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Draco had known from the moment she’d sneezed—once, sharp, into her sleeve on a Tuesday morning—that the tide was turning.
Hermione Granger didn’t get sick. She didn’t allow it. Illness, in her mind, was something that happened to people who didn’t wash their hands properly or stood around outside in the wind like idiots. Not to her. Not to someone who kept three backup potions in her desk and layered her warming charms like armour.
So when she came home that night with glassy eyes, flushed cheeks, and a complaint about how “everything’s just… itchy, and I can’t think straight,” Draco had immediately cancelled his dinner plans.
She didn’t even argue.
That was when he knew.
By Wednesday morning, she could barely speak. Voice hoarse, limbs heavy, forehead clammy. She shuffled out of bed in a ratty oversized jumper, her curls sticking up like angry moss, and sniffled miserably as she reached for the kettle.
And Draco—who would never admit to enjoying someone else’s suffering—lit up like it was bloody Christmas.
“Oi,” he said, taking the kettle out of her hands before she dropped it. “You’re not allowed to touch anything in this state.”
She scowled weakly. “I can make my own tea.”
“You could. Before you became a tragic Victorian heroine.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he said, leading her gently by the shoulders back to the bed. “Look at you. Pale, sniffling, trembling with doom. You should be writing letters in ink and coughing into lace.”
She slumped onto the bed. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m a treasure, and you know it.”
He kissed her forehead, ignoring her half-hearted attempt to swat him away.
“You’ve got a proper fever,” he murmured, brushing her curls back. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, love?”
She blinked up at him, watery-eyed. “Didn’t want to fuss.”
Draco gave her a look so incredulous it bordered on theatrical.
“Hermione. You fuss about me when I so much as sigh too hard. D’you really think I wouldn’t want to return the favour?”
She gave a pathetic shrug. “Old habits.”
“Well, time to break them. Scoot.”
He had her tucked into bed properly within ten minutes. Blankets layered, pillows fluffed, socks charmed warm. A tea tray floated in behind him like it was personally offended she’d dared to stand up in her condition.
She watched him with one eye open as he arranged everything with suspicious precision.
“You enjoy this,” she croaked.
He grinned. “I love this.”
“You’re unwell.”
“No, you’re unwell. I’m having the time of my life.”
He sat beside her and pressed a phial into her hand. “Pepper-Up first. I’ll chase it with lemon-honey. Don’t make that face. I put cinnamon in it.”
Hermione squinted at him. “Are you trying to seduce me while I’m half-dead?”
“I’ve seen you take down three Ministry departments on four hours of sleep and a hangover. This is nothing, sweetheart. You’ll be up correcting my grammar by tea.”
She laughed—a hoarse little rasp—but a laugh nonetheless.
By Thursday, the fever broke. But Hermione was still knackered, sore, and spectacularly bad at resting.
“I could check my parchment box,” she mumbled, reaching for her satchel.
Draco caught it midair with a flick of his wand. “You could also fall down the stairs and crack your skull. Doesn’t mean we should do things.”
“Draco—”
“Hermione.”
He leaned over her, eyebrow raised.
“Don’t make me sit on you. I’ll do it. Happily. And I’ll read you dreadful romance novels while I’m at it.”
She snorted. “You wouldn’t.”
“I once recited the entire content of Witch Weekly’s Top Fifty Love Spells just to get you to stop working through a migraine. Try me.”
She sighed and flopped back into the pillows. “You’re relentless.”
“And you’re mine. So yes, I am.”
That evening, he cooked.
She dozed in and out of sleep to the smell of garlic and onion and something buttery. When she woke properly, he was sliding a tray onto her lap with the flourish of someone who’d absolutely made too much fuss—but didn’t care.
“Chicken soup,” he said. “Real chicken. Real soup. Not that awful packet rubbish you hoard in the pantry.”
“Emergency provisions,” she mumbled.
“Emergency bollocks. This is proper.”
She sipped carefully. Her eyes closed.
“…That’s obscenely good.”
He grinned, smug. “I know.”
“You’re never allowed to say you can’t cook again.”
“I only cook for you,” he said, kissing her hair. “No one else deserves the effort.”
She turned her face up toward him, flushed and bleary. “You’re not just saying that because I look pitiful?”
“No,” he said honestly. “I’m saying it because it’s true. And also, yes—you do look pitiful. But it’s adorable.”
“Stop.”
“You stop.”
By Friday night, she was well enough to sit in the lounge. Still bundled, still pink-nosed and groggy, but improving.
He sat beside her, arm around her shoulders, gently stroking her hair back. She rested her head against him, sniffling occasionally, fingers curled in his
jumper.
“I’m rubbish at being ill,” she muttered.
Draco kissed her temple. “You’re brilliant at everything. Even this.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You let me take care of you. That’s everything.”
She smiled against his chest. “You really do love it, don’t you?”
He tilted his head. “Granger. Caring for you is my favourite bloody thing.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m completely mad for you. Of course I am.”
She looked up, cheeks still flushed with fever. “Even like this?”
“Especially like this.”
“Why?”
“Because you always take care of everyone. Of me. Of the world. Letting me do it for you—it means you trust me. And that’s…” He exhaled, a little rough around the edges. “That’s everything.”
Hermione stared at him, eyes soft and glassy. Then she kissed him—slow and tired and grateful.
“You’re mine,” she whispered.
He pulled her closer, forehead to hers.
“Always.”
She's Everyone's Constant, but He’s Hers
It started with the silence.
Not the kind Hermione Granger was used to—the comfortable kind, the library kind, the sort that wrapped around late nights and research.
No, this silence had teeth.
She sat at the table, unmoving, one hand still resting on a scroll she wasn’t reading. Her tea had gone cold. The fire in the hearth had burned low. There were half a dozen unread messages from the Ministry glowing faintly in the corner.
Draco watched her from the doorway.
He’d just come home. Damp hair, half-buttoned shirt, his tie stuffed into his coat pocket. He was usually the tired one. The short-tempered one. And she was always there—ready with a dry remark and a warmer hand. Always smoothing his edges, pulling him back down to earth.
She was the one who made things work. Even him.
But tonight she hadn’t moved.
And that—that terrified him in a way nothing else could.
He didn’t speak at first. Just crossed the room and stood behind her, hands braced on either side of her shoulders.
She didn’t startle. Didn’t look up.
“Granger,” he said softly, “you’re scaring the shit out of me.”
She closed her eyes.
Then, voice brittle: “I think I forgot how to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Being everything.”
He crouched beside her chair then. Took her cold hand in both of his.
She let him.
And he saw it—just under the surface. Not a break. Not a collapse. But a very fine, dangerous crack. Like someone who’d held the sky up for too long and just needed someone to say, You can put it down now.
Draco kissed her knuckles.
“You don’t have to be everything,” he said. “Not with me.”
She opened her eyes, and he hated what he saw in them. Not weakness—he could stomach that. It was the fatigue. The kind she didn’t even recognise anymore because she’d worn it like a second skin for too long.
“I don’t know how to not,” she admitted.
“Then let me show you.”
She gave him a faint, sad smile. “You’ve always tried.”
“I’ve always been too late,” he said. “Not this time.”
He led her upstairs—not rushed, not patronising, just quiet steps up the staircase they’d walked a thousand times together.
She sat on the edge of their bed while he knelt and helped her take off her boots. Unfastened the buttons on her robes. Gently tugged the pins from her hair.
“You don’t have to fuss,” she said, not unkindly.
“I do,” he replied. “And you’re going to let me.”
She looked down at him. “You’re not usually this firm when I’m like this.”
“You’re not usually like this.”
She considered that. Nodded once.
“All right.”
That was all he needed.
He drew her a bath—quiet water, no glamour, no pretense. Just warmth and calm. He helped her in, resting a hand at her waist as she lowered herself down.
She didn’t speak for a long time.
But when her voice finally came, it was soft and hesitant.
“I think I forgot how to need someone.”
Draco sat beside the tub, forearms resting on the rim. “You didn’t forget. You just never learned.”
She turned her head, watching him.
“You make it look so easy,” she murmured. “Letting go. Letting me care for you.”
He gave a short, quiet laugh. “That’s because I’m selfish. You, on the other hand…”
She closed her eyes. “I don’t mind taking care of people. It’s not a burden. I just—never knew what to do when someone offered it back.”
“Well,” he said, “here’s your first lesson.”
She peeked one eye open.
“Lie back. Do nothing. And let someone love you properly.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s your lesson?”
He smirked. “It’s harder than it sounds, isn’t it?”
But she did it.
And when he washed her hair—slow fingers, quiet praise, a kiss to her temple—she didn’t pull away.
Later, in bed, she lay tucked into his chest. One leg between his, her arm slung around his ribs. And it was him running his fingers along her back this time. Him watching her breathe like it was the most important rhythm in the world.
“I love looking after you,” she whispered. “It’s not something I do because I have to.”
“I know,” he murmured.
“I just never knew how to let it go.”
“You’re not letting it go,” he said. “You’re just letting me carry it for a bit.”
She exhaled into his skin. “That sounds nice.”
“It is nice,” he said. “And you deserve it.”
She nodded against his chest.
And Draco thought, If this is what it takes to make her feel safe—then I’ll do it every bloody day until she believes it’s hers by right.
Because she’d taken care of the world.
It was his turn to take care of her.
And he’d never loved anything more.