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Hour 5 - 04:00 1st November
Fingers curled, fisting the sheets above his head.
Soft curls grazed his chest, his jaw, the curve of his throat — warmth and a floral scent and the ghost of a breath against his cheek.
Then hands. Light, exploratory hands moving across his stomach, testing, and the tension that built under them was low and pooling and insistent. He exhaled shakily. The hands moved lower. The tension coiled tighter. He released the sheets and reached for the owner of them, reached for her—
He woke panting.
Chest heaving, sheets twisted, one arm outstretched toward nothing. The dark ceiling of his bedroom stared back at him. His heart was hammering. The wound she’d healed throbbed dully from his sudden movement, he winced and fell back against the pillows.
He’d been dreaming.
Of course he’d been dreaming.
He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. Looked down at the sheets tenting over his erection then up at the clock on the wall.
It was four o’clock in the morning.
The events of the prior evening had blurred and shifted in his sleep and he genuinely could not have said in that moment, where the reality ended and the dream began.
*
Hour 11 - 10:00 1st November
When he finally rose it was with aching limbs and a pounding headache, the dream all but forgotten. Warm sunlight streamed through the long windows of his room catching flecks of dust in the golden light as he padded over Persian rugs and parquet floor to the bathroom.
Under the shower the heat hit him first — pressure and steam filling the tiled room, and for a long moment he just stood under it and let it work. The muscles in his back unknotted one by one. His breathing slowed. He braced one hand against the tiles and closed his eyes and felt briefly, almost human.
His hands moved over the wound as he washed, the skin tender and new beneath his fingers, and every brush of them brought her back. The light exploratory pressure of her touch. The way her magic had rippled into his skin in slow concentric rings, sinking deep, and what it had done to him.
Then the thoughts crept in.
The heat of it pooling low. The very specific and profoundly inconvenient problem that had developed beneath the waistband of his already too-low trousers while she stood there in her red boots being entirely professional about everything.
He pressed his forehead against the cool tile and breathed.
The night had been terrible. He hadn't let himself feel it yet, but it came for him now in the steam and the quiet. The flashes of red and green cutting through the dark. The confusion of the fight, the screaming.
He'd fought to stay present. Fought to remember which side he was on now, that the spells coming from behind him were friendly, that the ones coming toward him were not. Susan Bones at his shoulder, steady and grim. Then the moment the curse had found him, the blinding white-hot pain. And the knowledge that from that moment he was on borrowed time.
They'd got them out.
He and Bones had dragged the ones who couldn't walk between them, Disapparating in relays, and he'd held everything together through sheer bloody-mindedness until the last Auror was safe.
Then he'd looked down at his side and thought, somewhat distantly, that's a lot of blood.
He'd arrived at St Mungo's broken and exhausted and, though he would not have used this word at the time, frightened.
He walked through the door of room four and stopped.
The golden halo first, glowing in the clinical lighting. Then the curls, dark and abundant, tumbling everywhere. The freckles. The red lips. A glow so luminous about her in that harsh white room that his blood-starved mind simply stopped trying to make sense of things and arrived, quietly and with some relief, at the only available conclusion.
An Angel.
He had died.
That was —fine.
He'd made his peace with the possibility somewhere around the third hour of the raid and he was prepared for it. What he was not prepared for, what his dying brain genuinely could not reconcile, was the specific nature of the angel standing in front of him.
He didn't know what confused him more — that angels were real, or that he apparently hadn't gone to hell.
He'd been so certain about hell.
Then she'd looked up at him with that expression.
Not a real angel, but close.
Hermione Granger.
He exhaled. The steam curled around him.
That moment in the doorway. The way the world had seemed to tilt and then resettle with her at the centre of it.
Her hands at the hem of his shirt. The brisk efficiency —and then it was gone and he'd stared at the ceiling with fierce concentration while she worked. Because looking at her had not been a viable option. He'd understood that immediately.
But he had looked.
He couldn't help it. His eyes had found her face and stayed there —the focused singular expression she wore, that complete absorption, the pursed pout of those exquisite red lips, like nothing existed outside the task in front of her. Like he was the only thing that mattered.
He knew it was clinical. He knew that.
It hadn't mattered.
With that look on her face and her hands moving careful and unhurried across his skin the world outside had simply —stopped. The raid, the blood, the noise of the ward beyond the door. All of it fell away until there was nothing left but her.
He'd felt, for the first time in hours, safe.
And if he was being honest, very aroused.
It was the adrenaline, he'd told himself.
He was still telling himself that as his hands moved over himself again, washing off soap suds and then wrapped around his cock—already half-hard from the memory of her touch.
His breath came faster, mingling with the steam. The hot water pelted over his chest, painfully over his tender erection as he fisted himself with purpose.
Her hands. Her hair tumbling over his chest. The elegant line of her neck. Those red lips parted in concentration, her pretty pink tongue darting out to wet her lips. The furrow in her brow. The way her fingers had pressed against his newly healed skin—so temptingly close to the waistband of his trousers, if only she would tell him to take them off, that they are an obstruction after all.
Then the involuntary jerk his body had made under her touch.
He jerked now, chasing the feeling. His grip tightened, his hips thrusting forward into his fist, his features tense with concentration as the pressure built. His free arm braced on the wall of the shower.
Fuck—
He came with a cry, a choked moan that escaped as he spilled, the hot water still relentlessly pounding, washing the evidence away.
For a long moment he just stood there, cock in hand, forehead against the tile, breathing hard.
*
Hour 13 - 12:00 1st November
The kitchen was warm and smelled of bread.
Draco sat in the oversized chair by the fire—the one the elves had enlarged for him years ago when he'd first started hiding down here. Everything else in the kitchen was elf-sized: the worn wooden table barely reached his knees, the counters sat at hip height, the stools looked like they belonged in a dollhouse.
But the chair was his. Wide and sturdy and positioned close enough to the hearth that he could feel the heat sinking into his still-aching muscles.
He nursed a cup of tea that was too hot and watched Mitsy knead dough with practiced efficiency at her counter.
"Master Draco will lose those big muscles if he is eating like a mouse," she said without looking up. "He must stay strong. Mitsy is not having this sulking."
"I'm not sulking."
"Master Draco is sulking." She slapped the dough against the counter with unnecessary force. "And not eating. Mitsy is making proper breakfast."
Grum appeared from the pantry with an armful of vegetables, dumping them on the low counter with a clatter. He was younger than Mitsy—closer to Draco's age, he thought, though it was hard to tell with elves.
They'd been... companions, of a sort, since Draco was thirteen and hiding from his father's 'lessons' in the extended spaces between the Manor’s walls where the elves lived and worked. Later, during the war, when Voldemort and his followers had stalked the halls above, the three of them had often found themselves in the same shadowed corners. Waiting. Surviving.
They never talked about that time.
But something had formed between them in those dark months. A kinship.
"The raid," Grum said, arranging vegetables with careful precision on the elf-sized counter. "It was bad?"
"Bad enough." Draco took a sip of tea and grimaced at the heat. "Curse got me. Nasty one."
Mitsy's hands stilled in the dough. "Master Draco is hurt?"
"Was hurt. Got patched up at St Mungo's." He set down his cup on the hearth. "You'll never guess who my healer was."
Grum looked up with interest, reaching into the vegetables. He plucked out a fat little caterpillar with an irritated look and flicked it into the fire behind Draco.
Mitsy turned, hands on hips, dough forgotten.
"Hermione Granger," Draco said.
"Oh," they both said in unison.
Mitsy's eyes narrowed, something shrewd and knowing settling into her expression. “And…How is Master Draco copings with this?"
"Good. Good." His voice came out too light, too casual. "It— was nice to see her."
Grum snorted, going back to his vegetables. "Don't you be thinking we is not understanding the things that go on between witches and wizards, Master Draco. We is knowing only too well."
"Master Draco is blushing," Mitsy observed with satisfaction.
“I’m doing no such thing—” He caught himself. “Sorry— I don’t know why I bought it up. Can we talk about literally anything else?"
Draco dropped his head into his hands.
He was becoming increasingly concerned that he'd imagined the chemistry between them. That it had been one-sided. That the considerable blood loss, the adrenaline, and the exhaustion had clouded his judgment.
The way she'd looked at him. The heat in her eyes when he'd pulled her robe open. The deliberate way she'd said "strenuous activity" while standing so close he could feel her breath.
Had that been real? Or had his half-dead brain invented it?
He shoved the thought away.
Mitsy and Grum exchanged a look—the particular look that meant they knew exactly what he was thinking about. Both elves were grinning now.
"Mitsy is making extra breakfast," she announced. "Master Draco is needing strength."
"Strength for what?"
"For when he is seeing Miss Hermione again," Grum said innocently.
Draco dropped his head back into his hands.
*
Hour 18 — 17:00 1st November
The training room smelled possessed a particular lack of scent that only came from the overuse of cleaning charms. It had never bothered Draco before, but today it made his stomach turn.
He stood across from Susan Bones, wand raised, both of their breathing slightly elevated from the last drill. His newly healed side ached—not badly, but enough to remind him it was there.
Normally he'd ignore the healer's advice about avoiding physical exertion. Push through it. Prove he was fine.
But something stopped him today. Maybe it was the memory of her hands on his skin, checking the seal. Maybe it was the very small, very pathetic hope that if he followed her instructions perfectly, it might mean something.
So, spellwork only. No mat work. Just wand drills and shield practice.
"Again," Bones said, and launched a Stunner.
She broke his shield with a concentrated Bombarda that made his arm ring.
"You're slow today," she observed, lowering her wand.
“Bones, I got cursed last night. Nearly sliced in two.” He flexed his fingers, getting feeling back. "In case you forgot."
"I didn't forget. I was there.” She conjured water, flicked her braid behind her shoulder and took a long drink. "I'm saying you're distracted.”
She wasn't wrong. His mind had been elsewhere since the moment he’d walked into room four at St Mungos.
They moved to the edge of the room, Bones leaned against the wall, rolling her shoulder.
“Last night was a fucking mess," she said after a moment. "But —we got them all out."
"We did."
"Thanks, by the way. For staying." She looked at him sidelong. "You could have left after you got hit. Should have really.”
"Couldn't leave you to haul them all out yourself could I?”
"No. I suppose you couldn't." She smiled slightly. "You're alright, Malfoy."
He didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. He pulled off his tank top, gave it a quick scourgify, then pulled it back over his head.
“That’s good work.” She said, gesturing at the closed wound, now a white line that joined the rest of his crosshatched scars before it disappeared under the tank. “Who treated you?"
He was back in the examination room immediately, the angel in front of him with her gold headband, healers robes, those red boots that he would later discover were knee high when he opened those robes to reveal that outrageous little costume.
"Wonder Woman," he said automatically.
Bones' brows knitted in a deep crease of confusion. "What?"
"Nothing." Draco shook his head quickly. "Just—nothing."
Bones stared at him for a long moment. "You're a weird guy, Malfoy."
It was said with affection, though.
"Thanks," he said dryly.
She pushed off the wall. "One more drill?"
"Yeah. One more."
*
Hour 24 — 23:00 1st November
Exactly 24 hours after his discharge from the hospital Draco was lost somewhere in the spiral again. Now his mind played over the shower. The guilt sitting heavy in his chest.
It was not the first time he'd wanked over Hermione Granger.
During that year of Auror training, and the two years they'd worked in the field together, it had been a regular—if shameful—pastime. Late nights after raids when the adrenaline wouldn't let him sleep. Early mornings when he'd wake hard and aching with memories of her skilfulness, her focus, the way she quickly moved in combat.
But it had been months. Months and months since the last time.
Potter's wedding.
She'd been wearing a blood-red bridesmaid dress that had made his mouth go bone-dry. He'd managed to stutter a few words at her during the reception—something idiotic about the ceremony, probably—and then spent the rest of the evening staring at her from across the room while Theodore Nott repeatedly told him to ‘just go and fucking speak to her’.
He hadn't.
Instead, he'd gone back to his hotel room alone and taken care of himself with his hand and vivid memories of how that dress had hugged every curve.
He'd felt pathetic after. Told himself he was done with this. That he needed to move on, stop fixating on a woman who clearly had no interest beyond professional courtesy.
And he had. For months. He'd kept busy. He'd dated. He'd successfully avoided thinking about Hermione Granger.
Until last night.
*
Hour 34 - 9:00am 2nd November
Draco stood at the back of the briefing room, flanked by Bones and Potter, clutching a coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago, and tried to focus on what Dawlish was saying about territorial assignments. But his treacherous mind wandered.
Should he send an owl to check they were still meeting? Just a quick note. Casual. Still on for tonight?
No. That sounded desperate.
Should he send flowers?
No. Merlin, that was too much. Definitely too much.
Or was it?
He was losing his mind.
They'd agreed. He'd pick her up after her shift. That was the plan. What more was there to say?
He shouldn't say anything. Because the probability of him saying something fucking stupid was astronomically high, and the last thing he needed was to ruin this before it even started by being—
Draco leaned over to Potter and whispered, “You know about muggle stuff right?”
Potter’s eyes were still on Dawlish at the front of the room but the slight narrowing in them meant Draco knew he’d heard him.
“What do you know… about Wonder Woman?” Draco tried for casual and landed somewhere around deranged.
Potter's head snapped to the side so fast Draco was worried he'd given himself whiplash.
"What the fuck are you on about Malfoy?” Potter hissed, his voice barely above a whisper but loaded with confusion.
"Wonder Woman. The Muggle...thing. What do you know about her?"
Potter stared at him like he'd just announced he was starting a Pygmy Puff farm.
Potter continued staring at him. "Did you hit your head last night? Should I be worried about curse damage?"
“No, I’m just…curious.” Draco cringed.
“She’s an American warrior superhero who fights crime and wears very small blue shorts with stars on them. She has a lasso that makes people tell the truth and….if she takes her bracelets off she becomes…like—invincible.”
“That does sound like her, to be fair.” Draco muttered.
Potter looked at him a moment longer like he was considering if he really wanted to know what Draco was ranting on about —then deciding it was not worth the headache— he turned back to Dawlish and the briefing.
Draco went back to his cold coffee and considered the many implications of a truth telling lasso.
*
Hour 38 — 14:00 2nd November
In a moment of what could only be described as temporary insanity, he'd cornered Ron Weasley in the staff room. Weasley had been inhaling a huge portion of noodles from a takeout box and had eyed him with an amount of mistrust and dislike that Draco actually felt was very warranted.
The conversation had been brief, painful, and deeply humiliating. But Weasley had let slip that Hermione liked Chinese food, and Draco had taken off with that information like a Niffler with gold.
*
Hour 43 — 18:00 2nd November
After hours of agonising the final plan formed thus:
18:15 - Pick Granger up from St Mungo's and make the walk over to Muggle Soho.
19:00 - Reservation hastily made thirty minutes ago at his favourite restaurant in Chinatown. Thank you Weasel.
21:00 - Leave dinner. Walk, if the weather held. Then drinks at a little bar on Berwick Street he knew was quiet and had a truly excellent whisky selection.
22:55 - Suggest Sidelong Apparition. Her place or his?
That final part of the plan made him so skittish he didn't really look at it head-on. It existed only in the outer edges of his brain, hovering there like something he couldn't quite bring himself to examine properly. Like if he looked at it directly it might disappear.
He checked his watch.
18:02
Thirteen minutes.
By 18:10 he was a total nervous wreck, he’d paced the length of the atrium at least four times, thrown an obscene amount of galleons into the fountain —for luck.
He stood, staring at the Floo, telling himself to just go. Just step through. Simple.
But if he left now, he'd be early. Five minutes early. Which would look keen. Desperate.
He waited. Checked his watch approximately forty times in two minutes. Threw one last galleon into the fountain. Checked his watch again.
18:14.
Close enough.
He stepped into the Floo, threw powder, and called out "St Mungo's, Accident and Emergency.”
The green flames spat him out into controlled chaos.
Not the crisis-level chaos of two nights ago—this was just the standard array of classic magical calamities that made up a typical evening at St Mungo's.
A wizard in blue robes turned as Draco exited the Floo. The poor man had a to-scale elephant trunk where his nose should be and was trumpeting like a real elephant, his eyes watering with distress, his companion was desperately ushering him towards the reception area.
A small boy of no more than five was levitating insistently toward the ceiling. His mother bounced him down the corridor like a beach ball as they both followed after a harried-looking mediwitch who was taking notes without looking up.
"No, I'm telling you, it was a spell gone wrong—" the elephant nosed man was crying to the receptionist, his voice choked and spluttered as he fought back the urge to trumpet.
"That's what they all say, love," the receptionist replied wearily, sliding a form across the desk. “Here fill this out.”
Draco stepped around the trumpeting wizard and his frantic companion and scanned the waiting area for Hermione.
She wasn't there.
He sat on a metal chair near the reception and tried not to watch the clock.
Ten minutes past.
Then twenty.
Then thirty.
Draco stood, shrugging on his jacket.
Maybe she'd forgotten. Maybe she'd changed her mind. Maybe—
There was the hurried slap of footsteps, someone running, then the doors to the ward burst open and Hermione crashed through. She looked frantic, her head swinging wildly around the room as she looked for something.
She stopped once her eyes landed on Draco.
Draco sprang to his feet as she approached, and all his nervousness evaporated the second he saw her expression clearly. The exhaustion in her eyes. The tightness around her mouth that meant she'd been running on adrenaline and willpower for many, many hours.
"Granger! Hermione,” he said, moving to meet her. "Are you alright?"
“Sorry! So sorry I’m late! It was—Yes! Yes, all good. Let's go." Her smile was too bright, too forced and she was moving too quickly.
"You're—err—you're still in your healer's robes."
She looked down at herself, and colour flooded her face. "Oh my god. How embarrassing." She started muttering under her breath, hands fumbling for her wand. "I can't believe I—give me two seconds—"
"Granger." He caught her wrist gently. "We don't have to go out if you're exhausted."
"No!" It came out too quick, too sharp. Then more casually: "No, I want to. Let's just go. I'll change in the ward and—"
She glanced back nervously at the doors. She was dead on her feet. Could see the way she was holding herself together through sheer determination. He knew that if she went back there, she would get sucked back into whatever chaos awaited.
"Ok. Ok. New Plan.” He dropped all the carefully laid plans immediately—the restaurant reservation, the walk, the bar in Soho. Formed a new one on the spot. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
He stepped toward the Floo, motioned her in. "Do you trust me?"
She looked at him for a moment, something unreadable crossing her face. Then: "Yes."
He gestured for her to step into the fireplace first. She did, and he followed, wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her steady as he grabbed the Floo powder.
"Malfoy Manor, East Wing.” he called out clearly.
The green flames swallowed them both.
*
Hour 44 — 19:00 2nd November
She stopped in the doorway.
He watched her eyes flutter around the space, taking it in. The open plan. The tall windows catching the last of the evening light. The fireplace flanked by deep sofas.
Her eyes caught on his bed against the far wall.
"Sit," he said, guiding her to the sofa before his brain could travel down that particular path.
She sat, looking thoroughly dazed.
He went to the bathroom, turned on the taps, adjusted the temperature. Grabbed towels. A robe. Transfigured some clothes that might fit her.
"Mitsy!" he called out, then cringed at the desperation in his voice.
She appeared with a sharp Crack!
"Master Draco is calling?" Her eyes swept the bathroom—the running water, the bubbles forming, the robe laid out. Her brows knitted. "Is Master taking a bath? Is there a bath emergency?"
"No. I'm not—it's not for me." He gestured vaguely at the tub. "I have a request. Would you make a tray? Snacks and drinks. Tea. Maybe some of those biscuits from yesterday. Just—something nice."
Mitsy's expression shifted. Her eyes narrowed, suddenly shrewd.
"What is Master Draco up to?"
"Nothing. I just need—"
But she'd already moved past him, popping her head around the doorframe to peer into the bedroom.
She went very still.
Hermione was visible on the sofa, looking small and exhausted.
Mitsy turned back to him slowly. Her expression had gone soft in a way that made his chest tight.
She studied his face for a long moment. Then she reached up and patted his hand—firm, decisive, the way she used to when he was thirteen.
"Mitsy is making the best tray," she said. "With the good biscuits. And the honey tea Miss Hermione is liking."
“How do you know what tea she likes?"
"Mitsy is knowing many things." She gave him one of her looks before her expression softened again, “Mitsy is happy for you."
She squeezed his hand once and disappeared with a Crack!
Draco swallowed the lump in his throat.
When he reemerged she was still sitting exactly where he'd left her, staring at nothing.
"Follow me."
He led her to the bathroom doorway.
"You," he said, pointing at the tub, "are going to take a long soak in there and eat all the snacks your heart desires. Then you—" he pointed back toward the bedroom, at his bed "—are going to sleep in that bed. And I—" he gestured at the sitting area "—will be here. Reading. Keeping you company."
She stared at him. "What?"
"You're exhausted, Granger. You need to rest."
"But—our date—"
"Can wait." He met her eyes. "This is more important."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Something was happening in her expression that he couldn't read.
"You're... serious?"
"Completely."
"You brought me to your home. Ran me a bath. And you're just going to... sit out there and read?" Her eyes were misty with tears.
"Yes, that’s the general idea."
"While I take a bath and then sleep in your bed?"
His cock stirred at the phrasing. In his bed. Hermione Granger in his bed. The same bed where he’s imagined—
"Yes," he managed.
Something cracked in her expression. She let out a small sound.
"Granger," he said, softer now. "You took care of me when I needed it, let me do the same for you.”
The exhaustion she'd been holding back flooding in. She looked like she might cry.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Good." He stepped back, pulled the door mostly closed. "Take your time. I'll be right out here. Just—just shout if you need anything.”
He fell back onto the sofa with the book he had no intention of reading.
Long, agonising minutes passed as he listened to the sounds of her moving about in the bathroom. Light clattering from the tray—teacup on saucer, perhaps, or the biscuit tin being opened. Then the soft whisper of fabric falling. His imagination supplied far too much detail about what that meant. The gentle sloshing of water and bubbles as she stepped into the bath.
He forced himself to turn a page of his book. Read a couple of lines just in case she asked him what it was about later.
He couldn't have recounted a single word at wand-point.
The water sounds settled into stillness. He could picture her there—sinking into the heat, her head tipping back against the rim of the tub, steam curling around her.
He adjusted himself on the sofa and stared very hard at his book.
More minutes passed. The silence from the bathroom stretched long enough that he started to worry. Had she fallen asleep in there? Was she alright?
"Draco?"
Her voice was small, uncertain. Calling out for him.
At first he thought he'd imagined it. His desperate brain conjuring the sound of his name in her voice.
Then it came again, louder, more insistent: "Draco?"
He shot to his feet, the book tumbling to the floor. He crossed to the bathroom door in three strides, catching his foot on the edge of the large Persian rug in his haste and nearly going down.
"Yes. I'm here." He pressed close to the door, not opening it. "What can I get you?"
"No, it's not—I don't—" She paused. He could hear her struggling for words.
He waited, ear pressed to the gap in the door, heart hammering.
She took a deep breath. He heard it clearly—the soft inhale, the slight catch.
"Would you come and sit with me?"
The question hung in the air between them.
His hand was on the door handle before his brain caught up.
Steam billowed out. The bathroom was dim—just the small lamp by the sink casting soft golden light.
She was sunk deep in the water, bubbles covering everything, her hair piled messily on top of her head with wet curls escaping. The tea sat untouched on the tray.
She looked relieved when she saw him.
He stood in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets. Nervous.
"I just—" She pushed wet curls off her forehead. "I want company. If that's alright."
"Yeah. Of course."
He grabbed one of the fluffy towels from the warming rack, threw it down at the edge of the bath.
His eyes locked on her face with supreme concentrated intensity.
She laughed. "Draco, you haven't blinked since you sat down."
He jolted back to himself. "Yes. Right. Err— bit—" His eyes flicked down to the suds involuntarily then up to the ceiling “distracted.”
She laughed again, properly this time.
He couldn't help but smile at the sound. It was good to see her relaxed.
"Bad day, was it?" he asked sympathetically.
She pushed wet curls off her forehead, leaned back in the tub, eyes locked on the ceiling.
"You have no idea."
He said nothing. Because he knew what that was like. Days that ground you down until there was nothing left.
The silence stretched.
"Did you eat something?" he asked.
“Just a biscuit.”
He summoned the tray with a flick of his wand. It floated over, settling gently between them on the edge of the tub.
That's when he noticed what Mitsy had done.
In addition to the tea, biscuits, and fruit, she'd added a bottle of wine—something expensive from his mother's cellar, no doubt—and two crystal glasses.
Mitsy, you meddling genius.
"What would you like?" he asked.
She looked at him. Then at the tray. Then back at him again.
"Grapes," she said quietly.
He plucked one off the bunch, held it out.
She leaned forward slightly, her lips parting.
He held his breath as he placed it in her mouth—his fingers brushing her bottom lip, feeling the soft give of it, the light wetness of her tongue as she took the fruit from him.
Blood rushed south immediately.
The softness of her lips. The wet heat of her tongue. The way her eyes stayed locked on his the entire time.
They both went still. Suspended in the moment. His fingers still near her mouth, her lips closed around the grape, neither of them breathing.
Then slowly, he plucked another from the bunch and held it out.
*
Hour 45 — 20:00 2nd November
He led her to the bed. Pulled back the sheets with shaking hands. Plumped the pillows because it gave him something to do besides stare at her.
She climbed in slowly.
The sound she made when she sank into the mattress was obscene.
"Malfoy," she groaned, eyes closing. "This is like a hotel bed. What thread count are these sheets?"
"Eight hundred." His voice came out wrecked.
"Of course they are." She chuckled.
Her hair spread across the pillow and he realised with a jolt that it was exactly how he’d imagined it, wild ringlets fanned across the sheets.
He looked away. Focused on tucking the sheets around her with careful movements. His fingers brushed her shoulder through the fabric and she shivered.
Fuck.
"Sweet dreams, Granger."
He turned away.
Her hand caught his.
Warm. Soft. Making his pulse spike.
"Thank you."
He made the mistake of looking down at her. At those dark eyes watching him with something that made his chest tight.
"You're welcome."
He pulled away. Made it two steps.
"Draco."
His name in her voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
He turned.
"Would you—" She bit her lip. He watched her teeth sink into that bottom lip and nearly groaned. "Would you sleep next to me? Or read next to me, if you can't sleep?"
The air left his lungs.
She wanted him in the bed. With her. Next to her.
His cock was already half-hard and getting harder by the second.
"I'll just—" He gestured vaguely at the bathroom. "Give me a minute."
He closed the door. Braced his hands on the sink. Stared at his reflection.
Get it together.
He couldn't climb into bed in his day clothes. It went against every fibre of his being. He stripped quickly, reaching for the joggers and t-shirt he kept on the hook behind the door.
When he emerged, she'd shifted to one side of the bed, leaving space for him.
The lamp on the far nightstand cast everything in warm gold. She was watching him, hair still damp and curling against the pillow, the sheets pulled up to her chin. He crossed to the bed. Climbed in.
"Draco?"
"Mm?"
"You can get under the covers. I won't bite."
His brain helpfully supplied several images of her biting and then, even less helpfully him biting her.
“It’s not you biting I’m worried about.” He muttered.
She laughed softly. "Come on."
He kept a careful distance between them—enough space that they weren't touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth of her through the sheets.
His cock ached. His entire body ached with wanting her.
But more than that—stronger than that—was something else. Something fierce and possessive and protective that made his chest feel too small.
She was here. In his bed. In his space. Safe.
His.
The silence stretched. Comfortable, despite the tension thrumming through him.
"This is surreal," she said quietly.
He turned his head on the pillow. She was looking at the ceiling, profile soft in the lamplight.
"What is?"
"This." She gestured vaguely. "Being here. In your bed. You running me a bath and feeding me grapes like some sort of—I don't know—"
"Devoted servant?" he offered.
She laughed. "I was going to say gentleman, but that works too."
He smiled despite himself. "I just didn't trust you to go home if I'd left you at the hospital."
Her expression shifted. Something vulnerable crossing her face. "You're right. I'd have ended up back on the ward."
"I know."
"They were really struggling tonight." Her voice went smaller. "I stayed as long as I could but there were so many and I just—"
"Hermione." He shifted closer. "You can't save everyone."
"I know that."
"You certainly can't if you're exhausted." His voice was soft but firm. "Your health matters too."
Her breath hitched. He watched her eyes go bright with tears.
"I know," she whispered. "I just—sometimes it feels like if I stop, even for a second—"
"I know."
And he did. He knew exactly what that was like. The guilt. The pressure. The feeling that you had to keep going or someone would suffer for it.
She turned toward him. Shifted closer until her forehead was almost touching his shoulder.
He went very still.
Then she pressed in. Tucked herself against him. Her head on his chest, her hand curling into his t-shirt.
He stopped breathing.
She was warm and soft and right there, and every nerve in his body was screaming at him to do something—pull her closer, kiss her hair, run his hands down her back.
Instead, he carefully brought his hand up and patted her hair.
Awkward. Stilted. Like he'd never touched another human being in his life.
She made a sound that might have been a laugh.
"You're allowed to hug me back, you know," she murmured against his chest.
“Sorry, you just—you make me nervous.”
“I make you nervous?” She chuckled, “What happened to Mr Define-strenuous-activity.”
“Granger I was riding high on a cocktail of shock, pain relief and that saucy little costume. I was hardly behaving normally.”
She tensed. “So you only asked me out because you were high?”
“No—Yes—Well, I only worked up the courage to do it because I was high. I wanted to ask you out back in Auror training but I thought there was no chance you’d even look at me.”
He felt her stillness. The way she'd stopped breathing for a moment.
Fuck. Too much. You said too much.
"Auror training?" she said finally. Her voice carefully neutral. "That was years ago."
"I'm aware."
"You've wanted to ask me out for…years?"
He stared at the ceiling. His face was burning. "Can we—not do this right now?"
"No, I think we should absolutely do this right now." She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him. "You've fancied me since Auror training and you never said anything?"
"You were dating Weasley. Then that German bloke. Then there was that whole thing with —"
"You kept track?"
"I have eyes, Granger."
She was quiet again. He could feel her gaze on his face but he refused to look at her. Kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling.
“Wow. I really thought you hated me," she said softly.
That made him look at her. "What?"
"During training you were always so—" She gestured vaguely. "Distant. Professional. You barely spoke to me unless it was work-related."
"Because I was trying not to make a complete arse of myself."
"By ignoring me?"
"By not endlessly staring at you like some pathetic—" He caught himself. Pressed his lips together.
"Like some pathetic what?"
"Nothing."
"Draco."
He exhaled hard. "Like some pathetic loser who couldn't string two words together. Because you were brilliant and terrifying and I was half-convinced you could read minds."
She laughed. The sound warm and surprised.
“Every time I thought about you, you’d just…appear. Like the very thought of you summoned you. And I was always thinking about you. Every training session, every meeting, every—” he let out an exasperated gasp and rubbed his forehead with his hand, pushing his hair back.
The silence stretched. Different now. Charged.
She was still propped up on one elbow, looking down at him. Her hair falling in wild curls around her face. Her hand still on his chest.
His eyes dropped to her mouth without permission.
She noticed. He saw the moment she clocked it—the way her breath caught, her lips parting slightly.
He wrapped his arm around her. Drew her in properly. Let himself feel the weight of her against him, the way she fit into the curve of his body.
She sighed. Relaxed fully into him and fell asleep within seconds.
He felt the moment it happened—the way her breathing deepened, her body going heavy against him. Her hand loosened its grip on his shirt but stayed there, fingers curled into the fabric.
He should move. Put some space between them. Reach for the book on the nightstand and actually read it like he'd said he would.
Instead, he stayed exactly where he was and watched her sleep.
How is this real?
She curled tighter against him. Peaceful.
His chest ached looking at her.
He let himself have this. Just this. The weight of her against him, the soft sound of her breathing, the scent of his soap on her skin.
Then his mind wandered back to the hospital.
The way she'd stood so close while healing him. Those red lips pursed in concentration. Her hands on his skin—light, exploratory, moving lower.
Heat flooded through him. He felt his face go red. His body responding immediately to the memory, cock stirring.
Don't. Don't do this. Not now. Think of anything else. Literally anything.
He shifted carefully. Tried to adjust himself without waking her.
She made a small sound in her sleep. Burrowed closer.
Fuck.
He stared at the ceiling. Counted backwards from one hundred. Tried to think of every revolting thing he could. Flobberworms, Spoilt milk, Ron Weasley eating noodles.
It didn't work.
She was in his arms. In his bed. Breathing softly against his chest.
And all he could think about was the hospital room. Her hands. Her lips. The way she'd looked at him when he'd opened her robes and seen that costume underneath.
The heat in her eyes.
Had that been real?
He didn't know. Couldn't know.
It had to be. She was here wasn’t she?
Had he just accosted a delirious, exhausted witch and dragged her back to his house? Maybe she’d wake up and realise this was all a terrible mistake.
She shifted again. Her leg sliding against his under the sheets.
He bit down on his lip. Hard. Focused on the pain of it.
*
Hour 46 — 21:00 2nd November
She shifted. Turned in her sleep. Her back pressed to his chest now, her arse tucked against his hips.
Fuck.
His concentration and every good intention evaporated.
She fit perfectly. Like she'd been made to slot against him.
His arm was still around her. He couldn't move it without waking her. So he stayed there, frozen, barely breathing, his cock now fully hard and pressed against her.
He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.
Maybe he had died.
The thought drifted through his mind again. Maybe this was heaven. Hermione Granger asleep in his bed, her body warm against his, her hair spread across his pillow.
Then he remembered he'd seen Weasley in the staff room that afternoon.
No heaven of his would ever contain Ron Weasley.
So he had to be alive.
This was real.
Somehow that was more terrifying.
His mind wandered—sluggish and drowsy but unable to fully let go. Back to Weasley. To the years she'd spent with him. The way they'd been together during training, inseparable, sharing meals, jokes, and everything else.
He'd watched them. Hated himself for watching them. But he couldn't help it.
Weasley had her. Had those Sunday mornings and late-night conversations and the casual intimacy of someone who knew her completely. Had the right to touch her, to make her laugh, to wake up next to her.
And he'd given it up.
Why?
Draco simply didn’t understand it. How could anyone have her and then choose to walk away?
She was unmatchable. Untouchable. Heaven on earth.
Weasley was a moron, they were all morons.
If Draco had her, even just a single tiny piece, he’d never let go.
He reached carefully for his wand on the nightstand. Whispered, "Nox."
The room plunged into darkness.
Better…Or worse. He couldn't decide.
Sleep. Just—sleep. You can do this. You've survived worse than this.
He hadn't, actually.
He focused on the darkness. The quiet. The rhythmic sound of her breathing.
Slowly—so slowly—his body began to settle. The exhaustion from the past two days catching up with him. The warmth of her against him becoming less about arousal and more about comfort.
His eyes grew heavy.
His breathing deepened.
The last thing he registered before sleep took him was the feeling of her in his arms and the quiet, desperate hope that when he woke up, she'd still be there.
*
48 hours later — 23:00 2nd November
He was sleeping peacefully.
Deeply. The kind of dreamless sleep he hadn't had in months.
Then, he woke with a jolt.
Confused. Disoriented. A hand had gripped him—his cock specifically—and was pushing.
He groaned. Totally involuntary. Loud in the dark room.
A little gasp.
Then the hand went still. Flew off him like it had been burned.
He felt Hermione stiffen next to him. Her entire body going rigid.
He came back to himself. Became acutely aware of her warm body pressed against him. Her back to his chest. That her hand had just been wrapped around him—reaching behind her—through his joggers.
That he was fully, painfully hard. Again.
"Sorry—I was just—I—" Her voice was small, panicked.
"Sorry—" His voice came out wrecked. "What were you—" He couldn't finish the sentence.
She stuttered over her words. "I was—there was something—poking me. In the back. And I was half-asleep and I just—I tried to move it—"
Oh god.
Oh god.
She'd been trying to move his erection out of the way like it was a—a misplaced pillow or something and instead she'd just—
He was going to die. Actually die. Right here in his bed.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I didn't—I wasn't thinking—I was asleep—"
"No—it's—" He pressed his face into the pillow behind her head.
Mortified. He was absolutely mortified.
They were both lying there in the dark, not moving, barely breathing, the silence stretching between them like a physical thing.
He couldn't see her face. Just the back of her head. The wild curls against his pillow.
Long seconds passed.
She was going to leave. He was a monster. She'd have him arrested. Reported. He'd wake up tomorrow to an official complaint from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Him and his stupid rock hard cock.
He should let her know it was okay to go. That he understood.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
"Sorry. I'm just in shock it's—I didn't think it could be—" she stuttered.
He squeezed his eyes closed. Tried to disappear into the pillows. Tried to will himself out of existence entirely.
"It's just…very large.” Her voice was barely a whisper now. “—In my medical opinion.”
His soul left his body.
Actually left. Was now floating somewhere down the hall. Possibly in the library. It definitely not here anymore because he had died of mortification and his corporeal form was simply too embarrassed to continue existing.
He opened his eyes. The sheets rustled as she turned to face him in the soft moonlight. Her soft angelic face watching him.
She kept talking, spluttering over her words. "Well I'd always imagined you'd be—" She stopped short. Realised what she was saying. "Well at the hospital I saw you had—Wait. Wait—what time is it?"
The question cut through the dark suddenly.
Draco started. Reached for his wand. Flicked it at the bedside lamp.
soft golden light flooded the room.
The clock read 23:17.
"Eleven seventeen," he muttered.
“Oh!” She shifted. Sat up properly still babbling. "It's time for your forty-eight hour check-up. I need to see that the wound has healed properly."
She moved. Knelt over him on the bed.
The absurdity of it, the immediate switch from nervousness to professionalism, pulled him out of his embarrassment.
"Merlin, you really are a healer at your core, aren't you?" He scoffed.
She tutted impatiently. "Yes. Now take your top off and lie back."
There was something in that clinical voice that made him bold.
“Why am I always the shirtless one? Seems rather unfair."
"Well I'm not the one taking hexes to the chest, am I?" She looked down at him. "What would make you more comfortable?"
He thought about it for a moment. "If you were shirtless too, I think that would be more agreeable."
She scoffed.
He didn't smile, just stared back blankly.
"You're serious?"
"I thought you took the needs of your patients seriously." He pouted.
"Fine." She huffed rolling her eyes.
She reached for the hem of the borrowed pyjama top. Started pulling it up. Paused with it around her ribs.
"Everything alright Doctor?” he asked.
She hovered a second longer. Mumbled something that sounded like "yep, fine" and pulled the top over her head.
His mouth went completely dry.
She was topless. Completely bare from the waist up. The pyjama bottoms slung low on her hips. Pert round breasts at attention in the cool room. A smattering of pretty freckles across her chest. Dusky pink nipples pebbled into points. Her hair spilling over her shoulders in wild ringlets everywhere he looked.
He couldn't stop looking. Drinking her in. Committing every detail to memory.
She shook herself. Her voice came out quiet and breathless despite the attempt at authority. "You know the drill. Arms above your head and shift the trousers down.”
He moved automatically, enthusiastically pushed the joggers down. Lower than at the hospital. The fabric tenting so aggressively from his erection that it lifted the waistband clean off his hips.
She was pretending not to notice.
Very professional for a topless witch.
He lay back. Pulled his arms over his head.
She leaned over him, her face pink and flushed, her bottom lip between her teeth. Her hands found the wound—now just a pale, thin, ghostly line.
The moment her fingers touched his skin he hissed. A sharp intake of breath.
His cock twitched violently beneath the joggers.
He saw her eyes flick down. Saw her throat work as she swallowed.
She licked her lips.
He groaned. Couldn't stop it.
"What's the verdict, doc?" he managed. "Will I live?"
"It's very nice work." Her fingers traced the scar. "It's healed beautifully."
"My healer's very good." He watched her face. "Especially with her hands."
She smiled faintly. Still looking at the wound. Testing the scar. She traced it with her hand, going lower and lower.
She paused at the base of the scar. Considering.
Then she looked at him.
"You're all clear."
"All clear for—" His voice was rough. "—all activity?"
She swallowed thickly, “Yes."
He became very aware of how quiet the room was, the only sound their shallow ragged breathing mingling in the quiet room.
He looked at her and she at him. Neither moved, both suspended in the moment.
He leant up on his elbows. Then slowly sat up. He reached out tentative hand and ran his thumb across her jaw, his eyes never leaving hers.
She shivered.
His hand trailed lower, exploring. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast.
She gasped.
He did it again. Watching her face. The way her eyes fluttered. Her lips parting.
"Draco—"
His hands cupped her breasts. Gentle. Testing their weight. His thumbs finding her nipples.
She made a sound. Small and desperate.
He circled them. Light touches that made her breathing quicken. Then his had was back at her jaw, brushing across her lips.
He pulled her down.
The kiss was everything. Desperate and hungry and years in the making. She gasped against his mouth and he swallowed the sound. Deepened the kiss. His hand sliding into her hair. Fisting in those wild curls.
She moaned.
The sound went straight to his cock.
Her hands were on him. Everywhere. His chest. His shoulders. His neck. Like she couldn't decide where to touch first.
He rolled. Flipped them so she was beneath him. Pressed her back into the mattress.
She arched up into him. Her bare chest against his. The sensation making them both gasp.
He broke the kiss. Looked down at her.
Hair spread across his pillow. Lips swollen. Chest heaving. Eyes dark with want.
Her hands were on him. Everywhere. His chest. His shoulders. His neck. Like she couldn't decide where to touch first.
He rolled. Flipped them so she was beneath him. Pressed her back into the mattress.
She arched up into him. Her bare chest against his. The sensation making them both gasp.
He broke the kiss. Looked down at her.
Hair spread across his pillow. Lips swollen. Chest heaving. Eyes dark with want.
"Your joggers—" she breathed. "They're in the way."
He looked down. At the fabric stretched tight over his erection.
"Take them off," she whispered.
"Only if you take yours off too."
Her eyes went darker.
She shimmed out of her pyjama bottoms. Kicked them off the bed.
Leaving nothing but a thin strip of black lace.
He stared.
Then pulled his joggers down. Kicked them away.
Completely bare now.
Her eyes dropped. Widened slightly.
He knelt above her. Drinking her in.
The black lace was tiny. Barely there. He could see the outline of her through it.
His hand moved. Traced down her stomach. Over her hip.
His thumb found the edge of the lace. Pressed gently.
She gasped. Her hips lifting slightly.
He did it again. More pressure this time.
Her breathing became gasping little pants.
He looked between her face and the black lace. Back and forth over and over.
He couldn't believe this actually was happening. He'd wanted this for so long. Since he could remember.
He was going to savour every second.
His thumb moved in slow circles. Pressing through the thin fabric.
She whimpered.
"Please—"
"Not yet." His voice was rough. "I need—I need a minute."
She reached up. Cupped his face.
"Kiss me."
He did. Deep and slow and thorough.
His thumb still moving. Still pressing.
She was rocking against it now. Small movements. Desperate.
He pulled back. Looked down.
The black lace was damp now. He could see the glisten of it. Could feel it under his hand.
"These are—" He hooked his fingers in the fabric. "—in my way."
"Then take them off."
"No." He pulled them to the side instead. Held them there. Stared.
She was glistening. Swollen and pink and perfect.
"Fuck," he breathed.
He was back on her mouth, kissing her deeply, trying to show her everything he couldn’t form words to say.
His hands roamed. Down her sides. Her hips. Her thighs.
He broke the kiss. Moved lower.
Kissed down her neck. Her collarbone. Between her breasts.
She was panting beneath him.
He took one nipple in his mouth. Sucked.
She arched up with a cry.
He lavished attention on it. Sucking. Licking. Tasting.
Then moved to the other.
Her hands were in his hair. Pulling. Not sure if she was pushing him away or pulling him closer.
He kissed down her stomach. Her hips. The crease of her thigh.
Then to where she was exposed.
His tongue flattening against her, feeling her pulse against his mouth.
She tasted sweet, tangy and hot. Delicious.
He groaned, tongue still against her. The vibration made her gasp.
"Draco—fuck—"
His hands pushed her thighs up. Folding her nearly in half. Opening her completely.
She whimpered.
He pulled back just enough to look at her face.
Her eyes were glazed. Her mouth open. Panting.
"Still with me?" he asked.
"Yes—don't stop—please don't stop—"
He grinned wolfishly. Then dove back in.
She bucked and whimped against his tongue legs hooking over his shoulders as he pulled her closer. When he couldn’t take the pressure building in him a second longer he rose up. Positioned himself between her legs.
He against her. Hot and hard. Then pushed in.
Slow. Inch by agonising inch.
Watching her face the whole time.
The way her mouth fell open. The gasp that escaped. The flutter of her eyelids as he filled her.
"Oh god—" she whimpered. "You're—so big—"
"I know." He gritted his teeth. Trying to go slow. To give her time. "You can take it."
"I don't know if—"
"You can." He pushed deeper. "You're doing so well. Taking me so perfectly."
She made a broken sound.
He was only halfway in.
"More?" he asked.
"Yes—" She wrapped her legs around his hips. Pulled him deeper. "All of it—I want all of it—"
He thrust forward.
Buried himself completely.
They both cried out.
"Fuck—Hermione—"
She was so tight around him. Hot and wet and clenching.
He stayed still. Giving her time to adjust. Fighting every instinct that screamed at him to move.
"Okay?" His voice was strained.
"Yes—" Her nails dug into his shoulders. "More— please—more!"
He pulled out. Almost all the way.
The slowly— agonisingly slowly— he pushed back in.
She let out a strangled sound.
He thrust into that spot in a slow rhythm. Over and over and over.
She was making sounds he'd never heard before. Desperate. Incoherent.
The feel of her tight around him was intoxicating. All consuming. Chasing the sensation took over and he lost himself in it.
"I used to think about you like this—" Thrust. "—spread out beneath me—" Thurst. "—taking my cock—"
"Oh fuck Draco—“
"In the shower—" Thrust. "—in my bed—" Thrust. "—every fucking night—"
She cried out. Clenching around him.
“Draco, don’t stop—more!”
He pulled out completely.
She made a desperate sound of protest.
"On your knees,"
She scrambled to obey. Still shaking.
He positioned himself behind her. One hand on her hip. The other between her shoulder blades.
Pushed her down. Until her chest was against the mattress. Her arse in the air.
"Fuck," he groaned at the sight. "Look. At. This.”
He lined himself up. Pushed in.
This angle was deeper. Tighter. She pulsed around him.
They both gasped.
He started moving. Still slow.
Each thrust making her cry out.
"I thought about you like this too—" Thrust. "—on your knees for me—"
She was shaking. Her arms giving out. Face pressed into the mattress.
He could feel her getting close again.
So he stopped.
Pulled out.
She made a frustrated sound. "No—please—"
"Turn over."
She did. Collapsed onto her back. Looking up at him with desperate eyes.
He kissed her. Deep and filthy. All tongue and teeth.
Then he grabbed her hips. Pulled her to the edge of the bed.
Stood. Positioned himself.
Pushed back in.
This angle hit something that made her scream.
"There—" she gasped. "Right there—don't stop—"
He thrust. Deep and hard now. Finally giving her what she needed.
Her hands clutched at the sheets. Her back arching.
He pounded into her. Relentless now. Fast.
Watching her face. The pleasure written across it.
"I've imagined this so many times—" he groaned. "—but nothing—fuck—nothing compares to the real thing—"
"I'm—oh god—I'm going to—"
"Not yet." He slowed again.
This couldn't end, he wouldn't let it.
"Please—" She was sobbing now. "Please let me—"
"One more." He pulled out. Threw himself onto the bed next to her, “I’ve imagined it and I have to know—I can't wait.”
“Draco I’m—I’m—” she protested as she turned to face him.
“Please. Ride me. Please.” he pleaded.
She let out a small sob as she positioned herself over him. Hand shaking she gripped him, lining him up with her entrance. He groaned head arching back into the pillows hands fisiting into the sheets above him.
She sank down slowly. Taking him inch by inch.
Her head fell back too. A long moan escaped her.
"That's it—" he groaned. “Fuck—perfect—”
She started moving. Riding him. Chasing her pleasure.
He watched. Mesmerised.
Her breasts bouncing. Her hair wild. Her face flushed, concentrated.
She was so loud now. Crying out with every movement.
"You're so beautiful like this—" he said. "So fucking perfect—"
His hands gripped her hips. Helping her move. Faster now.
She leaned into his chest, kissing his mouth, his neck whispering incoherently into his ear.
She was close, riding frantically.
He felt the moment she crashed over the edge clenching around him. Clenching so tight around him he saw stars.
Then he was coming too. Spilling inside her. Groaning her name as he clung to her.
She collapsed onto his chest. Both of them shaking. Gasping for air.
They lay tangled together for a long time, still joined. Sweaty and boneless.
She traced patterns on his chest. Idle circles.
The silence was comfortable. Easy. There was such comfort in the feel of being inside her as he softened.
"I have a confession," he said quietly.
"Mmm?"
"When I first saw you at the hospital—" He paused. Swallowed. "I thought I'd died."
She lifted her head. Looked at him.
"The blood loss. The shock. And then you—" His hand moved to her hair. Touched it gently. "The gold headband. The boots. You standing there glowing in that harsh white light." He met her eyes. "For one mad moment I thought you were an angel."
She made a soft sound.
"And I'm still not entirely sure I'm not dead," he continued. "This is all too good to be real."
Her eyes flicked between his. Searching his face.
Then she slowly leaned down.
Kissed him.
Soft. Sweet. Devastating.
When she pulled back, she whispered, "It's real."
He pulled her closer. Pressed his forehead against hers.
“Ok.” he breathed. The truth was he didn’t care either way, as long as he could keep her.
Then she bit her lip.
"I actually have a confession too."
"Yeah?"
"The Wonder Woman costume—" She wouldn't meet his eyes. "—it wasn't mine. It was borrowed from a friend for the party."
He waited.
"So I—" Her cheeks went pink. "I went out the next morning. Before my shift. To a muggle shop. And I bought one."
His brain stuttered.
"You what?"
"I bought the costume." She was scarlet now. "The same one. Red and blue and—everything. It's been in my bag ever since."
He went very still.
"That bag?" He pointed at the bag on the couch. "That bag right there?"
"Yes."
He sat up. Fast. Pulling her with him.
"Well what are we waiting for?" He was grinning now. "Put it on."
"Draco—"
"Hermione." He looked at her. Eyes dark with heat. "You're telling me you have that costume here. In this room. Right now. And you expect me to just—what? Go to sleep?"
She laughed. "We just—"
"I don't care." He was already pulling her up. "Put it on."
"You can't possibly be ready to—"
She looked down.
He was already half-hard again.
"Oh my god." She shook her head. Laughing. "You're insane."
"Completely." He kissed her. "Now put it on before I combust."
She rolled her eyes. But she was smiling as she slid off the bed and crossed to her bag.
Pulled out red and blue fabric.
He watched. Mesmerised.
As she pulled on the red bustier. The blue shorts with stars. The golden belt.
She turned to face him.
"Well?" She asked biting her lip, “What do you think?”
His mouth went dry.
She looked exactly like she had in the hospital. Except this time she was flushed. Her hair wilder. Her lips swollen from his kisses.
He was off the bed in seconds.
Crossed to her. Pulled her against him.
"I think—" He kissed her. Hard. "—I'm the luckiest bastard alive."