As if to make a point, she took a long drink of her coffee. Trying to savour the tiny bit of happiness it brought her on what was turning into the opposite of the relaxing day she had planned for herself.
“Why do you drink coffee instead of tea? It’s not very British.”
This must be the new plan. He was going to annoy her into confessing. It was the only explanation for why he kept asking questions.
“It’s a long story,” she said.
“I’m sure so is the one you’ll have to tell the Aurors. Your choice, though.”
He leaned back and observed her. She tried not to look too unimpressed as she took another mouthful of coffee.
“So, my mother wasn’t always a dentist,” she said, pausing to see if the Muggle occupation needed further explanation and was surprised when Draco just gestured that she should keep going. “She didn’t even do her A-Levels. It wasn’t something that people did in her family, especially girls.”
Hermione knew that was part of the reason she knew very few of her maternal relatives growing up, her mother had wanted to keep her away from them and their influence. It had made it easier when sending her away, knowing her mother’s family wouldn’t go looking. She just had to fake a postcard from Australia to them a couple of times a year.
“So Mum got a job as the receptionist at a dental clinic when she was just 18. She was still a hard worker, but just hadn’t had much of an education. Answering the phones and greeting the patients was about as far as her skills extended. Then she met my Dad.”
Hermione paused to see if Draco had gotten bored with the story yet, but he was watching her intently, leaning forward slightly.
“Initially, she thought he was a bit of a prat. He was from a posh family, fantastic education, qualified dentist. But he was fascinated by her and patient. Eventually, he won her over. That was when Dad wanted to go out on his own and open his own clinic. Mum wanted to help him, and he’d kind of opened her eyes to the fact she could do more if she wanted, so she studied bookkeeping at night so she could take care of the business side of things. Then, they had me.”
Hermione had never found out why they had just her. As a child, she had assumed, as all children do, that it was just the way it was meant to be, but as an adult, she was curious why her parents had stopped at one. Did they want more but couldn’t? Did they want none, and she had been an accident? It was the type of adult conversation she’d never have with her mother. She liked to tell herself it was the latter. It made what she did to them easy to handle.
“It was lovely when I was a kid. Dad was the dentist, Mum ran the practice, and I skipped between their two rooms getting both their attention. But around the time I started school, I could tell my mother wanted something more for herself. Then, one day, she came home and told us she’d enrolled in dentistry at uni. She did her studies, excelled at them, still ran the practice, and was an amazing mother to me. I just remember she was superwoman.”
“What’s that got to do with coffee, Granger?” Draco finally interrupted the story, though his gaze hadn’t left her face the entire time she was speaking.
“She was a parent, a full-time student and ran a small business. She was mainlining caffeine to keep herself afloat.” Hermione smiled at the memory, her mother surrounded by books and a strong cup of black. “But she was also my hero, and I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.”
She shrugged.
“So you drank coffee,” he finished the tale.
“So I drank coffee,” Hermione repeated.
The silence that fell over the table was not an uncomfortable one. Which was worrying enough. Still, Hermione took the moment to enjoy her drink and remember her mother. Just another person in the long line of those she missed.
“Granger,” Draco interrupted her silent remembrance, “Is that the first time I’ve heard that story?”
“No,” she sighed, feeling the loss of him more than she had in a very long time.
“I didn’t think so.”
***
He had followed her all day. All flipping day!
After the coffee shop, he had insisted on following her to the book shop, (What are your cats’ names? When did you get them? Do you have a flatmate? Why not?).
Then, to check her post box, (What did you get, Granger? Why do you subscribe to so many magazines? Have you never heard of the internet? Which raised the question, how had he heard of the internet? She kept that one to herself.)
The dry-cleaners, (Where did you go on holiday last, Granger? You haven’t been on a proper holiday since 2007; aren’t healers meant to make enough money to disappear to the Bahamas at least once a year? Granger, are you poor?)
To sit in a park, where she had intended to read her book with a gourmet salad, (So, do you eat a lot of takeaway? Do you know how to cook? What about the house elves? Did you eventually give up on those?)
To the stationary store, (Have you ever been married, Granger? Ever come close? I suppose then, there are no children around? Do you want children?)
And the grocery store, (You don’t consider making cereal cooking, do you? Do you ever host guests? Why not? What about the wonder twins, I don’t suppose they come over? Why not?)
It was walking down her darkened street, struggling with heavy bags of groceries because she refused to let him carry them or cast a featherlight charm on them because when he’d offered to do just that, she’d rejected him out of principle, when she had finally snapped.
“And what about you, Malfoy?” she asked, putting the bags down for just a second to rest her aching shoulders.
He looked at her, and for a brief moment, she thought that maybe concern crossed his features. Instead, he cast a shrinking charm on her groceries without permission and tucked them into his pocket before crossing his arms over his chest.
“What about me?” he said cautiously.
“You’ve asked me questions about my life all day, and now know all my faults. What about you?”
“I like my work,” he shrugged, answering one of the first questions he’d asked her.
“Which is?” she asked, all the fire leaving her when she realised he wasn’t going to fight. Fire that burnt away to curiosity. She had no idea that he worked. She’s always assumed he just lived off the Malfoy estate.
“I’m an Authenticator and occasionally do acquisitions,” he said.
“For magical objects?” she asked.
“Magical objects, art, historical artefacts. I work with Gringotts and Sotheby’s depending on the item.”
“You work in the Muggle world?” she felt her heart stutter at the thought.
“A beautiful thing is beautiful no matter its origin,” he shrugged, “And I’m not in the habit of denying myself beautiful things.”
Hermione felt her throat get tighter. She didn’t want to remember.
“What happened between you and your mother?”
Nothing would blow everything up like bringing up Narcissa. She waited for his eyes to shutter, for his shoulders to tense.
“It was gradual,” he said with a sigh, his body language staying open, calm. “She was very fixated on me getting married to an appropriate wife straight after school, and I-”
He sighed again, and there was the smallest sign of tension in his jaw.
“I always felt like it wasn’t right, like there was something stopping me from marrying, but I didn’t know what. I assumed I felt too young. So I travelled, much to her chagrin. Spent time in Italy, Singapore and America, that’s where I completed a Muggle Art history degree. Mainly because I was trying to piss off my father who had started writing to me again, but it was interesting. Have you ever travelled, Granger?”
Hermione laughed darkly. If only he knew. Fuck, she needed him to keep talking or she was going to cry in the middle of the street.
“Well, you should. Or maybe you should have, back when you were younger. The distance helped me understand some things. Gave me room to heal after the war but that meant when I came back…” he trailed off again and Hermione was so taken with how open he was being with her.
She had recognised so much of him. This part was completely new.
“It became easier not to see her at all. For her as well, I think.”
They walked on in silence, Hermione not really sure what to say to that, and Draco finally appeared to be out of questions. When they reached her gate, he looked up at the windows, and when he was convinced it was clear, unshrank her bags and held them out to her. She reached to take them, but Draco suddenly pulled them away.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve spent the past three days reading about a relationship, the likes of which I’ve never experienced since. We were fucking, yes, but we also seemed to actually care about each other, support each other.”
It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t say anything in response.
“I’ve never had that. Never had anything close. So I assumed that when you were slicing out parts of me with your little charm, you’d taken those bits of me with you. A petty act of revenge. I was ready to come here today and accuse you of just that.”
The rejection was on the tip of her tongue. She would never. She never wanted him to be alone.
“But I’ve just spent the entire day asking you about your life, Granger, spending the day with you in your life, and one thing has become very, very clear. You’ve never had anything like that since either. You’re as alone as I am, and from what I can tell, probably more fucked up.”
How did one argue against something that was true? She couldn’t, so she just bit her tongue and focused on that pain and the metallic taste of blood.
“Which made me think again, maybe it wasn’t the charm that took away my ability to love, to be in a relationship. Maybe it was the actual relationship itself. I can’t remember it, it just left its damage anyway. I think it ruined both of us.”
Hermione refused to cry. Not in front of him. Not again. Instead she silently took the shopping bags from him and fortified her mental boxes. All the ways their relationship had damaged her soul sat taped up inside them.
“Well done, Malfoy,” her voice was cold and even, perfect. “As always, you’ve understood the answer long after I have. I suppose that’s why you were always second in class. It just takes you a little longer.”
She let herself through her gate and pointedly shut it behind her.
“Perhaps you should just be grateful you can’t remember it like I can. You only have to know that you’ve been utterly ruined; I have to feel it.”
Notes:
Ok, so this is the chapter where I feel in love with 35 year old, Draco. He's just so... something.
Also, yes, Hermione is a little mean at the end here BUT 1) women should be allowed to be mean and 2) imagine your ex showed up and was being all charming.
Chapter 15: 1999
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When Draco walked into the library to study, Hermione was sitting at their desk, but in the same section, there was another student sitting four desks over. He stood frozen; there weren’t exams at the moment. There wasn’t meant to be anyone else there.
Hermione was watching him process the new development, eyes studying, taking him in like she did a potion when she was waiting for the moment it started to boil so she could add the next ingredient. If she kept looking at him like that, anyone who saw them would know.
Shaking his head ever so slightly, he made his way to an empty table and sat down to study. No one was allowed to know. That was how they worked. In secret. He could study by himself for a day if it kept things as they were.
Except because she wasn’t sitting there, all of the books he needed were on her table. He was back where he started. Sitting, watching Hermione Granger, wondering if he was allowed to go over and ask her for a book. She must have known it too, because every so often she looked up from her table and smirked at him. Did she know how to smirk before? Or was that his influence?
Deciding there was nothing for it, he got up and headed to the stacks to see if there was anything left on the shelves that would be useful to him. Not likely, when hunting for books, Granger was fucking ruthless.
“Too scared to sit with me?”
She had snuck up on him without him noticing. No small task, given his nervous system was still ready for war. How she did it was just another mystery.
“Didn’t think you’d appreciate the whole Hufflepuff common room knowing we were study buddies before dinner,” he replied, leaning back against the shelf and looking at her casually.
She was wearing a skirt. His favourite one. She looked fantastic.
“Derek’s a Ravenclaw.”
“What?”
“The fourth year sitting out there. His name is Derek Mousten, and he’s a Ravenclaw.”
When did she have the time to learn this stuff? And why did she care?
“Same overarching point, it’s not a secret if the gossip gets started, Kit.”
Hermione opened her mouth to say something and then bit her bottom lip before anything came out. He couldn’t help himself and reached across to wrap a curl around his finger. He loved it when he rendered her speechless. He was contemplating leaning in for a kiss when she looked up at him, eyes sucking him closer.
“Does it need to be a secret?” she asked, slightly tilting her head towards his touch.
It broke the trance he was in. His hand pulled away as if she’d burnt him.
“Are you out of your fucking mind, Granger? The Death Eater is fucking the Golden Girl. Yes, that needs to be a secret.”
He grabbed the nearest volume from the shelf and stalked back to his table. Back where Derek from Ravenclaw would ensure she couldn’t continue this ridiculous conversation. Unfortunately for him, when he got back, Derek was gone and he was left with Hermione two steps behind, not ready to let the topic die.
“Are we just fucking?” she asked, pulling out a chair to sit next to him. Ignoring all the signals he was sending her to go away.
No. Well, the voice in his head had no doubt about it, apparently. It was also a moron for laying it out so bare.
“It might be a little more than that,” he hedged. “We’ve never really defined it, have we?”
“No. Do you want to?” she shot back without hesitation.
Yes. Fucking voice.
“To what end?” he said. It was safer to answer a question with a question.
“So we can decide whether or not it’s a secret.”
Right, when she put it like that.
“I mean, I don’t have an issue with people knowing,” she said, cautiously meeting his eye. Gryffindor lioness going straight for his throat.
“Really?” Draco found that incredibly hard to believe. “You’d walk up Potter and Weasley and say ‘Oh by the way, Malfoy and I are fucking most evenings in Snape’s old bed? Except on the evenings when we do it on Snape’s old desk. I can’t get enough of his cock.’ I hope you’ve perfected your shield charm, Granger, because those two idiots would combust in an instant.”
If he’d been trying to throw her off balance with his language, it hadn’t worked. She just raised her eyebrows and continued forward.
“No! I would go up to Harry and Ron, who are my friends and say, ‘This is Draco, he’s my- he’s someone special to me.’”
He was special to her. And he thought she was speaking nonsense before. Being dubbed special by Hermione Granger made him feel like he’d stolen part of her glow. Fucking precious but lit him up like a target.
“And then, if you all lived through the explosion of accidental magic that would come after, they’d say, ‘Are you out of your mind, Hermione? He’s an evil Slytherin. You’re just going to get hurt!’”
“And I’d say, ‘Draco wouldn’t hurt me. Besides, I’m a big girl and can make my own decisions.’ And if I needed to, I’d remind them that my judgment had saved their lives more than once, and so maybe they could trust me!”
She was more than a little shrill. Her hair had taken on a life of its own, and he would swear the ends were positively crackling with magic. She stared him down, daring him to contradict her. And then the light died.
“Unless, you don’t want to tell anyone?”
Her tone was the opposite of the power she’d exuded seconds earlier. Small, nervous. A cowering kitten suddenly aware it was in the snake pit.
“I can’t imagine your family would be very pleased, given you know,” she said and rubbed at the scar on her forearm and she didn’t need to say the word.
He couldn’t speak; there was something painful in his chest and throat. She filled the silence. She always did.
“We don’t talk about your father, but he’s still your father. He wouldn’t be happy-”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what my father thinks of us, Granger,” he snarled as she hit on the one topic he had no choice but to defend.
She didn’t seem to relax the way he expected her to. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, her eyes still dark and worried.
“Ok, what about your mother? What do you think she will think?”
He had no answer for her on that. When he’d left his mother before he came to school, she’d been a shell of a woman. Keeping herself to her room, curtains drawn. That woman probably wouldn’t care about who Draco was dating. He wasn’t even sure that she cared that Draco was alive.
However, the one he remembered from before the war certainly would. That woman had his wedding planned, a ranked list of potential brides and dreams of pureblood grandchildren.
The woman she was currently, it was hard to say. He’d never met her.
“I don’t know. I could raise it with her.”
Something inside Hermione lit up again.
“You’d raise it with her? The fact that we’re…”
She trailed off, leaving the sentence without end, because they still hadn’t decided on a name.
“It's a possibility,” Draco replied, trying to imagine how that conversation might go. Trying to imagine how he would feel during. How he might feel after if his mother were supportive. “If you didn’t want to hide it any longer?”
Again, her smile was like sunshine on a rainy day. It made him feel like he’d always wanted to.
“I don’t want to hide it any longer.”
“I’m visiting her at Easter. If the right moment arises,” he stopped himself before he made the promise, “Just wait until after she knows before you charge headfirst into revealing us to Potter and Weasley. If I am going to get hexed, I’d like to be able to explain to my Mother why without shocking her.”
“I’d never let them hex you,” Hermione replied, a smile playing on her lips, “But it’s fine, Narcissa first. I can wait for that.”
She reached across the table and took his hand in hers. The look in her eye made him want to give her everything.
***
The Manor had lost the chill of dark magic, but nothing new had filled the space. It wasn’t the horror house he remembered from the war, but it wasn’t the family home of his youth either. It was just waiting. Waiting to see what its new era would look like.
Stupidly, Draco wondered what Hermione would fill it with. Not that she would ever want to set foot in the building again, and even if she did, he tried to imagine his mother being open to the changes she could want to bring with her, and couldn’t see it.
No, it was clear, Hermione belonged in the small flat in the dungeons or the stacks of the library. This place was one he had to venture to alone. At least until he had a chance to talk to his mother.
“Finchy,” he called for his mother's personal elf but she didn’t appear, just the echo of the name bounced off the walls.
“Tallow?” he tried one of the kitchen-elves, and again nothing.
“Elf?” he tried a non-descript call, and a little elf in a grey dress popped into existence in front of him.
“You must be the young master,” she said kindly, though he noted she did not curtsy. “Mistress Malfoy is in the orangerie and expecting you.”
The little elf set off through the hall, not looking to see if Draco was following. He had no choice. So he walked after her, looking at the bare walls where his mother or someone else had removed many, many portraits.
“Draco!” Narcissa rose to greet him, swooping to kiss both of his cheeks once he’d rounded the orangerie.
“Thank you, Jolly. We’ll have luncheon at noon,” his mother addressed the dour elf who nodded, but again did not curtsy before disapparating away.
“Really, that solemn little creature is called ‘Jolly’?” Draco asked, sinking into one of the plush upholstered chairs and watching as his mother fussed over his tea.
“Yes, well. Part of our punishment was that we had to free all our elves and only employ free elves to replace them. Believe it or not, but there wasn’t a glut of applications to choose from. She is efficient at least, and the elf in the kitchen is a passable chef.”
Draco didn’t know what to say as he took his tea. He didn’t like his mother having less than she wanted, but at the same time, he was awed by her matter-of-fact tone and general acceptance. It was a far cry from the woman he’d left back in September.
“It likely doesn’t matter,” she said, leaning back in her chair with her tea, “Once your probation is over, we can relocate to the house in Normandy, where the French government have imposed no such restrictions.”
Draco swallowed, the tea burning his throat. She already had plans for them. In another country.
“How is school?” she asked, smoothly changing the subject as only a society matron could.
He shrugged, “It’s school.”
“Will you get the appropriate number of N.E.W.T.s to satisfy your probation?” she asked, and Draco felt himself bristle at the question. Asking him about grades and exams. Like nothing had happened. Like she wasn’t part of the reason he needed to be on probation.
Then she laughed, light and gentle.
“Listen to me,” she said, her face relaxed, “You are more than capable of monitoring your own progress, which I am sure is exemplary. You were always such a clever boy.”
She looked at him with so much love. Like he was part of her heart outside of her chest, and she longed for it to come back. He thought she might be about to reach out and cup his cheek the way she did when he was younger. Whenever she was proud of him. Yet, when he glanced down at her hands, he only saw white knuckles as she gripped the handle of her teacup.
“I’m doing well,” he answered the question, his annoyance washed away by an emotion he didn’t quite understand enough to name. “I think Potions will be my best, although Charms may be close.”
And Muggle Studies. With Hermione’s insight, he was topping the class. He could have said that. Could have told his mother he was studying with Hermione.
“Excellent,” Narcissa smiled so brightly it reminded him how beautiful his mother could be. “I am so glad you were able to take some useful subjects this year. Outside the one that they insisted you take.”
There was no question who ‘they’ were, or the subject his mother was disinterested in. Granger’s name died on his tongue. It was not the right time to bring it up.
“And you’ve had no other interference, regarding your probation or the transfer of your inheritance?” Narcissa continued her questions.
“No,” Draco swallowed more tea, “Why, have you?”
His mother laughed again lightly. It carried on the air and if he had closed his eyes he could have imagined they were from before. Taking tea before he went back to school. Before The Dark Lord had risen again and ruined everything.
“They’ve been,” she said, “Taken things that I won’t miss.”
It was a brave statement. Given the shell she’d been before he’d gone back to school. Given that they’d taken her husband.
“As long as you are happy enough now?” he asked.
“My son is home,” she said, smiling, “and I have an entire week planned with him. Of course, I am happy.”
She sounded like she meant it.
***
Narcissa hadn’t been lying when she said she had a whole week planned. The first day she had given him a tour of the house, and all the changes she had made or was planning on making. He was happy she was changing things. There were far too many memories embedded in the wallpaper and parquet.
He hadn’t wanted to linger in the drawing room, but his mother was so excited about it. It had been Narcissa’s least favourite room, even before the war. One that Lucius had insisted they keep in the style his mother preferred, that Narcissa had never felt was quite her own. She explained the overhaul in detail. Draco couldn’t help but look for the stain on the floor.
There had never been a promise to tell his mother. It was always conditional on there being the right moment. Watching her light up with excitement as she explained that she was going to replace the wallpaper with a light peach colour and carpet over the stains was not it.
It was also so clear that his Granger was so far beneath his mother that she didn’t register in Narcissa’s mind. She didn’t ask any questions about her, even though it was likely only her letter of support that afforded them the privilege of standing in the house now. Nor mention the fact she’d been tortured in this room; which although they’d both seen many horrors in this house, he had to assume the torture of a child was somewhere high on the list.
No, Hermione didn’t exist for Narcissa or in this world and considering what happened the last time she did, Draco couldn’t help but be grateful for it.
Narcissa had purchased a new broom for him. The latest model, fast and sleek. Encouraged him to fly every morning. The Quidditch pitch, which had been transformed into something of a camping ground for snatchers and werewolves during the war, was restored to its intended purpose, complete with professional quality locker rooms; in green and silver, of course. Draco thought that if he’d spoken more than ten words to Theo and Blaise recently, it would have been nice to bring them over and rub the state-of-the-art facilities in their face. He made a note to try and endure more time with them just so he could over the summer.
Halfway through the week, she had met him at the breakfast table and informed him they were going shopping, not to Paris, as they usually would (the terms of his probation wouldn’t allow it), but to Diagon Alley. Choosing Draco’s spring and summer wardrobe was always an Easter holiday rite of passage, and while many sons would have groaned and complained at being pulled between stores and trying on outfit after outfit, Draco had always liked the day.
His mother had made no secret of her desire to spoil him and ensured that everyone admired her handsome son. They had eaten at the restaurants he wanted, and there was always time to stop for his favourite sweets just before they went home.
While this trip wasn’t as glamorous as a day in Paris, and the duo had to ignore the stares and whispers of the people on the street, it still made him feel something akin to hope. Hope for his mother. Hope for his future. Hope that things might not be as complicated as they seemed when he was looking at the forms insisting he put in an aspiration and plan for his “career planner” or the letter he could not finish to Mrs Crabbe.
***
The week had nearly passed when Narcissa knocked on his door one evening before dinner.
“My darling,” she said, as she came in to observe him lying on his bed, book in hand, not dressed for dinner.
“I was about to get ready,” he said, putting his book down immediately, knowing that he was cutting it fine.
“Oh no, I’m glad you're not committed to an outfit.” Narcissa walked to his wardrobe, “I was hoping you might indulge your mother and let me choose something.”
Draco smiled at her. People always asked him if he thought Narcissa had always longed for a daughter. He knew that she was more than happy with just him.
“Of course, your taste is excellent,” he happily agreed. He was feeling relaxed after the week. Things were feeling normal.
“Oh good,” she beamed, going and pulling out a dark grey suit and robes to match. “I always like you in blue, but I think grey and silver will make your eyes stand out.”
“Well, given it’s just us for dinner, Mother, you should dress me in blue if it makes you happy.”
Her hands hesitated just a fraction.
“It is just us for dinner, isn't it, Mother?” Draco asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Well, I thought for your last dinner before you go back to school, it might be nice to have some friends join us.”
She refused to look at him, just held up different ties against the robes she had selected.
“We have friends?” Draco responded flippantly, and she scowled at him.
“Of course we still have friends, Draco. The Greengrasses have always stayed in touch, and while Daphne is already married, the younger girl isn’t.”
Ah, so it wasn’t just friendship the Greengrasses were after then. If gossip of the newly restored vaults hadn’t already reached them, the very public and extravagant shopping trip they’d taken that week would have done the job.
“Really, Mother?” he asked, taking the tie she offered him.
“I’m not drawing up a betrothal contract yet, Draco, but it wouldn’t hurt to meet the girl,” she said, pushing him towards to his bathroom, “I just want you to be happy and take it from me, being alone in this world is no path to happiness.”
She trailed off, looking him up and down. He wondered whether she was seeing him or a younger version of his father.
“I just want you to have the life I dreamt for you before, well, everything,” she said, reaching forward to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing gently against his skin. Her first gentle touch of the visit.
He didn’t fight her. He changed like a good son. He styled his hair in the way he knew his mother preferred. He dabbed on the aftershave they’d chosen together on their shopping trip.
There was only a tiny itch somewhere around his conscience. One that wanted him to think about a conversation in the library. About the one person who was at least a friend adjacent before the vaults were restored. About the gentle touch and golden light he’d relied on to survive until now.
***
Leaving was harder than he expected it to be. He and his mother travelled together to King’s Cross, and she straightened his robes with a watery smile as she kissed him goodbye.
“Not long now, my darling,” she said, bottom lip trembling.
It was the first time she’d looked as lost as she’d been when he’d left at the start of the year, and for the first hour of his journey north, the only thing he could wonder was if she would return to her room. Her lightness from the past week extinguished.
No one joined him in his compartment, though plenty of students glared at him through the window. He just put his brand-new dragon leather bag up on the seat beside him to let them know they weren’t welcome, even if they were brave enough to try and sit beside the youngest Death Eater in history.
It wasn’t until the countryside was unarguably Scottish and the students who walked the halls were dressed in uniform did he think of Granger. He thought of her waiting for him in their flat. Hair up, probably help in place with her damn wand, reading something. Maybe working on her independent project, maybe some Muggle fiction book. He wondered how many she had read in the break. He could take her back to Edinburgh if she needed a new one.
He had already decided that if she didn’t ask whether he’d told his mother, he wouldn’t volunteer the information. There was a chance she had changed her mind anyway. With some time and distance, she could have come to the same conclusion he had, that they were better in secret.
Yes, she might not mind so much. She would hate the Manor anyway and no doubt would find his mother tiresome. A bookstore in Edinburgh, a library, a small room in the dungeons, that was where he could make her happy. That was where they belonged.
Notes:
Sorry- running a little late this morning. I think between Not With A Bang and this, it might seem I hate Narcissa. I don't, and I think she genuinely thinks she is doing what is best by her son. However, decades of prejudice is hard to beat. Especially when you are being punished.
Anyway, enjoy!
Chapter 16: 1999
Notes:
Good Morning! I am a day early but this weekend is looking very busy so here you go... ta-da. Also, do I need to look into witness protection at this point (fanfic writers protection? Writer Protection? I think there is a business idea there) or are we all chill? Just know, it hurts me just as much as it hurt you... maybe more.
Anyway... enjoy... wrong verb but can't think of the right one...
Chapter Text
“Will you go somewhere with me?” Draco asked, breaking the silence that had settled over their study sessions far too often now.
She had been waiting for him in their flat when he got back from his Easter Break. Her curls were a mess, as if she had been tugging on them for hours. But her smile when he walked in was the warming glow he had missed all week.
“So?” she asked, eyes shining.
Her faith in him was so shocking and misplaced.
“It wasn’t the right time,” he said, readying himself for an argument. He wanted her to tear strips off him and give him something to fight.
Instead, he was met with a slump of her shoulders followed by a soft, little ‘oh’ that lacked any of her fire. Her eyes went back to her book for a minute before she seemed to gather herself and ask about the rest of his break.
He filled her in with the basics; the parts he knew she would approve of. But he knew she saw him across the hall as he sat with Blaise and Theo at meals for the first time in months. He looked over his shoulder when Astoria Greengrass stopped him between classes and thanked him for his wonderful company at dinner. Paranoid that he would be caught doing something that wasn’t actually wrong.
Maybe it was the cause for the persistent silence. The little changes. She was far too observant not to see them. And he wasn’t foolish enough to believe she hadn’t.
He didn’t like it though. The silence. The caution. He didn’t want her like that. He wanted the girl with the golden glow that made him feel like he was worth something.
“Go where?” Hermione finally replied, not looking up from her papers but unable to hide the curiosity in her tone. Dare he hope for anticipation?
“Well, I was thinking I could demonstrate my command of all things and take you out on a proper date. Especially given your idea of a good time was a dilapidated bus tour. Someone needs to show you what the finer things in life are.”
That made her look up.
“I thought you liked the bus tour?” she said, slightly indignant. He had, but he wouldn’t be admitting that for all the tea in China. “You stayed on it for two hours.”
“I liked sitting next to you, Granger. The bus was merely a convenient way to touch you for two hours.”
She blushed at that.
“So, what do you say? Allow me to show you what a decent date looks like?”
He waited, observing how her mind whirred as it processed the invitation.
“But it’s not a Hogsmeade weekend,” she countered, and Draco had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. He was starting to get sick of her obfuscation. And then he felt something like fear catch in his chest. Maybe she didn’t want to go with him. Maybe he’d blown it.
“We’d have to sneak out of the castle,” she continued, and it wasn’t a no. She hadn’t said no.
Draco wanted to smirk at her, but couldn’t help the full-blown grin that graced his face.
“I’ve been led to believe that’s not a problem for you, Kit,” he said.
She rolled her eyes and, with an effortless flick of her wand, all her study materials packed themselves up into that little beaded bag of hers.
Merlin knew how they all fit; undetectable extension charm most likely. His little criminal.
“Well, do you need more time to plan ‘the finer things’ or are we going?” she asked, standing, and twisting her hair up into a messy bun.
Draco stepped into her space and immediately pulled her hair loose again, watching with satisfaction as the curls danced around her face. In a moment of indulgence, he reached forward and tugged on one, feeling the smooth silk of her hair between his fingers and watching as it returned to the way he liked it.
Then, with a smirk, not a grin, he offered her his arm in a move that he’d been practising since he was a boy.
“Ready when you are, darling,” he said, the ‘darling’ only slightly sarcastic.
***
“I can’t believe they wouldn’t give us a table,” Draco fumed, walking back out onto the street, Hermione following him.
“Yes, well, fancy restaurants generally expect you to have a reservation,” she said, not bothering to hide the amused grin on her face. It made Draco scowl further.
She looked beautiful. He’d taken great pleasure in transfiguring her clothes the same way she’d done to him on their first foray into the outside world. A soft green cocktail dress that swirled around her knees and dipped just low enough at the front, he could imagine licking along the seam as a prelude to consuming her later.
“I have been to many excellent restaurants in my life, and not once did we require a reservation. It must be Muggle inefficiency; the wizarding world wouldn’t have this problem,” he huffed.
She laughed at that, her curls bouncing and eyes shining.
“That’s nothing to do with Muggles vs. Wizards, Draco. That was purely everyone in the wizarding world knowing exactly what kind of money and power was attached to your name and not wanting to anger you.”
Something akin to pride rippled through him. Followed by something that was eerily similar to shame. Not wanting to interrogate either feeling more closely, Draco picked up his pace and strode down the street. Hermione, in heels he’d transfigured that she was clearly not used to, struggled to catch up.
“It’s ok, Draco. We can just find a cafe and get something to eat there,” Hermione said, her voice soft behind him.
He stopped short.
“Have you seen what we’re wearing, Granger?” he gestured down to his custom suit, one he’d picked out especially for this outing. “We can find somewhere, I just need a minute.”
He started walking again, Hermione trailing behind and saying nothing. There were plenty of restaurants on the street, some even met his standards. But every time he considered going into one, he thought of what it would feel like if he were turned away again. With Hermione watching. And then one by one, the signs switched to closed. Lunch service was over.
“Okay, this is ridiculous!”
Hermione strode forward, and Draco briefly mused that she had transfigured her heels back into flats. She was shorter again. She grabbed his hand and tugged him forward into what seemed like a Muggle apothecary.
“Granger, what do you think you are doing?”
“I’m starving, Draco. And you’re taking much too long to decide, so I am making the decision for you.”
She pulled him to stand in front of a chilled wall of what looked like sandwiches in little plastic packets.
“You can’t be serious,” he said, looking at the wall of wilted lettuce and white bread.
“Deadly serious. It’s a Boots meal deal, it reigns supreme and most importantly, it’s here and it’s ready.”
She reached into the cabinet and retrieved what appeared to be a chicken salad sandwich and then started to peruse the baskets of crisps below it.
“Hurry up, choose a sandwich,” she prompted, her hair looking a little wild and eyes determined. Draco didn’t even pay attention to what he was grabbing, just took the nearest packet lest she start to crackle in front of the Muggles.
Hermione grabbed two packets of crisps, two drinks and marched them toward the counter and the bored, pimply teenager who scanned their items. When he announced the price, Hermione looked at Draco expectantly, and he fumbled, realising that she was going to give him a chance to pay. Like she knew his ego would not be able to withstand that insult, along with all the others he’d endured on this ill-planned expedition.
As soon as the money was handed over, she swept the food into her little beaded bag and strode out into the street. Leaving Draco to trail behind this time. He followed her silently down several streets until they ended up in a quaint park, and she sank onto one of the benches.
“Sandwich?” she asked, her tone softer, a smile peeking at the corners of her mouth.
Draco didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. They were sitting in a public park eating pre-prepared sandwiches for Merlin’s sake after he’d promised her a real date. One that would cease the silence. One that would make her look at him the way she had before Easter.
But then he chanced a look at her, and saw her studying him. Brow creased, gaze intense.
“I don’t care where we are, Draco,” she said earnstly, the look on her face the one he’d been searching for all along. “I just enjoy spending time with you.”
She tipped forward and pressed her lips to his. It was much too brief. A gentle hint of what he could have. Without consideration, Draco let their sandwiches fall to the ground as he pulled her into his arms. He was determined to have more. He really wanted everything.
***
The week of his birthday, Draco received a letter from his mother. She was coming to Hogsmeade to celebrate with him and had requested his presence for lunch at the little French-inspired bistro in town. It was already a Hogsmeade weekend, so he did not need to obtain any additional permissions, but it did mean the adventure Hermione had planned to mark the occasion would need to be cancelled.
When he told her, she’d taken it well. Just smiled and assured him that he should spend time with his mother. Then she’d mentioned that she had no reason to stay in the castle, and she could always go into Hogsmeade herself; the way her eyes lingered let him know that she wouldn’t be opposed to meeting his mother with him.
He pretended not to see it. She hadn’t raised the topic of making their relationship public again, but he knew she still wanted to. It was in the way her eyes caught his in the Great Hall and the way she spoke about their future.
They spent the night before his birthday in their little flat. She had tried to kiss her way down his torso, and he had stopped her before her perfect lips could wrap around his cock the way he dreamt they would. While he had spent plenty of time between her thighs, it was arguably his favourite place in the whole damn castle, she had never returned the gesture.
She was willing, eager even, but Draco could not trust himself. He had no idea what he would do, and the spectre of how he would have used her before was all too real in the hazy moments when it was just the two of them.
They woke up slowly on his birthday, wrapped in each other. He nudged his thigh between hers, opening her up to him so he could slip inside. He felt her quiver around him before they had both even completely regained consciousness. She had woken enough at just the last minute and grabbed for her wand to cast the oh-so familiar ice-cold spell that would prevent him from truly taking root inside of her. He was too asleep to think of it. That was all.
“Happy Birthday.” She leaned across him and kissed him sleepily when they were done. “Do you feel taller?”
“Why would I feel taller, Granger?” Draco tried not to let his annoyance take hold. He was very aware they were on stolen time. Soon, he would have to leave their cocoon. Soon, he would have to take his robes from the wardrobe and pretend.
“Sorry,” she giggled into his neck, “It’s something silly my mother always used to say on my birthday. When I was little, I used to stand as tall as I could, practically on my tiptoes and confirm that I was.”
He could imagine her. Curly-haired and overly excited. The eyes he couldn’t look away from shining with pride.
“Well, it’s a very strange custom,” he mumbled, the image doing its very best to shake him from his mood.
“I suppose it is,” Hermione agreed, tracing lazy patterns across his bare chest, “What about you? What strange birthday traditions did you have growing up?”
He could tell her; the selection of sweets for breakfast, the portrait his mother insisted be painted every year, the toast his father made over dinner. But he didn’t want to. All of those things took place outside of their room.
“Just the usual traditions for a family of our type.”
He shrugged her off as he rolled out of bed and looked for his underthings.
“Hmm,” Hermione hummed, her eyes studying him closely, as if she was suddenly aware there was something more going on under the surface than he was confiding.
She didn’t push him, though. Instead, she raised herself onto one elbow, the sheet falling away to reveal her bare breast. And briefly, Draco considered what would happen if he cancelled on his mother. It was an unfathomable idea, of course, but maybe if…
“Would you like your presents now or later?” she asked, an eyebrow raised coquettishly, and he speculated how much of his gift involved her being naked. He could stay. Find out.
Mother would be furious. And if she had gone through the trouble of leaving the Manor, it would be abhorrent to cancel on her now.
With a groan, he wiped at his face.
“Later,” he said. “Give me something to look forward to after this staid luncheon with my mother is over.”
Hermione shook her head indulgently at him.
“You’ll enjoy it; you’ve always loved it when your mother dotes on you.”
She was bordering on presumptuous again, and he was about to open his mouth to correct her.
“Don’t bother to deny it. It was obvious, even before I got to know you this year. She always used to send the most elaborate packages, and you used to blush while pretending it was nothing.”
He didn’t know she had been watching him so closely back then. It made his chest feel odd.
“And there’s nothing wrong with it,” she continued, unaware that she had just sparked something. “I would love to have my mother around to dote on me again.”
There was no point fighting himself as he watched her sadness take over her face. She rarely spoke about her parents, but when she did, it was like a weight, ready to pull her down. The only thing he could do was hold her. Try to stop her from drowning in it.
It’s what he did at that moment. Trousers unfastened as he completely forgot what he was dressing for, he crawled across and took her in his arms, burying his face in her curls.
“I don’t want to ruin your day,” she said, her voice muffled, although whether that was from his bare skin or her emotion, he had no idea.
“You’re not,” he assured her, “I can confidently say that whatever happens, you will always be the best part of my day.”
He felt her smile at that. A soft movement against his chest.
“I wish I could come with you,” she said, not moving to look at him, and Draco had to stop himself from pushing her away in reaction to the cold that worked through him. He needed this to be enough for her.
“I promise I will be back to you as soon as I can,” was the best he could offer.
Hermione pulled herself away and nodded with a sigh.
“I’ll be waiting in the library,” she said, standing first this time, going straight to the wardrobe as he’d vanished her clothes the night before in his frenzy to have her.
“Not here?” he asked, catching the robes she threw to him.
“Not here, I might as well work on my project,” she said, her face painted with the frustrated look she always wore when she spoke of the counter-curse that was taking her much longer than she had expected.
He walked to her and grabbed her arm, bringing her forearm to his lips and kissing the mark.
“You’ll be free of it soon, my love, I know it.”
The endearment came out in a tumble, not one that he’d used before and not one he’d intended to use this time either. He held his breath waiting for her to react, but she just smiled, a secret in her eyes.
“That’s not the project I was talking about.” She traced her fingers down his forearm, delicate strokes across the Mark that was glamoured whenever she was near. “I’m working on a counter-curse for yours.”
***
Narcissa Malfoy looked like her old self. She was majestic. All pristine robes and expensive jewels. Overlooking the table the maître de had led them to, she let him know with a curl of her lip that it was not suitable. The wizard swallowed, visibly uncomfortable, and they were taken to a table in front of a large plate-glass window. So that was it. She wanted to be seen.
“Happy Birthday, darling,” she said, raising a glass of the most expensive wine on the menu. She had wanted champagne and was disgusted when they could only offer Sparkling Brut. Elf-made white was the substitute.
It was familiar, the toast, the smile, the distance. He’d known better than to expect a warm hug the moment he’d seen her. Not where people could see. As much as it was his birthday, this visit was not about him. Not really.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said, raising his own glass and taking a tiny sip. He hated white wine.
“Have you had a nice day so far?” she asked, pushing the menu across to him. He would be expected to order for them both, as the man at the table.
His mind flashed back to waking, wrapped in Hermione, and he felt a smile escape at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes, most diverting,” he said, unable to stop the tone of mischief in his voice.
Narcissa had heard it. She raised a single eyebrow in response.
“I was surprised you wanted to meet in Hogsmeade,” Draco changed the topic, scrambling to distract her.
“Yes, well, there was something I needed to pass on. It’s probably best we get it done now, actually, before we are distracted by appetisers and whatever else the meal may bring.”
It was her eyes that were twinkling now. She reached into her robes and withdrew a small ring box. Black, scuffed leather. She placed it on the table between them.
“I went to see your father last week,” she said, sniffing, a crack threatening her perfect veneer. He hadn’t been aware that they were in contact. Let alone on visiting terms. Not that they had spoken about it. It was not the child’s place to enquire.
“We agreed that given your birthday and upcoming graduation, it was time for you to have that.”
She nodded towards the box, urging Draco to open it. He knew what would be inside. He had watched as his father had opened the box and put on its contents every morning when he got dressed. Had sat through many lectures on the future while looking at it on his father’s hand. Had been taunted with it when the Dark Lord had demanded it be handed over after Lucius’ failure in the Department of Mysteries.
“Complete your task, Draco, and maybe you’ll be wizard enough to wear this.”
His father’s gold signet ring.
A gentle cough dragged him back into the present.
“It’s time for a new head of the family,” she said softly. “And we are both so proud of you, darling. We know you’ll make a marvellous one.”
Draco felt his stomach lurch, and though he knew his mother expected him to put the ring on, he couldn’t. She expected him to be proud. Excited, even. This was something he had been taught to want from the moment he could walk. Since he could understand the ground on which he stood was as ancient and sacred as the name it bore.
He quickly snapped the box shut and shoved it into the pocket of his robes. He needed it to disappear.
“Thank you, Mother,” he choked out, picking up the menu to find something to do with his hands.
She didn’t push. Perfect pureblood women never did. At least not overtly. Instead, she sat in silence while his eyes searched the menu, taking nothing in. She was watching him. He could feel it. It wasn’t the same way Hermione studied him. Though she wasn’t looking to understand like Granger did, she was waiting.
Eventually, she made another small cough, forcing him to look her in the eyes. Her blue ones had an edge. One that you could only detect if you knew her very well. Whatever she said next was important—at least in her mind.
“If you decide to take a wife, you’ll need it,” she said, almost offhand, before looking towards the door and standing when she saw someone come in.
“Astoria!” she said, as the young blonde witch came over to join them. She grasped her hands and gave her a kiss on both cheeks.
Draco felt himself rise as propriety would dictate, but his mind was racing. The ring wasn’t just for the head of the family, then. The plan, the one he knew by rote, the one that had been in place since his birth, was still in force.
“I hope you don’t mind, Draco, but Astoria and I have maintained a correspondence since our dinner at Easter. When I knew I was coming, I just had to invite her to join us. You don’t mind, do you?”
Narcissa cocked her head, the picture of perfect innocence. Draco glanced towards the window, hoping Hermione had followed through with her plan for the morning and was safely ensconced in the library. Or maybe that she hadn’t and was about to walk past and save him from all this. There was no one.
“Of course not,” said Draco, gesturing for the ladies to sit. “Would you like to see a menu, Astoria?”
“No, thank you,” she replied with a soft flutter of eyelashes, “I am sure you will order well for us all.”
***
By the time Draco got back to the castle, he positively burned to see Hermione. Every leading sentence his mother uttered, every practised laugh of Astoria’s made his neck itch. He was so grateful for the etiquette training his mother had insisted on throughout the years; it meant he nodded in the correct places, made appropriate conversation and generally left his mother looking pleased without actually having to be present. He still had plenty of mental space to think about the heavy weight in his pocket and the witch he would have much rather been at lunch with.
He was cautious going into the library. There was always a chance that Hermione was going to be angry with him. Even though she had said to go. She could always change her mind. She should have. If she had been raised properly, she never would have allowed him to keep her at the sidelines like he had. She should have been more insistent. More conniving. Artfully arranged it so she was able to meet his mother by chance.
When he first saw her, ink-stained and ruffled, the itch on the back of his neck eased. She hadn’t noticed him yet, was too absorbed in her work. It afforded him the privilege of watching her.
Nothing about Hermione was contrived. She wasn’t doing anything for show, which was probably why she often twisted her fingers through her curls when she was reading, even though it made them expand in size and frizz. It was probably why she chewed on the end of her pen, even though it was an awful habit.It had the unfortunate side effect of drawing attention to her perfect lips. Admittedly, he didn’t mind that so much, so long as other people didn’t also notice her mouth. That was his.
After indulging himself, watching her for longer than could be considered normal, he came up behind her and kissed her on the neck, smiling as she relaxed into him as soon as she recognised the hands that had crept round to still hers.
“How was lunch?” she said, twisting to capture his lips. Draco just shrugged off the question, opting to deepen the kiss. He pulled her out of her seat and sank into it himself, pulling her on top of him.
She let him. Her hands ran through his hair, and her touch made goosebumps break out all over his skin. She smelt exactly as he needed her to, all coffee and vanilla, but with a hint of ink and old books. A clear sign she had been in the library all day.
With a deep sigh, his fingers crawled under her jumper, desperate to find more soft skin, more of her. It was enough to make her pull back.
“Please,” he said, aware that his tone was bordering on whiny, “It’s my birthday.”
She leaned forward and nipped at his ear.
“Too many people about,” she said, making Draco look around the library. “Unless you have changed your mind about that?”
He could see no one, and it stood to reason that no one could see them, but he did pick up on the low hum of voices for the first time. The library was busier today. Begrudgingly, Draco slid Hermione off his lap, into a chair next to them.
“How was lunch?” Hermione repeated, the hurt on her face obvious. And with that, the itch was back.
“Fine,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a distraction. “Mother thought it was time to give me this.”
He pulled the ring box out of his pocket, opened it and pushed it towards her. Her eyes widened as she realised what it was. He wondered if she knew the significance, or if she was merely impressed by the gold and diamonds embedded in the crest. Most likely the latter; how would a Muggleborn witch know the intricacies of a Pureblood Signet?
“Oh, Draco,” she said, her hands gripping the edge of the table, rather than touching the ring or ringbox. “This is a big moment for you.”
Draco chuckled darkly.
“It’s just a ring,” he lied.
“Is it?” Hermione immediately followed up with, “I will admit I’ve only learnt a little; there is not much written, but I was led to believe it means so much more.”
What could he say to that? Of course, she knew. She was Hermione Granger.
“I don’t want it,” he said, thinking it was the right thing to say to her, and not being entirely sure if he was lying or not.
“Really?” she prompted. If he’d been lying, he hadn’t fooled her. But rather than confess, he did the only thing he knew how to do. Grit his teeth and double down.
“No,” his voice was slightly louder now. “It’s just a band of metal.”
He could tell she was ready to say something. Another perfectly structured argument that he couldn’t talk his way out of. So instead of giving her the opportunity, he grabbed the ring and her hand in a swift movement and slid it onto the ring finger of her left hand.
Then he watched. Waited for the band to automatically resize to her finger. Waited for the magic to register that he had made his choice. It didn’t. The band swam on her finger.
“I would give it to you if I could,” he said, wondering if she knew what he meant. What the ring’s static reaction to her hand meant.
Only if it had been written in a book, he supposed.
Hermione thumbed the ring, spinning it around her finger a few times before returning it to its box.
“I’m more of a white gold person,” she said lightly, smiling at him.
Draco let out a quiet breath. She hadn’t known. She just thought it was jewellery. Easily replaced. Easily remade.
“What are those?” he motioned to a small stack of envelopes on the corner of her desk, grateful there was something to change the subject.
Hermione smiled broadened.
“Acceptances,” she said, her proud tone back. “I’ve only heard back from three of the institutions I applied for, but they are all acceptances.”
Draco’s throat grew tight. It was meant to be his birthday. His birthday was not meant to bring bad news.
“Where did you get in?” he asked, trying his best to keep his tone even.
“The Tokyo Institute, The Camerone Clark Hospital in Toronto and L’Hotipal de Magie in Paris,” she said, eyes shining.
“Nothing from St Mungo’s?” Draco asked, looking through the stack himself, hoping the logo would appear in the corner of one of the letters.
“Not yet,” Hermione said, “Nothing from the Australian Hospitals yet either.”
He knew that was the centre she was hoping to get. To be closer to her parents. Maybe see them, in a different capacity, even if she couldn’t reverse her spell. He knew it made him a bad person, but he didn’t want it to be an option. He didn’t want to know what would happen if she was made to choose between him and her family. How could anyone possibly make that choice?
Chapter 17: 2014
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione wasn’t a drinker. Most of the time, she didn’t like the way it made her feel; fuzzy and out of control. She made an exception once a year. On that night, she came to the same Muggle bar and forgot about everything except for how incredible red wine tasted and how all bars could be improved if they served ice cream as a snack along with crisps and peanuts.
Some years, she took a random man home just so she didn’t feel lonely. Some years, she went home by herself just so she would.
“Evening, Granger.” An obnoxiously familiar presence slipped into the seat next to her and motioned to the bartender to bring them both another drink.
“Oh, you have got to be freaking kidding me,” she said, draining the glass in front of her. “Can’t you leave me alone for one bloody night? How did you even find me here?”
“Glad to see the wine has already loosened your tongue there, Kit,” he said, mildly amused. “What number glass of wine is that?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” she sniffed, eagerly taking her refill from the bartender and trying her best to ignore the fact that Draco Malfoy—sitting slightly mussed in corporate clothes, long fingers curled around his own glass—was a sinful sight.
“Not my business, but I must confess, I am curious. How many glasses of wine does it take to get the Golden Girl tipsy?”
He was playing with her. Like food. Or prey.
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, pointedly turning away and pretending to be interested in the game of darts being played by a rambunctious stag party.
She waited. He was going to needle. He was going to question. He was going to annoy the shit out of her; she just had to wait for it.
He didn’t. He sat silently next to her, sipping his wine and scrolling on… hang on, was that an iPhone?
She turned and faced him, not trying to hide the scowl. The answer was three glasses of wine. That’s how many it took to make her tipsy. She was on glass number five.
“So, what leads you to stalking me to this fine establishment this evening?” she asked, hoping he didn’t notice how she stumbled over the word ‘establishment’.
Again, Draco looked more amused than anything else.
“I resent the implication, Granger. Stalking is rather common, and I am anything but.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“What else would you call following a woman, just trying to enjoy a glass of wine-”
“-I think we can both agree you’ve enjoyed more than one glass of wine,” he interrupted her and she ignored him.
“-if not stalking?” she finished.
“I suppose you could,” Draco mused, studying her, “but there is one small problem with your accusation.”
“Oh?” Hermione tried to steel herself, but the wine made it impossible. Her body was relaxed and mind slower, and it was so much easier to lose herself in his tone and the way his eyes searched her face.
He leaned forward, just a fraction, and Hermione felt herself sway closer, wanting to hear the secret he promised in his tone.
“I didn’t follow you here,” he said, finishing his drink and motioning for another.
Hermione looked at her glass that was still half full, and given she was sitting across from one Draco Malfoy, it would probably be wise not to rush it. Especially because on this night, she never afforded herself the comfort of a Sober-up Potion. It didn’t work if she used magic to escape the consequences.
“I live down the road,” Draco said, supplying information that Hermione probably would have asked for if her wine-logged brain wasn’t busy weighing up the pros and cons of drinking more.
“You live in Hampstead Heath?” Hermione scoffed.
“I do,” Draco accepted another glass from the bartender, “I’m here fairly regularly because they have the best chips this side of the Thames, don’t you, Gary?”
He smiled at the bartender, who nodded back with a familiarity that confirmed Draco’s story.
“Does that mean you want a serving, Draco?” Gary asked.
“Yes, please,” he said with a sideways glance at Hermione, “And maybe a jug of water too?”
Gary nodded and went to get exactly that. Draco poured them both a glass and slid one to Hermione. Belligerently, she pushed it back towards him. Water spilled on the polished bar top.
“Steady now, I just thought you might want to regain some of your faculties if we’re going to sit and share a plate of chips,” he said, hands raised.
Realising he had a point, she took the glass back and had a long drink.
“I would think you’d prefer me drunk and stupid. You could interrogate me more,” she said, unsure what part of her stupid, reckless brain was goading him.
It was the date. She always liked to make herself hurt on this date. Usually, she used wine, but here was the perfect weapon just sitting on a barstool looking far too inviting.
Instead of looking gleeful or conniving, Draco just sighed and wiped a tired hand over his face.
“No plans on interrogating you tonight,” he said, having another sip of wine.
“No?” Hermione was confused, unless he was saying that to lull her into a false sense of security. She took another drink of water.
“No,” Draco confirmed, “Honestly, I’ve had a shit day at work and just wanted some wine and chips before I go home. You being here is just fate giving me the finger to top it all off.”
Hermione didn’t like him like this. So, so… human. Draco Malfoy was many things in her mind and memory, but the humanity of him was something she had managed to bury.
“Have we ever done this before?” he asked suddenly, and Hermione felt a frisson of adrenaline.
“Done what?” she asked, curious despite knowing she was opening herself up to a conversation she did not currently have the mental agility to navigate.
“Drink together,” he said, reaching over the bar and retrieving the wine bottle Gary had left within reach and topping up both of their glasses.
The question surprised her. It was so mild, compared to what he could be asking.
“No,” she said. Cautious and slow.
“That’s good,” he said with a half smile, “I’m glad.”
Hermione felt herself prickle.
“Oh, don’t worry, even your past self didn’t deign to get drunk with a Mudblood,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest.
Draco just rolled his eyes.
“Careful, darling, your Gryffindor is starting to show. I simply meant I’m glad we can find something that’s a first for both of us. Not just me.”
She didn’t know how to respond to that. She should be defensive. She could berate him about being bitter. It would be so nice to be angry at him. She missed being angry at him.
“Why was your day shit?” she surprised herself by asking.
She must have surprised him, too, judging by the way his eyebrows shot towards his hairline.
“Someone tried to pass a forgery off as the real thing,” he said, furrowing his brow as he remembered, “I had somehow missed the signs in my first inspection, and it got all the way to auction before someone else picked up on my mistake.”
Whatever she had been expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. Draco Malfoy didn’t confess mistakes.
“Oh.” She took another sip of her wine. She could needle him. Ask him why he’d made a mistake, but it seemed unsportsmanlike. Hexing a wizard who had lowered his wand.
“What was the object?” she asked, mainly because she didn’t know what else to say. It had been a very long time since she’d had a civil conversation with this man. She’d forgotten the beats.
“A painting. Supposedly a Goya,” he said, falling back into the steps as if no time had passed. “Which makes it even more embarrassing, because generally I am the expert in such things. I find I have a singular skill for picking up on the tiny signs that make something unique. Special. Beautiful.”
He turned to her fully, to study her face. It wasn’t boasting. Just a calm statement of fact from a man who knew his ability. The way he was studying her made her feel like one of his paintings, and he was searching for the forgery, the falsehood. She had to look away.
“Why are you here anyway? Drinking far too much?” he said, and she turned back. He’d looked away, and his tone was much more casual.
She hesitated. No one knew about her night of penance. She’d kept it to herself for eighteen years, and suddenly she wanted to tell him. Of all the things he could use against her, this was unlikely to be the main one.
“I obliviated my parents on this date, eighteen years ago. Afterwards, I came to this bar, threw up in the toilets for a while, then proceeded to get drunk for the first time in my life.”
“And you do it every year now?”
She shrugged. “You can’t have a funeral for people who are technically still living. This is as close as I get.”
There was silence for a while. She appreciated it. She didn’t want words or platitudes. That’s why she’d never told anyone before; words and platitudes are all they would have been able to offer.
“It’s oddly… sweet,” Draco said finally, “In a weird, messed-up way that suggests you probably need some serious therapy, Granger.”
Hermione just rolled her eyes at him.
“You did the right thing, you know.” Draco sipped his wine and did her the courtesy of keeping his eyes to the front as he spoke, “I don’t think I told you that, all those years ago, or if I did, I didn’t write about it.”
“You didn’t,” Hermione confirmed, her heart hurting for the nineteen year old version of herself that would have given anything to hear those words. To know what he didn’t find her abhorrent for what she had done.
They drank in silence for a little longer.
“Do I get the same ritual?” Draco suddenly asked, “A wine-soaked goodbye for a lost love?”
Hermione returned her glass to the bar roughly, and wine spilled everywhere. He couldn’t help himself could he? Rising on shaky legs, she got up from the bar.
“If you’re going to be a prick, I’m leaving. You said we weren’t going to do this tonight.”
Draco cursed under his breath and grabbed for her hand.
“You’re right,” he said, and Hermione looked back toward him, “You’re right, that was, well not uncalled for, but not what we’re doing tonight. I’ll stop.”
She couldn’t stop the words that came next, even though they hurt. Far more than the hangover and the loneliness ever had.
“Stop what?” she challenged, and Draco sighed.
“Stop being a prick,” he said, not letting go of her hand, his thumb stroking a path over her skin, causing goosebumps to erupt all over.
Gary chose the moment to come over with a steaming plate of chips, a variety of sauces sitting in little stainless steel tubs on the side.
“Stay and have something to eat, Granger,” Draco said softly, still not letting go. Still maintaining his gentle stroking with his thumb. “Please.”
“Fine,” Hermione said, returning clumsily towards her stool. “But only because they are apparently the best chips this side of the Thames.”
Draco grinned and pushed the plate towards her.
***
The wood of his stupidly elaborate carved door was biting at the bare skin of her back. He was almost on the other side of too rough. The hands that gripped her thighs. The kisses that turned to bites as much as not.
But it was good. She didn’t want gentle. The forehead kisses and tender looks she interpreted as love were for a younger her. A more hopeful her. A stupider her. She didn’t want that from him now. She just wanted to feel, even if it was pain.
Her shirt had disappeared the moment the door was closed, ripped over her head by an eager Draco. One who had looked at her tits encased in a lace bra like he’d been trying to memorise her. Just like that. Partly dressed and completely ruffled.
She’d wordlessly and wandlessly vanished his shirt and trousers just to break his attention. He hadn’t seemed to care. Just wrapped his long fingers around her wrists and pinned them above her head so he could make his way down her body, licking as he went, searing himself into her once more.
She couldn’t stand the sight of him on his knees before her. The way he both pushed her back, pinning her in place while he worked open her slacks, and yet lavished her stomach in delicate kisses, heating her blood and making her feel like she was ready to cede everything.
She flipped their positions. Tugged him to standing and twisted, pushed him into the door and sank to a kneel. He’d never given her this before. She’d wanted to. Partly because she enjoyed learning, and she’d wanted him to teach her how to make this feel good for him, mostly because she’d loved the way he’d made her feel desirable. Sexy. It was stupid, but she was nineteen years old and he had made her feel something other than smart for the first time in her life.
She had learnt, of course. Relied on a short interlude with a Muggle when she was twenty-one. Studied him while she tried different techniques she’d heard Ginny and Luna talking about. Tried to figure out what was more effective. Not expecting to get anything out of it in return. She didn’t care how that boy had looked at her. He was a means to an end, nothing more.
Draco didn’t fight her now. She didn’t bother trying to kiss down his torso, just ran a single finger across his abdomen, worked her way under his boxer briefs so she could pull them down and watch as his cock bobbed free.
She wasn’t going to look at his face, just his cock. Its head glistening for her. It twitched as her fingertips trailed back up the inside of his thigh, ready to clasp the base and guide it into her mouth.
Suddenly, she felt a strong grip in her hair, and before she was able to wrap her lips around him, Hermione felt her gaze drawn upwards. His eyes burned silver and his thumb snaked down to swipe at her bottom lip. Refusing to look away, she flicked her tongue out to lick the pad of his thumb.
A groan. A one-second closing of his eyes, and then with a strong hand, he pushed her head towards his cock. Allowing her just enough time to adjust before pushing further, a consistent pressure at the back of her skull until she relaxed her jaw, gave in and took all of him.
“Oh fuck,” Draco ground out. “How the fuck do you feel so damn good?”
He didn’t move. Just stood there, taking in long, slow breaths as if to gather himself, as Hermione felt the salvia pool around him. Ready for him to use her however he liked.
His fingers gently flexed against her scalp, not enough to tug her hair, but enough to ground her. To give her something to focus on. And then he began to move.
He was slow at first. His full length almost slipping from her mouth before he pushed back in, insistent that she take all of him. She tried to please. Hollowed her cheeks as she sucked, used her tongue to lathe the underside of him while he moved.
Nonsense fell from his mouth as he picked up his pace. She heard snippets of “good girl” and “fucking knew it” in part voice, part groan, and she suspected the words were not for her. He was lost in the sensation while fighting with his own drunken mind about how to feel.
For her part, she kept her hands balled, resting on her legs. Only distracted by the wetness that was building between her thighs. She refused to move. Refused to squeeze or shift to give herself the gift of friction. Instead, she tightened her fists and felt the sting of her nails against her skin.
If Draco noticed, he didn’t show, he just continued to fuck her mouth at a relentless pace. His grip tightened as he positioned her head just the way he wanted it, and she felt his eyes on her.
His hips stuttered as he fucked her mouth, slowing ever so slightly.
“Kit, sweetheart, we’re going to have to stop unless you want me to come down your pretty throat.”
His grip in her hair loosened, and she could feel him ready to pull away. It couldn’t happen. She wanted it all. Not just the start. She wildly grasped for his thighs to stop him. The first time she’d touched him since before they’d begun. His hand tightened, and she felt the sharp sting of her hair being pulled back from her face.
“Ok then, sweet girl, no stopping. At least, let me look at you properly if you are so keen to swallow everything I have to give you.”
His pace picked up again, and Hermione let all her thoughts drift away. She just felt. Felt the pull on her scalp, felt his cock hit the back of her throat, felt his eyes on her as he systematically took her apart, moment by moment.
He forced her to lock eyes with him. Trapped in his silver gaze, she watched every minute change in his face. She thought she knew exactly what he looked like when he was at the peak of being washed away with her, but age had changed him. There were subtle differences, and she wondered in her drunken haze if she would ever get the chance to learn them.
“Baby.”
The unfamiliar term of endearment fell from Draco’s lips, and his eyes conveyed exactly what was about to happen. She tried to let him know it was ok with her own expression. She wanted it.
He used her hair to make her take all of him one last time, and she felt his salty cum hit her tongue. She didn’t immediately swallow. Just let it sit while his cock throbbed until he withdrew.
They were still. Hermione made no move to rise from the ground. No move to wipe away the saliva and cum that had spilled onto her chin, nor the streaks of mascara that had no doubt painted her cheeks. She was a mess, and it was a relief to finally let someone see it.
Draco busied himself with his underwear, the only item of clothing she hadn’t vanished, and therefore the only one that he could reclaim.
She should find her shirt. It would be around somewhere. She should get up off her knees, get dressed, and make her way home. At least they were in the Muggle world. She could always order herself a taxi.
A hand appeared in her view. Long fingers, pale skin.
“Let me help you up,” Draco said, and while she knew she probably shouldn’t, Hermione placed her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet.
“I’ll just find my shirt and get out of your hair,” she said, looking around the room to save herself from seeing him.
His home was warm. Art, definitely not prints, souvenirs from his travels, and even some framed photos of him and his friends from over the years. Some she recognised, but many she didn’t. None of the photos moved.
And then a gentle touch. His hand cupped her jaw and brought her gaze back to him. His thumbs cleaned up the detritus on her face.
“Oh, Kit, if you think I am letting you go now,” he said, and Hermione swallowed.
He had her just where he wanted her, and she’d been so stupid for letting herself be maneuvered there. She braced for the killing blow, and instead was surprised by the soft brush of lips.
A whisper of something they hadn’t broached yet that evening. It caught her by surprise, and as she let out a soft breath of shock, he used the moment to deepen the kiss. Brush his tongue against hers, where she could still taste him from moments before.
“Don’t even think about leaving here until I’ve had the pleasure of making you scream my name or, better yet, beg for me.”
He whispered the threat against her lips. Except it didn’t sound like a threat. It was much more akin to a promise.
Without waiting for a response, he picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and she couldn’t do much more than study the room upside down as he took her deeper into the house. And in her current state, she found she didn’t want to fight him at all.
Notes:
Just going to leave this here and run in the opposite direction.
Fun fact- this chapter was not in my initial outline of the fic but there were a couple of snippets of dialogue that came to me while I was walking the dog and I was like "yes, I need to include these" and this chapter, which may be my favourite of the whole fic, was born.
I hope you enjoy!
Big Thank you to my amazing beta's Jelly_Roll, coldbrewcalico, and Orolin, but especially Jelly, who got DM's with lines of smut for a while with "does this sound ok?" and "How do we feel about the pet name 'Baby'?" If anyone saw our DMs that week they would likely think we were having a torrid affair.
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