Chapter Text
Lupin doesn’t flinch at Draco’s sudden appearance, and that confirms her doubts that he must have known the entire time. Probably his wolf sixth sense.
Ron, however, looks like someone dropped a bag full of Howlers in his lap. “You.” He seethes, not even waiting for an explanation.
He reaches for his wand and fires the first spell with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been waiting a long time, at least since puberty, to hex Malfoy. Draco dodges, knocking over a bucket that sends a scandalized chicken scrambling away. Its companion, however, hops onto a hay bale like it’s scored front-row seats and hoots.
“Boys!” Hermione shouts, but it doesn’t deter any of them.
Draco retaliates, but Ron ducks easily
As the duel spirals on, she notices that Draco’s movements are sluggish, and she doubts he normally fights like that. Voldemort would never allow it. She’s seen heads roll for crimes far less embarrassing than whatever Draco is doing right now. She can’t quite tell whether he’s sleepwalking through the ordeal or maybe aiming at an imaginary piñata, eyes half-lidded.
No. It has nothing to do with skills and everything to do with the exhaustion, the suspiciously pale and haggard look he’s been wearing for the last days.
Ron rapidly gets the upper hand, and his smug expression tells her he has no idea how uneven this fight is. A goat bleats every time Ron lands a hit, as if providing live commentary, or acting as Ron’s personal cheerleader.
Draco deflects them with whatever scraps of energy he has left, shoulders shaking under the effort.
She knows his oversized ego is keeping him upright, refusing to lose to a Weasley of all people.
Something boils within her, and she refuses to name it, because it strangely looks like a protective fire luring her into defending Draco. Your husband, her treacherous mind provides.
Then Ron gets a lucky angle, which sends Draco stumbling backward, straight through a stall door, splintering the flimsy wood. Hermione screams his name without deciding to, lunging forward and shoving herself in front of him. She barely reaches him when Ron, his wand already mid-swing fires off another spell meant for Draco.
It slices across her thigh instead, making her collapse on the fallen wizard.
Blood blooms through her trousers, as Ron’s face drains of color, realizing he missed his hit.
The barn goes dead silent. Even the animals know better than to make a sound.
Until Draco folds over her, his body forming a barrier like an overdramatic dragon protecting its treasure. She’s pressed to him, shielded thoroughly and, frankly, excessively. She’s about to have words about this unnecessary display when she looks up at him.
Pure panic. Unfiltered. His hand hovers, trembling, near the blood soaking her thigh. She wonders if there’s a shade paler than white, because his face appears determined to invent one.
“I’m fine.” She whispers, catching his hand on instinct in a doomed attempt at reassurance.
“Hermione!” Ron wails and drops beside her, babbling apologies.
But Draco’s fury is instant. He’s on his feet in a blink, hauling Ron up by the collar, nostrils flaring. Ron freezes, suddenly regretting that he started the whole fight in the first place.
Lupin decides to materialize from nowhere and to assert his authority as the oldest adult in the place. He presses a steady hand between Draco’s shoulders. “Enough,” he says, low and firm.
Hermione swears under her breath and pushes herself up to intervene—stupid idea. The pain lances through her thigh and she winces despite herself.
That’s all it takes.
Draco releases Ron immediately, his eyes shifting to distress. Lupin is suddenly at her side, Ron hovering uselessly, all three of them staring at her leg like she’s just about to lose her limb.
“That’s quite enough!” she snaps sternly. “It’s just a scratch.”
“B-But—” Ron moves his hand close to her leg, but Draco bats it away with a snarl.
“Stop fussing, I’m fine.” She straightens. “Ronald, I’m coming back with Malfoy. Not with you, and that’s final.”
“Hermione!”
“That’s final.” she repeats. “I’ll update you through the Galleon.”
Ron’s mouth snaps shut, and she can’t help noticing Draco’s smug expression out of the corner of her eye, despite the visible torment of seeing her hurt.
“Fine.” Ron bites the inside of his cheek to hold back what is undoubtedly a useless retort.
She turns to Remus, ready with a three-part thesis on why staying at Malfoy Manor is objectively the correct approach. Footnotes included.
She’s almost disappointed when he doesn’t let her.
“I trust you, Hermione,” he softly says. “If you think it’s what’s best, then I respect your decision.”
He retrieves a small pouch from his pocket and lifts the reduction charm. Her hands flutter toward it, opening and closing with barely contained enthusiasm when she realizes he’s holding her beaded bag—the one she threw at Harry over a year ago at the Ministry because it contained Salazar’s locket.
“Ron kept if for you.” Remus explains.
She flashes Ron an appreciative smile. This single act of competence forgives at least half the stupidity he’s managed today.
“Thank you.”
“Harry and I hid everything before taking the boat to Azkaban,” Ron says, scratching the back of his neck, “in case we got caught. I went back last week, to where we buried both our backpacks and your beaded bag. Only his was gone.” He hesitates. “I reckon Harry was hopeful we’d both be able to make it out someday.”
“Has Harry reached out to the Order?” Hermione asks, hopeful, but Lupin’s mouth twists into a half-smile and that’s answer enough.
“Not yet,” he confirms. “But he was seen in Godric’s Hollow two weeks ago.”
Hermione’s mind spins as she tries to figure out why Harry would return to the place where his parents were murdered. She’s elbow-deep in her bag, absent-mindedly riffling through its contents, when her fingers brush against the familiar, wonderful texture of polished wood.
“My wand!” Her voice wobbles as she pulls it free, cradling it like a small, frightened animal. It recognizes her instantly. Magic rushes back, wrapping around her like a long-lost friend who never stopped waiting. Merlin—she missed it. Using Rosier’s wand had been tolerable, surprisingly compliant, but nothing compares to her dear dragon heartstring wand. This is what home feels like.
“We’ll leave you to it, then.” Remus grips Ron’s shoulder, who shoots him a dark look, clearly wishing to delay the moment he has to leave Hermione alone with Draco. “Take care of her.” Remus tells Draco, with the solemnity of a father sending his daughter across the sea with no guarantee of return.
Ron barely has time to bark his own set of orders, including threats and insults aimed at Draco, and promises that Hermione will write every evening—or else, and she’ll never know because that’s when they Disapparate.
Hermione’s attention drifts back to her bag, curious about what else she’d packed. She remembers preparing it carefully, bringing essential books, potions, clothes. Unfortunately, it becomes clear within seconds that she probably should have packed fewer books, since that’s all her hand seems to find. She heads for the nearest hay bale, intent on dumping everything out and sorting its contents into more carefully organized categories.
“Granger,” Draco rasps. “Let me heal you.”
She stops, and now notices the thin trail of blood she’s left behind, seeping from her leg. A curious chicken follows it, head-bobbing thoughtfully along the path until Draco shoos it away and steps closer.
He crouches to inspect the wound, and she decides it is, medically speaking, necessary to vanish her trousers so he can get a proper look. History has shown that Hermione Granger is not especially prudish.
She fully expects him to recoil in mortified embarrassment, the way he did that one time Theo healed a nasty burn on her thigh, and she had chosen to change right in front of him. Just for the satisfaction of watching him blush.
But not this time.
No. This time, she’s the one blushing, aware of his gaze moving up her bare legs with a hunger he makes no effort to disguise. Slowly, he rises and unfastens his cloak, draping it over the hay bale behind her.
“Sit.”
She does.
Usually never missing an opportunity to challenge any form of order, Hermione finds herself unsarcastically compliant. Must be the hoarse tone he used, or the fact he’s taken great care to shield her bum from splinters. The least she could do is listen and be grateful.
His fingers slide along her thigh, leaving heat and unfiltered want in their wake. She becomes acutely aware that any physiological response would be painfully obvious from his vantage point. And she just had to wear a pair of burgundy satin knickers, this type of fabric rarely known to be subtle by any means.
But his focus is thankfully elsewhere.
“Just a scratch.” He mumbles bitterly as he draws his wand and casts a Scourgify near the wound to get a clearer view. “Some friends you have.”
“It wasn’t aimed at me,” she replies, and his lips press in a thin line, shameful. She feels the urgent need to comfort him, and tell him it’s not his fault. But the rational part of her brain chooses otherwise. “If you didn’t look like you were about to pass out, I wouldn’t have had to intervene.”
His wand stills midair, about to start the first stitch. His eyes flash with barely concealed exhilaration.
“Worried about me?” he grins.
She doesn’t dignify it with an answer. He lowers his gaze, and gets to work, the smugness never faltering from his expression. His wand movements are precise and meticulous, making sure every shimmering silver loop are evenly spaced.
“What did your mother mean when she said you’d burn out?” Hermione asks. Because yes, she has been worried and still is. Her eyes keep drifting to the sweat beading on his too-pale forehead.
It’s his turn to choose silence over answering her. His focus narrows to the final stich and he murmurs an Episkey. The wound and every loop flare bright purple before dimming. Only a faint pink line remains, one that will no doubt fade in the coming weeks.
“Tell me.” She asks, former now, threading her fingers into his hair and tipping his head up until he has no choice but to meet her eyes.
“It’s the marriage bond,” he says, eyes slipping shut, a faint note of satisfaction cutting through his voice. Her fingers against his scalp make him docile. “Once the ritual is completed, the bond strongly incites the newlyweds to…” he exhales. “consummate the bonds of marriage.”
So, that explains the urge to climb him like a tree. She’d admitted the attraction was there, but since the ritual, the need has become insistent. Almost, too loud.
“But why between the two of us,” she tilts his head back slightly, wipes a bead of sweat from his temple with her thumb. “You’re the only one who seems terminally ill.”
He swallows.
“It’s not meant to be that intense,” He lets his head fall back onto her knees, and holds her legs as though they’re the only thing keeping him from sinking to the ground. Her fingers resume their slow path through his hair, since it makes him talk. “The marriage bond is only a nudge. But add it to the other one—the bond tying me to you, because you’re my ma—”
He stops himself, turning his face into the space between her knees, hands tightening around her calves.
“—because you’re the catalyst to my transformation…” he corrects, voice rough. She wonders what he meant to say by the half-formed word. “…that bond isn’t forgiving.”
“So ignoring both of them,” she says carefully, “will make you burn out?”
“That’s my mother’s theory, yes.”
“And by burning out…you die?”
A breathy, fractured laugh slips out of his throat.
“That does sound dramatic.”
“…but plausible?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his forehead presses harder against her skin, then eases again, like the pressure hurts but helps.
“Seems to me the solution is simple,” she says, and her foot slides along his thigh. He catches her ankle immediately, snapping his attention back to her.
“All you had to do was ask.” She adds lightly, throwing back his own words.
He rises higher on his knees, almost eye level with her now. His hands press to her thighs and travel upward, spreading wide when they reach her hips, thumbs hooking under the fabric of her knickers.
His lips curve into something predatory and delicious. Lucky for him, she doesn’t mind being chased, especially when escape is the last thing on her mind, considering how his hands claim her skin.
“Can I have you, Granger?”
She had thought she’d been obvious, but apparently, he needs her to spell it out. Her hands frame his his jaw, guiding him closer until their foreheads touch.
“Yes.” She enunciates, making sure that this time, there’s no misunderstanding.
And finally—finally—he gets the message loud and clear. Whatever restraint he’d been clinging to breaks clean in two. He’s on her in a breath, mouth crashing into hers. His fingers bite into her hips, hauling her to the edge of the hay bale, pressing her flush against him until there’s no space left to argue with. Not that she would.
Gone is the drained wizard who just fought with the energy of a dying old man. At the risk of sounding arrogant, Hermione takes full credit for breathing life back into him.
The kiss is messy and hungry. His tongue dips into her mouth with wild strokes that coax a moan from deep within her. She barely has time to register it before a donkey somewhere behind recreates the same moan she did.
She freezes, mortified.
Not quite the sultry music one would envision.
Draco pulls back with a low sound of frustration. “No,” he says hoarsely, jaw tightening as he registers the audience. “Not here. I’m not sharing you with those animals.”
“Hew. Gross.” She protests, even though she knew he wasn’t referring to bestiality or other assorted crimes.
“I don’t want anything looking at you.”
He shifts, putting his body between her and the rest of the barn.
“Let me guess,” she says softly, eyes drifting to his swollen mouth. “Just you?”
He doesn’t give her time to comment on it. One moment, his hands are still splayed at her hips, almost bruising, and the next the barn folds in on itself. She manages to grab her bag before the crack of Apparition snaps the air apart, his grip never loosening.
His bedroom is still spinning, when he shoves her backward onto the bed. She bounces, laughing despite herself. He stands at the edge, watching the bounce settle, eyes dark with promises not yet filled.
The bed dips as he plants one knee, then the other, advancing until she’s within reach.
“Allow me?” he asks, hands already tugging at the hem of her sweater. Impatient man.
She answers by pushing him back with her foot, firm against his chest.
“You first.” She says with a crooked grin, because Draco sculpted abs have occupied an embarrassing amount of mind space ever since the Quidditch cabin, and really, it only seems fair.
He exhales through his nose, amused, but obliges. One flick of his wand makes his clothes vanish—except his boxers—reappearing folded in a neat stack atop the dark oak dresser. Show-off.
His body is just as offensively unfair as it was in her memories. The kind that belongs exclusively in the center spread of a Muggle magazine. It takes all of Hermione’s mental discipline not to pounce and lick every line of his muscles with her tongue.
Instead, she clucks her tongue, trying to go for unimpressed, then tugs her own sweater over her head the old-fashioned Muggle way and flings it vaguely in the dresser’s direction. It misses by a mile.
Not that he seems to mind the mess, for once. His attention is currently devoted entirely to her—or rather, to whatever insightful decision her drawer made this morning. She should really read more about sentient furniture and its apparent gift for prophecy, because the burgundy bralette, stitched with sheer lace and depravity, seems to be exactly what Hermione needed, namely, short-circuiting the wizard openly gawking at her in the best ways.
He grabs her ankles and drags her toward him in one impressive movement. His forearms bracket her, caging her in, and his lips graze along her jawline.
“You do this on purpose,” he whispers into her ear, voice rough. “I just can’t prove it.”
“Oh, do tell,” she replies, all weaponized innocence. “What exactly am I doing?”
His nose traces lazily down her neck, a quiet hum vibrating against her skin.
“Driving me insane.” He groans into her collarbone, then abruptly pulls back.
“This,” his eyes travel over her body, as if her body also offended him. “is deeply unfair, and you know it.”
He lifts her ankle and rests it against his shoulder, pressing a brief kiss there before his mouth drifts upward, dropping languid kisses along her leg.
Hermione makes a soft and shameful sound, already wanting his lips on every inch of her body.
“And what,” he complains when he reaches the fresh scar on the inside of her thigh. The one barely one hour old, still pink. “—are we meant to do about this?” His mouth pauses there. “I detest other men leaving marks on you.”
She should have known better than to believe the dragon was gone. And damn her, because his possessiveness only makes her want him more.
“Then you’ll hate this one,” she trails her finger up her sternum, intent on driving him to the brink of breaking. “Dolohov did this to me in fifth year.”
The ridges in his neck become dangerously pronounced as he takes in the purple scar plunging between her breasts.
His thumb traces the outline with a care far too gentle for her liking, until she realizes his other four fingers have followed, settling deliberately on her right breast.
He squeezes, drawing a muffled moan from her.
“I wish I’d known,” he pulls the cup down to expose her nipple. “Cutting off his dick now seems far too lenient.”
He palms her breast, tweaking and pinching her nipple hard, as if she were personally responsible for denying him a revenge worthy of his standards. Thankfully, his tantrum is short.
He lowers himself to her, the groan that escapes him as he fills his mouth with his breast suggests he was never going to stay mad for long.
He moves between them, sucking one nipple, then the other, and so on, and she finds herself squirming against the bed and oh—her center presses against his erection. The friction of his covered cock rubbing against her knickers drives her delirious. When he realizes it too, he rolls his hips forward and begins to rut against her.
His hands fly to her waist to hold her there, denying her any chance to set the pace. Controlling asshole.
“Malfoy, can you—”
She stops, struggling with basic concepts like forming coherent sentences and breathing normally.
His middle finger moves through the indentation of her folds, and she feels the slick leaking, her panties no doubt soaked with her arousal. She needs more. Much more than this teasing touch.
Finally, he slides his hand inside her knickers, and a single brush of his fingers makes her breath hitch and her body buck. She feels him venturing into her folds, exploring, spreading her open.
“Is this better than your own little fingers?” he asks, moving in steady strokes, still avoiding her clit like a menace. “You sounded rather unsatisfied the other night.”
“And yet,” she squirms in his hold, chasing any friction she can get, “you had no interest in helping me, you stubborn—” her breath catches when he pinches her clit, not the way she needs him to, “—prat. Preferred to listen in like a creep.”
He stills, and she almost regrets her usual bluntness. She will always say what she thinks, but maybe she should know better than to antagonize a man knuckle-deep inside her.
“That was a gross oversight on my part,” his fingers plunge again, this time with intent. His thumb travels to her bundle of nerves, circling it slowly, while his other hand presses her hip into the mattress to make her stop fidgeting. “I won’t be leaving you alone again.”
“Not now that I know how you feel around my fingers.” He rotates his hand, his middle finger travelling farther into her core, massaging her entrance while his palm keeps a relentless pressure on her clit. “How tight you are. Pulling me in.”
His fingers are as deep as they can go and he pulls them all the way out, before driving them fully back in.
She chokes back a moan as the pleasure spikes, ecstasy around the corner.
“That’s it, I got you.” He whispers, and the crash now seems inevitable—thank Merlin. She can feel it building, pulsing deep and hot in her core. Desperate, she reaches behind her for a pillow, pressing it to her face as the edge rushes closer, overwhelming.
She fully intends to scream into it, but Malfoy—as always—refuses to allow her even that small mercy. He flings the pillow across the room, eyes burning with irritation at her attempt to hide.
“You will look at me,” he groans. “Come, Granger.”
She doesn’t even have time to debate the merits of closing her eyes just to piss him off. The orgasm tears through her brutally, eyes wide open. Compared to her, he looks infuriatingly in control, except for the way his posture visibly strains under the awe he carries, almost dazzled by her reaction.
She writhes helplessly with each thrust of his fingers, unable to stop the string of incoherent and embarrassing invocations of his first name and every deity she’s ever learned about.
“Oh god—sweet baby Jesus—Draco!”
White spots blur her vision, so she barely registers him flipping her, a palm settling between her shoulder blades to press her upper body down on the mattress. Boneless and completely thoughtless, she lets him mold her to his whims as he grips her by her hips, arching her up more for him.
“My turn.”
It sounds like an order, but by the way he stills just before the push of her lips after sliding her panties to one side, she catches the subtle question veiling his words. Consent never sounded so erotic, she thinks.
Impatient, Hermione skips verbal permission altogether and instead, pushes back, slowly drawing his cock inside her, inch by inch, until she sinks the base of his shaft.
“Fuck.” He gasps, fingers trembling at her waist, a pained moan stuck in his throat.
Her forehead drops to the bed as she tries to wrap her mind around the fact that Draco Malfoy is inside her and for all the sensations it brings to her body, it feels ironically like an out-of-body experience.
Sure, she’s slept with a few blokes before, starting with someone who ruined her for the rest—Victor Krum. What followed was a rapid succession of disappointments, and really, she should have known better than to lose her virginity to a star Quidditch seeker whose life mission revolved around balancing on a thin broom for hours at lightning speeds. Maneuvering a woman's body between his muscled thighs had never been a challenge for him.
But now…this? If Victor set the bar impossibly high, Malfoy reached for it and hexed it into another dimension.
Several seconds pass without either of them moving, stunned by the fusion of their bodies. His forehead falls between her shoulder blades, murmuring nonsense against her spine.
“Granger—you feel…”
She glances back at him over her shoulder, a mischievous smile tugging at her mouth that promises him she’s up to no good. Rising onto her elbows, she pulls herself all the way out before slamming herself back on his cock.
He hisses.
“Still on last-name basis?” she rasps, pushing back as he thrusts in, and the force knocks moans from both their throats. His length sinks impossibly deep, nudging against her cervix, making her legs tremble beneath him.
His grip tightens on her hips as his pace turns punishing, driving into her with sharp and deep thrusts. She’s a complete mess. Sometimes he pulls out completely, only to slam back into the very base, which turns them both feral.
“I like calling you Granger.”
She barely has time to brace herself before he folds over her, pressing her into the mattress as his mouth latches onto her neck, tracing a slow, wet path down her spine. His whole body is draped over her, and the image of a dragon protecting what’s his resurfaces once again.
His hips snap against hers with ruthless force, until her arms buckle under her and her face falls into the duvet.
The room is a symphony of wet sounds and skin meeting skin.
“—I’m only your wife.” she argues, and his rhythm stutters at the word, just as she hoped.
Then he hauls her upright against his chest, one hand cradling her throat while the other slips between her thighs, his middle finger pressing and circling her clit. Her thighs quiver against his.
“That’s right,” he whispers, voice unsteady, his face buried in the crook of her neck. “My wife.”
He resumes his pace, diving into her in slow but deep rolls of his hips. And because she feels like saying it, she repeats it.
“Your wife.”
Draco takes a shuddering breath, teeth grazing her earlobe. “Please—say it again.” He grunts as his lips settle at the back of her shoulder, and he bites her softly, not to hurt, just to claim.
She repeats it, again and again, her body moving wildly against his as he keeps asking for it like it’s the only thing keeping him moving.
Yours, yours, yours.
His thrusts turn erratic, his moans breathless and desperate.
“I can’t hold on, I—”
“Don’t hold,” she begs. “I’m right there.”
And she is. Oh Merlin, she is.
His hips stutter as her walls flutter around him, and she can’t hold back the shameful scream ripping from her throat. Her head lolls weakly back against him, stars bursting behind her eyelids. A flood of overwhelming euphoria cloaks her surroundings, and she feels herself convulse around him, his cock still driving deep.
Draco follows with a hoarse, broken moan, as if he’s been waiting for her to take him with her. He folds over her, collapsing forward, barely catching them with one elbow, his other arm locking tight around her stomach as he spills inside her, shuddering through every wave.
The air crackles with static and shimmering loops fill her vision. She wonders if it’s the marriage bond finally being consumed, or just the aftershocks of a mighty orgasm.
It feels like the universe just reshaped itself…into something brighter.
An eternity passes as Draco stays buried inside her, his weight almost lulling her to sleep. Their breaths slowly even out, and when the last tremor leaves him, he pulls out, earning a soft whine from her at the loss.
He rolls on his back, and she lifts her head to look at him.
“You sure look better.” She notes, pleased to see he already seems more human than ghost compared to the last days.
“Funny you’d think that,” he sighs, eyelids snapping shut. “I feel like I just died a little.”
Her eyes linger on the sight of his chest, slick with sweat, still rising and falling from what they just did.
“You ungrateful prat,” she smacks his shoulder lightly, teasing. “You should be pleased I saved you from your imminent demise.”
“Oh,” he catches her hand, threading their fingers together. “I feel more than pleased, believe me.”
“I can see that.”
And she can. It’s written all over him, that smug post-coital satisfaction.
She wonders if that’s all it is for him. The basic chemical lull that comes after sex…Or if he feels it the way she does—like the world she knew collapsed and reassembled itself at a slightly different angle. She can almost see it: the figurative connection between them, looping in an almost blinding light around them.
Or maybe she should admit herself to St. Mungo’s, because there’s no reasonable explanation for imagining glowing bonds and cosmic realignment. A bit too Luna Lovegood for her taste.
But still…
“Do you think the bond—well, your bonds, plural—needed to be consummated just once,” she asks carefully, “or…” she hesitates, hopeful. “Is it something we should…maintain. Regularly. Just to be safe.”
“I—” he frowns. “—don’t know.”
She waits, not wishing to sound too hopelessly eager. But secretly, she hopes he’ll push her back against the mattress and declare that they shouldn’t take any risks. That he’ll show her the same hunger, the same greed he did when he was balls deep inside her minutes ago.
Instead, his expression closes, shifting into this infuriating blank mask of his.
Oh.
So this is just her, then. Clearly, she’s alone in this new world reshaped by him. Alone. Lonely. Again.
He just took what he needed from her: a warm body with a pulse, that happened to be the catalyst to his transformation. Just enough to keep him functional until the next time he’s on the brink of dying. If there’s even going to be a next time. Maybe consummating the bond once was enough.
She has her answer, then. That it’s only physical for him, and that whatever this ache is, this ridiculous and fragile thing blooming in her chest—that’s entirely her own problem.
“Right,” she clicks her tongue, turning away. “I should—"
“Wait,” his hand snaps around her wrist. “Where are you going?”
She heaves an exasperated breath, already summoning her sweater and pulling it over her head. She looks around for her trousers, but remembers she discarded them in the barn. Great.
At least, she still has her knickers. Malfoy, evidently, hadn’t been interested enough to tear them off. Not that surprising, all things considered.
“Well, as you so eloquently put it the other day,” she says, standing up, and stalking toward their shared bathroom, “this is your bedroom.” She gestures around, mildly—no, passionately—irritated. “And mine is over there.”
She yanks the door open with unnecessary force.
“Granger—”
“Enjoy your renewed vivacity,” she snaps, glaring over her shoulder. “But don’t come knocking on my door if I—” she presses a finger to her chest, with a force that almost hurts. “—wasn’t enough and you actually need more.”
She’s halfway through the threshold when a violent gust slams the door shut. The impact rattles the frame, and for a split second, she wonders if tornadoes are possible in this part of the country, before deciding the weather has nothing to do with it.
Judging by the looming presence behind her, she gathers that the tornado is wand-induced.
“Hermione.”
Her name on his lips sounds so unfamiliar that she does not feel immediately concerned. It takes time, but the three syllables eventually reach her ear, clicking into place one by one, until she feels compelled to turn around.
His mask is gone, replaced instead by shame.
“I don’t want you to leave,” he rasps, taking her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles in a distracted, almost helpless gesture. “I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear.”
She hesitates, her lower lip caught between her teeth. The devil on her shoulder begs her to retreat to her own room and leave him here to sulk alone for making her feel unwanted.
“Come back to bed,” he insists, clearly seeing her struggle.
He steers her toward the bed, and she lets him. Who is she to refuse, when it’s exactly what she wanted: him taking initiative.
“Husband and wife shouldn’t sleep in separate rooms,” he adds, dryly. “Another oversight on my part.”
He presses a hand to her shoulder, firm enough to make her sit, then summons a T-shirt from one of his drawers. He offers it to her, and a soft wave of cedar fills her senses. But she makes no move to take it, and instead, lifts her arm above her head.
Something sparks in his eyes at the silent challenge.
Without breaking eye contact, he pulls her sweater over her head. Her hair spills down her chest, and she realizes that the burgundy bralette is yet another thing he hadn’t bothered to tear away earlier.
His thumb traces the underwire, just beneath her breast, sending a shiver of goosebumps in its wake.
“There’s no way this contraption is comfortable enough to sleep in.”
“No,” she agrees quietly. “It’s hardly comfortable during the day.”
She grabs his hand as it trails over the lace and guides it towards her back. By instinct, he unhooks it with only one hand, and she hesitates between being impressed or jealous—knowing it means he had practice.
The irritation fades the moment she sees his reaction. Something in his expression tells her that this only for her. Surely—hopefully—he doesn’t always look like his knees might give out at the mere sight of naked breasts.
He bunches his T-shirt in one fist, and she has to tug to free it from his grip.
As much as she revels in the way his gaze worships her chest, she takes equal pleasure in stealing the moment from him by pulling the shirt over herself.
“Good night.” she says, claiming the middle of the bed and taking up as much space as she can, though that proves difficult in a king-sized mattress.
He ripostes exactly as she hopes. By claiming the center too, but instead of crowding her out, he draws her tight against him.
Who knew two only children could share space so well.
“Goodnight,” he murmurs against her neck. “My dear wife.”