Chapter Text
“Susan, you’re the best with healing spells. Do something.”
“Dean, there’s only so much I can—”
“—lung pierced… and her heart! I’m sorry, I can’t… she’s too—"
A low, guttural sound tears through the air, and once more, she’s airborne.
Small rectangles chase one another beneath her. Some red, some orange, some grey. Mansard, saltbox, flat, dome and the dependable gable roofs.
Suburbia slowly dissolves into farmland, and she wonders if Gary the alpaca is somewhere down there. Probably trotting towards its next victim with that unsettlingly judgmental stare of his.
Flock of birds scatters a few meters above, and Hermione hopes they’re just birds and not wild turkeys. Probably not. Wild turkeys can’t fly that high. Or can they?
Her body feels so distant, like something she misplaced several kilometers ago.
Something cradles her, impossibly careful. A cozy cage made of enormous claws.
Wind and clouds curl around her, soft and insistent, beckoning her toward an even deeper slumber.
“Will she—”
“If you ask me one more time if she’ll be alright, I swear, Draco, I’ll ban you from this room. Let. Me. Work.”
“Theo, if—”
“OUT!”
Her body sinks deeper into the softness of the fabric. Odd, since this is not her body. Her consciousness is there, in the same room, but separated from her physical body. High in the air, hovering near the ceiling. Watching over the ruin she’s left behind.
A pale man stares at the wreckage. Looking more broken than her damaged body.
Feels like the start of one of those astral projections that Trelawney would spew nonsense about.
“Mrs. Granger, I must inform you that remaining unconscious for such an extended period is, quite frankly, exceedingly rude. This has left my wife in a state of considerable restlessness, and I do protest your impoliteness. Now, about my son—”
“Father!”
“All of which to say, if you’d be so courteous as to wake, at your earliest convenience.”
Her mind keeps slipping in and out. Drifting like an uppity sailboat stuck in a storm. How pretentious of it to deem itself sturdy enough to survive the high seas.
It didn’t even pack a flare, and it didn’t know the Morse code to signal an SOS.
…/_ _ _ / . . .
Her grandfather, Grand-Papa Granger, used to sing her this hauntingly beautiful lullaby about the sea. When she was old enough to understand the lyrics, she reached the poignant conclusion that there was nothing beautiful about a sailor who ends up drowning to impress a girl he had just met.
Embarque dans ma barque, je te la chanterai
Quand elle fut dans la barque, elle se mit à pleurer
Qu’avez-vous donc la belle, qu’av’vous à tant pleurer
Je pleure mon anneau d’or, dans l’eau il est tombé
Ne pleurez point la belle, je vous le plongerai
De la première plonge, il n’a rien ramené
De la seconde plonge, l’anneau-z-a voltigé
De la troisième plonge, le galant s’est noyé
Finally—finally!—the seam that had sewn her eyelids shut unwinds like a golden thread. Alas, the hippogriff she’d been convinced was sprawled atop of her (because why else couldn’t she move?) unfurls itself and vanishes into thin air.
Light assaults her without any attempt to be subtle.
“Oh, fuck me sideways.” A voice whines nearby. “Of course you’d wake up the one time I convinced him to step out and take a bloody shower. Is your sole purpose in life to torment me?”
Theo stands at the foot of the bed, hands clutching the railing. He looks like he wants to throttle her and that’s an odd look for a healer whose ethical code—she’d assume—would normally include basic things, like not wanting to murder your patient or be enchanted when they wake up.
“W-W” She rasps. Her throat is drier than a commercial granola bar. Bleh. “W—”
“Where are you, I shall assume you’re attempting to say?” Theo replies. “The Manor’s infirmary. I know. It doesn’t look like one, but Narcissa was opposed to anything resembling a hospital. She said the aseptic look was never, and will never, be chic.”
Except for the rows of cabinets mounted on the walls—undoubtedly filled with potions and healing oils—she wouldn’t have guessed she had woken in an infirmary. More like a Baroness’s secondary bedroom when the Baron snores.
“W—” she tries again, because where wasn’t the word she was trying to say.
“Why?” Theo guesses, incorrectly again. “Um let’s see,” he folds his arms.
“First, you were nearly beheaded by Rosier. If not for his inability to use a knife properly and be able to cut through your jugular vein, you’d have bled out within minutes. Still, you suffered extensive trauma to the arteries in your neck that even Draco’s rudimentary healing skills haven’t been able to heal, which alone would have been reason enough to explain why you were brought here.”
He fixes her with a disapproving stare.
“But apparently your lion cub heart deemed this injury insufficient, so you simply had to go and impale yourself. The bar tore through your lung and your heart. The only reason you’re still alive is Susan’s presence of mind not to remove it—despite Draco, I’m told, screaming at her to do exactly that. Which, incidentally, would have killed you on the spot.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Now—and this part, I concede, is not your fault—the resident lunatic decided the optimal method of medical evacuation wasdragon airlift. This might have been the quickest option, but one needn’t be an exceptionally gifted healer such as myself to realize that carrying a critically injured person in dragon claws might result in a somewhat…bumpy ride. Shockingly, this is not recommended to stabilize a patient. The complete opposite, really.”
He gestures vaguely at her.
“And that, Granger, is why you ended up here.”
“W-W—”
“Bloody hell, Granger, do you want to purchase a syllable or something?”
“Wat—”
“What?”
“WATER.” She finally manages to say and proceeds to cough a lung or what’s remaining of it. Theo has the decency to look slightly ashamed and hurriedly hands her a glass of conjured water.
She takes an overly ambitious gulp and, although it feels like gasoline in her throat, she welcomes it nonetheless.
“Careful, it might hurt at first.”
She follows with smaller sips and already feels better.
“Thank you.” she says, first for the glass, but also the whole saving-her thing.
His eyes roll twice inside his skull.
“Please, as if I had a choice. Saving you meant saving me. I didn’t fancy being murdered by my best friend should I fail to rescue his darling wife.”
Hermione would like to contradict him, but she suspects Draco’s animagi instincts wouldn’t have been particularly forgiving indeed.
“How long have I been unconscious?”
“Four days.”
She shudders. What a worthless lump she’s been. Not only did her sudden apparition to Headquarters achieved nothing and helped no one, she’s been an atrocious burden on the Malfoys and Theo for four days.
“Don’t look so guilty,” he adds. “You were extremely busy dying.”
She rolls her eyes.
“What’s the outcome of the raid?”
“Bad.”
“For your side or ours?” The words rush out before she can catch them. Theo scowls— displeased, and rightly so—at her assessment of his character.
She lowers her eyes to a stain on the mattress, which is unlike Narcissa’s level of tidiness. Upon further inspection, it is only a bit of lint.
“I’m not on their side, Granger.” Theo says, abnormally vulnerable.
“Noted.” She nods, and the silence stretches uncomfortably.
Theo finally cuts it.
“On the Republic side, about ten or so dead. Including Rosier and Travers, before you ask.” She’d do a happy, silly dance if she had the energy.
“And on the Order side… two.”
“Who?” Her voice catches in her throat, fear threatening to suffocate her once more.
“Zacharias Smith and an older woman named Mathilda. She died protecting her son. He survived. Which, I suppose, was the point, so good for her.”
Theo casts a series of diagnostic spells, suddenly remembering his role as a healer. That, or he’s searching for something to do in lieu of looking at her when he delivers this type of news.
“But killing was never the main goal of this operation…” He trails off, reading the indigo orb hovering her.
“No?”
“No.” He vanishes the flaming orb, watching it bounces away. “Capture was.”
He turns on his heels and opens a cabinet, sifting through an array of vials, some filled with shimmering potions, others with dry ingredients like asphodel roots, bat spleens and mandrake leaves. Her eyes narrow on the latter.
“The Dark Lord has been sulking ever since you and Cho emptied his little collection of prisoners. Apparently needed them for something.”
He returns with an apricot-coloured potion, and she doesn’t even question him before gulping it down when he hands it to her. A pleasant tingle skims along the inner walls of her lung and her heart. Or so she hypothesizes, since she’s unsure if one can feel their organs. She read somewhere that a surgeon can cut through the brain without the patient feeling any pain, due to the lack of pain receptors.
“Needed them? Why?”
“No idea,” he shrugs. “But he’s overjoyed now. The raid got him roughly fifty prisoners. They all got shipped off to Azkaban.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck indeed.”
She sighs heavily, guilt and shame pressing down on her like a slowly deflating balloon.
She should have prevented the raid. With Draco’s intel, she held all the cards. But instead of assessing them and anticipating her opponent’s possible hand, she played like a novice—threw them onto the table and ran straight into danger without so much as a sodding plan.
This is entirely her fault.
“Shit, he’s back,” Theo hisses at the sound of approaching footsteps. In a burst of sudden hysteria, he fluffs her pillow and tucks the sheets around her.
“Could you please return to your cataleptic state?”
“You want me to fake it?” She asks, utterly baffled. “Why would I do that?”
“Because he’s been a monumental pain in my arse for the last days. Refused to leave your side in case you wake up. It will destroy him. Please, Granger.”
“What is to you if he’s pleased or not?” She lowers herself on the mattress, despite the fact that pretending to be unconscious is idiotic. “Are you in love with him?” she sniggers.
“No,” he replies flatly, lifting the sheet up to her neck. “Are you?”
She glares at him before closing her eyes and schooling her features into the expression of the pathetic blob she imagines she has been for the past few days.
“Merlin, Draco. That must be the shortest shower ever in wizarding history. Are you sure you even washed yourself?”
A chair scrapes the floor beside her and her nostrils fill with the fresh scent of his shower gel, rendering Theo’s question entirely moot.
“No changes?” Draco asks.
“None. But something tells me today might be the day. Salazar, I’d even bet ten Galleons she’ll wake up within minutes.”
And just for this, Hermione decides tomorrow would be a much better day to wake up. She refuses to let Theo Nott make money off her.
“How can you tell?” Draco asks, highly skeptical of Theo’s sudden Seer abilities, but with blooming hope laced through his question.
And just for that, she decides now would a much more excellent to wake up.
She flutters her eyelids open and internally winces, this whole pretending-to-be unconscious act completely ridiculous.
But Theo was right.
What greets her when her eyes find him makes their fraudulent pageantry worthwhile.
Absolute relief lends him wings, propelling him forward until his face hovers above hers. His hand trembles as it sweeps a few errant strands, thumb resting lightly on her forehead.
“Hi,” he murmurs, his eyes bright with a kind of wonder she’s never seen in him before.
“W-w-w.” She stammers again, repeating the same script because her normally incredible acting skills are about to collapse under sheer exhaustion.
“Water?” Draco guesses correctly on the first try. He scrambles for the glass beside her, filling it with water, she gives Theo her best impression of ‘see? this misunderstanding was your fault entirely”.
“Here.” Draco tips the glass to her lips, cradling her head gently to tilt it. She drinks, the burn still sharp but more tolerable than a few moments ago. When she’s done, he sets the glass back on the bedside table.
His eyes never leave her.
I’m okay. Just like you said I would be.
“Don’t you have to check her vitals or something?” Draco snaps at Theo.
Mumbling something inconsequential, probably peeved at repeating a diagnostic spell he cast only minutes ago. The familiar purple orb appears again, and Hermione notices for the first time the pattern of runes shining across its surface.
“Everything healed quite nicely. One of my finest works, I’d say. One week of bed rest and she’ll be good as new.”
“One week!” She shrieks but gets ignored by both wizards.
Draco nods, his gaze still fixed on her in that unnerving kind of way, as though he expects her to slip back into unconsciousness at any moment. But that’s ancient history now. She’s more than fine.
Up close, she notices the faint shadow along his jaw, a light stubble to his normally clean-shaven look. His eyes, usually so sharp, look muted, almost dull.
He looks exhausted, and she hates being the reason.
As if sensing her scrutiny, his forehead creases. He turns away and paces to the window overlooking the forest. When his hands clasp rigidly behind his back, she knows she’s in trouble.
“Leave us.”
She catches Theo’s eye and gives him an imploring look. Her lips form the word please, and screw it—she even whispers it aloud(please stay), her hands pressed together in prayer.
He raises an unimpressed eyebrow.
“Oh, do you hear that?” he gasps, forming a hand cone around his ear. “Must be Lulu calling me from the other wing. I’ll go deliver the good news, that the prodigal daughter-in-law returns.” She has no idea how he even knows this biblical reference.
Standing in the door frame, he gives them one last look and says unhelpfully “Draco, don’t be too harsh on her.”
The room falls silent. Hermione’s breath becomes erratic for no medically valid reason. She feels like a misbehaving child about to be scolded. And she hates the feeling. This brings her back to her childhood when she couldn’t explain the random events of accidental magic. Her teachers would always giver her this look, the same she imagines is spread across Draco’s face, before yelling at her for mistakes she couldn’t entirely control.
And years later, she’s almost in the same situation: facing someone’s anger for magic she failed to command.
She lets out a long sigh, sinking into the mattress. The weight of everything pressing down on her once more.
“I didn’t mean to… leave the way I did.” She fiddles with the sheet. “As soon as I Apparated in Headquarters, I tried to come back, but the wards were already up.”
He turns and leans on the windowsill, listening.
“I didn’t think it through…and I ended helping no one. Just a burden to everyone.” She spits, a ball of disgust taking shape in her throat which has suffered enough.
“I delayed Cho, who had to fix my glamours because I didn’t think. That’s supposed to be my one and only skill…thinking. If not for that, everyone would have made it out safely. Susan, Terry, Cho, the other girl…they would have time to climb the ladder…” She gazes up at the ceiling, the vision of the hatch above her so clear. “I made it worse. And Dean—” She chokes on the name. “—wouldn’t have fall. He wouldn’t have had to stay to fight, and duel, then—” oh gosh, here go the waterfalls. “—g-get crucio’d, and then you—wouldn’t have had to fight Rosier and Travers and risk compromising your cover, because I wouldn’t have been there and everyone would be out and—”
“Granger, breathe.”
She does, but it’s shuddering at best. Hardly satisfying.
She’s drained. By the guilt, the pressure, the pain…this endless fucking war. She knows it’s counterproductive to wallow in misery, but she’s past caring. Let her self-pity consume her, let her ruminate, let her spin into a cycle of negativity. It’s almost…satisfying for once.
Her shoulders slump, unable to meet his eyes.
“I just got so scared…” she continues, because self-pity just keeps on giving. “When you mentioned you had the power to force me to stay behind.”
The mattress dips and she only realizes that he left his windowsill. She looks up sharply, and catches him already staring with this emotion that almost threatens to smother the room. Something they share.
Guilt.
He scoots a little closer, one foot on the floor, one leg drawn up on the bed. His knee grazes her thigh buried in the sheets.
“I know you would never have used an Imperius on me, but just the thought—"
“I always considered Orpheus as this psychotic ancestor.” He cuts her off, his gaze unfocused above her head. “This monster in our line that is more folklore stain than a story to believe.”
“But when I saw you standing over me…bleeding…with that stick poking through, I—” His eyes snap shut, as if to block the images assaulting him. When they open once again, they blaze with resolution. “I thought…razing London to the ground wasn’t so excessive. Reasonable, even.”
He slides impossibly close, forcing her to crane her neck.
Guardedly, his fingertips hover along her throat, barely touching, as if afraid of fracturing her. They drift to the nape of her neck, and she yields, letting the weight of her heavy head fall into his palm. He doesn’t protest, his fingers spreading wider, cradling her. His eyes glimmer with quiet desperation.
“I’m just so sick of watching you getting hurt. Time and time again.”
She says nothing. Hermione is also done with this script, of her getting harmed. The months of pain, of hurt and fear have left pliant in his grasp.
And he witnessed them all.
His arm snakes around her waist, and with his other hand still holding her head, he hoists her closer. Chest to chest, he molds her frame against his own. Her arm slides between his shoulder blades, pulling him closer despite the stubbornness in him that still tries to be cautious and gentle.
Finally, he relents, burying his head in the hollow of her neck, inhaling her.
His heart is a beating drum, thumping against her ribcage.
“I can’t lose you, Granger,” his lips whisper wetly against her skin. “You can’t die.”
“Which part of you is asking me that?” Her voice comes out small, already bracing for the inevitable.
“Me. I am asking that.”
“You know what I mean.”
He pulls back from her neck, and she shivers at the sudden the absence. Deep furrows appear between his brows.
“All I know is you seem to have this theory that anything I feel isn’t mine. That it belongs to this…beast, but—"
“Maybe it’s more nuanced than that, but I—” She drops her eyes and fidgets with the edge of the sheets, her emotional support fabric, apparently. “I still think… that it could have been anyone. That I just happened to be the one who needed protecting, and that your inner dragon latched onto that…”
“Ha.”
It’s not unkind, but it could very have mean ‘you silly, dumb girl’. She scowls right back at him, but there’s only warmth, no clouded insult at her ridiculousness.
“Do you know how many people have suffered in front of me? People I could have protected, turned for, and didn’t?”
She knows it’s rhetorical, so she doesn’t answer.
“A lot. Some I didn’t care about. But others...” His jaw tightens. “Friends. Girls my parents were already planning to marry me off when we were still in nappies.”
Something petty and territorial flares within her, stomping its foot in protest. No. Absolutely not. She refuses and she promises herself that she’ll have words with Lucius once her bedrest is lifted. Who does he think he is? Arranging marriages for toddlers… as if Draco had ever been…available.
“Surely you’re aware of how volatile our Dark Lord can get,” he continues, completely unaware of the jealousy burning within her. “Just last year, Pansy—”
He stops because she might have hissed or honked. Like a territorial hippopotamus asserting dominance over her stretch of water through water splashing and poo-flinging.
He carries on regardless. “—Pansy fucked up. He told me to cut her ear off. Which, besides being completely barbaric, was beyond cruel for Pansy. Earrings were always her favorite jewelry…”
“Did you?” she gasps.
“I had no choice. He ordered me through the Vow. Next was Daphne. She didn’t want to return to Hogwarts if it meant helping the Carrows carrying punishments to younger students. So she got punished instead. He had me shaved her head and carved Bald Traitor into her scalp with a cursed razor. She’ll never be able to grow her hair out…”
“…Millicent…”
“Got her hand plunged into a pot of acid until there was just bones.”
“…Astoria….”
“…with fire…screamed…over and over…begged…”
Hermione barely listens, nauseated by the torrent of images. Those poor girls. They might have been on opposite sides—Hermione on one side of the river, them on the far bank—but Voldemort doesn’t discriminate. Between them, the river churns, threatening to drag them all under.
And yet, when Malfoy appears on a raft…he chooses her? Not his friends, the girls he grew up with…He scooped her up on his little boat.
“Horrible as it was and as much as I wanted to do something, it was never enough. That is, until it was you…”
His hands glide along her thighs over the blanket, lacking focus. Just like his gaze, lingering on a vague point near her collarbones, lost in thought.
“You, writhing on my floor. Bleeding and suffering so many times that I lost count or occluded through most of them.”
“You, who refused to cower in fear and even dared to stand up to the Dark Lord, repeatedly insulting him. Refusing to back down or show weakness. Something I never had the courage to do…even if I was protected from his wrath through the Vow.”
“You, when you had every reason to shut down once back in your cell, still found the motivation to curse and insult me.”
He lets out a ragged sigh, half-humor, half-sadness. At last, he looks at her and she finally understands.
There was nothing random about it. About this.
A double thud sounds as he kicks off his shoes. He pulls the blanket back and joins her under the sheets. Their heads settle on her pillow, hers tucked over her hands like she’s waiting for the bedtime story to resume.
“Along the way, all those sparks were enough.” He settles on his side, propped on one elbow as he watches over her. “More than enough. Almost too much. Yes, it might have started with my inner dragon screaming at me to do something, anything. But it was because of you. It couldn’t have been anyone else. No one else could have sparked that fire. It was all for you.” A pause. A heartbeat. “Only you.”
His fingers find her jaw, brushing lightly, his thumb resting on her lower lip. She closes her eyes, trying not to squirm under the weight of those revelations.
Merlin—she’s been impossibly obtuse. Turning it over, dissecting it like it was a NEWT exam when it’s been this simple all along.
Still, her insecure brain requires explicit confirmation, as if this weren’t already glaringly obvious.
“So,” she clears her throat. “Does this long and elaborate speech mean that you like me?”
He flops down on his back, his laugh a welcome contrast to the heaviness—and frankly, a tad too sentimental—of his monologue.
“If you insist on putting it in juvenile terms, yes.” He shifts, letting his weight roll lightly over her, careful not to lean too heavily. His forearms come to rest on either side of her face. “Much more than like, I’d even say.”
Her heart leaps, and she has to stop the impulse to wince in pain, as the wound hasn’t fully healed.
“Granted,” he continues “I’m not the best with words, well…certainly better than you and your ramblings the other day in the library—ow!”
He grabs the hand she just used to shove him on his shoulder and presses it back on the pillow.
“But I was under the illusion that my actions spoke louder than words.” He nudges closer, letting his knee press into the empty space between her thighs. A finger snakes to the edge of her shirt, poking teasingly her ribcage. “Maybe I wasn’t demonstrative enough.”
“Maybe.” She quips, all too eager for what comes next. His hand slides to the small of her back, pulling her just a fraction closer.
“Or maybe, you’re not as clever as you pretend to be.”
“How dare you—”
He playfully nips at her ear, effectively silencing her. This has always been her weakness. Fleeting kisses travel along her jawline, lingering and tantalizing.
“Only if you knew the last step of turning into an Animagus,” the hand buried under her shirt continues its mad pursuit, tracing teasing patterns along her skin. “you’d stop doubting my feelings for you.”
“I know the last step!” She can’t help but to retaliate at the wild accusation, practically shoving her hand high in the air. Page 454 of Fundamentals of Transfiguration is engraved in her brain and she can almost recite it. But she won’t, not risking being called out a know-it-all. “After weeks of preparation, you get a blood-red potion that has to be swallowed immediately while reciting an incantation. Amato Animo—”
“Yes, but there’s still one more step if the goal is to become a Dragon Animagus.”
“Which is?” She asks, barely able to contain her curiosity.
“Later…” he hums and leans down, his lips brushing the skin below her ear. “It’s been days since I could taste you,” he croons as his tongue traces her earlobe. “Let me have this.”
There’s just no point in refusing such a reasonable request. Her thirst for knowledge can wait. This other thirst, however—more urgent and primitive, far less dignified—demands attention first.
As he pushes his hips into her, a breathless moan escapes her and her hands scramble to his hair, pulling his mouth against hers.
If new beginnings had a flavor, it would be this. A sensation sealed in the delicate space between their lips.
A blank slate.
A resolution.
No more silly misunderstandings. He likes her. And he kisses her for that simple reason. Nothing magical. Not something borrowed from a beast that isn’t him.
Just him. Just her.
He likes her for her and that’s enough.
“I like you too, Draco.”
She feels ridiculous for saying it out loud, but the way his expression lights up makes it worth it. At least, she didn’t trip over the words this time.
“So you said,” he says with a crooked grin as he braces himself above her, one hand gripping the headboard. His other drifts lower, rib by rib, skimming over the hollow of her navel, pausing at the edge of her kickers, catching on the tiny bow that serves no purpose except, apparently, driving him mad.
Then he plays her like a harp, intent on pulling strings to conjure the most sinful symphony.
Making her whimper, the sound of do escaping her lips as the fabric lifts.
Ré, when his fingers dip beneath the lace.
Mi, when they graze her and her hand tightens in his hair.
Fa, when his thumb presses on her bundle of nerves, turning it into something fuller, Fa Major.
Sol, when one ventures further, making her shift under him, responsive to every pluck of his fingers.
La—
Si—
And suddenly, it’s too much. One moment she’s mewling in pleasure, on the run to become Britain’s next Opera singer, and the next she’s clutching her heart as if it is about to burst out of her chest.
“Shit,” Draco skitters away, lifting his hands up in the air. “W-what did I do?”
Each beat presses painfully against her ribcage, the magical sutures probably the culprit behind this ordeal. Her heart feels like a roast tied in butcher’s twine, pulled tighter with every beat, the strings threatening to burst and send the meat unravelling across the kitchen counter.
Theo wasn’t messing around when he prescribed one week bed rest.
Eventually, her heart settles into a rhythm less homicidal.
“I think you were about to fuck me to my death,” she chuckles, answering his earlier question.
He doesn’t find her remotely funny and instead sinks into the sheets, looking so pale he practically disappears into them. He’s at risk to be folded with the laundry if he goes any whiter.
“Hey, I’m fine,” she says soothingly. “My heart isn’t fully healed yet for the level of cardio activity we were about to engage in.”
He swallows dryly, watching her like she might pass out at any moment.
“Right,” he clears his throat. “Theo did warn us. I should let you rest.”
He makes a move to stand up, but she catches his wrist and tugs him back beside her.
“Stay, please?”
He must see something convincing in her eyes, because he relents and flops back down. She snuggles closer, his warmth immediately soothing the lingering ache in her chest.
She’s rather miffed about the fact that her weak heart killed her nearing orgasm—and, evidently, his panic killed his own arousal just as effectively. Yet, she can hardly complain about this tragedy when she ends up wrapped snugly into Draco’s arms.
Afterall, hugs have always been her love language. Something she craved—so much so that she once asked one of her school bullies when he showed up in her cell.
A despicable boy.
How the tables have turned…
She smiles and peers up at him.
“Oh,” Hermione now notices his cheek, or rather remembers something that should have been there. “Theo managed to heal your scar? I remember Rosier giving you a deep gash there.”
She shudders, the violent scene resurfacing.
She examines the skin closer, but sees no imperfections. Nothing. Just the usual milky white tone under her fingertips.
He gently peels off her hand, placing it back on the pillow between them, and intertwines their fingers.
“Nothing to do with Theo’s healing skills. Every injury gets healed as soon as you switch to your Animagus form.”
“I don’t remember reading about this.”
“And you won’t, because it’s only offered with the Dragon Animagus limited edition package,” he winks at her. “Which, as you may have noticed, is rarely the subject of doctrinal commentary.”
Her gearing wheels already spin, her mind conjuring every known use of dragon parts with healing abilities. Sure, there’s Wolfsbane, using dragon blood. Any good stamina-replenishment potion also uses dragon liver. Oh, she remembers reading about dragon claw ooze used in some mending balm! And dragon hide, essential for protective clothing.
She looks at him, her eyes surely wide with excitement.
“Dork.” He smirks and she adores him even more for knowing the inner workings of her brain without uttering a single word about it.
“Neat trick,” she quips. “Could have been useful for my situation and saved me from one week of bed rest…”
“Why? Fancy becoming a dragon anytime soon?” He waggles his eyebrows and she wants to smack him. “Feeling protective over someone?”
“No—”
“You like me. You said it. There’s no taking it back.”
“You’re insufferable,” She huffs. “That’s why I didn’t say anything. And for the same reason, shall I ever encounter the need to become an Animagus, you’ll be the last to know.”
“You like me.”
“So do you!”
“I’m not ashamed to say it.”
“Me neither.”
Blast him and his overly expressive eyebrows, one arched so unnecessarily high that she feels compelled to meet his silent challenge.
She straightens herself, chest rising. “You are mine, Draco Malfoy,” she declares, her voice surprisingly strong and unwavering, despite the heat creeping up her cheeks.
His eyebrows have now left the room, vanishing entirely. His expression is so open, so caught off guard. Serves him right. She too can deliver straightforward confessions, without being her usual blubbering mess like the other times.
Regrettably, his surprise quickly morphs into a look of eager possessiveness as his tongue runs over his teeth.
“You are mine,” he argues, pulling her flush against him until she’s folded into his arms. A treasure to hoard. But she doesn’t mind. She now knows exactly the feeling.
“Tomato, Tomato,” she mumbles into his shirt. “Now, tell me everything I missed during the last days.”