A/N: Just a quick note about word choice...
Unreasonable, and unreasonably by extension, has multiple definitions, one of which is "excessive, immoderate, or exorbitant". This is the meaning I wish to convey by my use of the word in one of the following scenes. I do NOT mean to imply that Hermione's reactions/feelings are "not reasonable or rational"- because they are completely understandable under the described circumstances - but rather that she feels that she is angrier than she ought to be.
I'm probably just being overly paranoid, but I felt that if I did not make that distinction clear that I would be opening myself up to flames.
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. ~ [ Symptom: Nightmare ] ~ .
"Did you read it?"
"Why? Are you afraid I'll find out what's running through that perverse little mind of yours?"
"You foul, lo–"
"Loathsome, evil, little cockroach," Malfoy says, finishing her insult for her in a poor imitation of her voice. "Yes, I've heard that one before. And just so you know, 'twitchy ferret' has gotten a bit stale as well. You really need some new material, Granger."
"That's my personal property!" Hermione says, reaching across the table to grab at the book in his hand.
He lifts it high above his head. "Then you shouldn't have left it out."
"I didn't leave it out, you wanker." Hermione stands to gain a height advantage, rushing at him. Unfortunately, she doesn't move around the table fast enough, and he also stands, putting her objective out of reach once again. Her hands go to her hips, and she glares at him, hatred burning in her dark eyes. "It was in my room, safely tucked away, and you know it."
"Was it, now?"
Hermione bristles with rage at his deflection and grabs him by the front of his shirt. "Do not make me strike you again, Malfoy."
"That threat," Draco says as he looks down his nose at her, leaning farther into her hold, "was much more effective when we were the same size."
"Oh?" she asks with feigned innocence. "Then surely this won't work."
The satisfaction Hermione feels at regaining her diary is made that much sweeter by the sight of Malfoy on the ground, crying out in pain and cursing her. It's not like she kneed him that hard. She's sure his balls will retract from his body.
Eventually.
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. ~ [ oOo ] ~ .
Hermione plucks one of the wild daisies charmed to bloom year-round in the field behind the cottage and sits down in the plush, equally enchanted grass. She rolls the stem between her thumb and forefinger, the bloom twirling around and around. The motion causes the white of the petals to blur together, and she is suddenly reminded of the ludicrous hair on Malfoy's stupid, pale head. She tears the petals off and throws the rest of the flower to the wayside.
After the results of last week's assignment, Hermione had thought that perhaps they had bonded on some rudimentary level, that maybe they could actually be friends. But it had been naive to think that way, of course. Looking back on it now, she realises the small moment they'd had must have just been an element in a scheme to get her to lower her guard. It's the only logical explanation.
The worst part is that it had worked. When she couldn't find her diary this morning, she hadn't even thought of blaming him. Her immediate thought had been that she'd misplaced it or that Tippers had put it away for her, not knowing where Hermione normally stored it. But all along, he'd had it. He'd watched her scour the house for it all day and hadn't said a thing until after dinner. Even then, it had only been to gloat. Hermione isn't sure whether she is angrier about him tricking her or that she'd been wrong about them being friends. She just knows that she is angry – completely, totally, and unreasonably angry.
But honestly?
The part that bothers her the most is she's not even sure it's really him with whom she's angry.
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. ~ [ oOo ] ~ .
Hermione knows something is off before she even opens her eyes. She's been feeling it for days, the fine edge on her nerves sharpening bit by bit as the date grows closer. Healer Cooke had warned her it might happen. The body sometimes remembers past traumas, reliving them year after year, in a manner similar to the aftershocks of an earthquake.
She rolls to her side and forces her eyes to open, groaning. Each muscle radiates with a dull, persistent pain, but she refuses to give in. Hermione Granger is a survivor, a stubborn one at that, and she is not going to let the past rob her of their victories, even if this is the anniversary of the worst day of her life. So she sits up and begins to stretch, doing her best to work the soreness out.
That's when she sees them.
There are a series of papers plastered across her walls. Each of the pieces displays a crudely drawn picture, creating what appears to be a comic strip of sorts. Upon closer inspection, she sees that there is a common theme depicted in the drawings: a bushy haired female chasing two terrified werewolves.
He did read it, she realises. That slimy little bastard.
Hermione wants to scream, but she knows that what Malfoy wants is a reaction from her. He might even be waiting outside her door now, eavesdropping. Instead of giving him the satisfaction of a grand scene, she calmly removes the offending things from her wall, putting them neatly away in a drawer. She'll just have to be content with seething inwardly.
The rest of the day is a challenge. Not only does she find his artwork everywhere she turns – in the bathroom, in the kitchen, in all of the closets – but he spends the bulk of the day hovering nearby, watching her every move and waiting for her to explode. It takes every bit of her willpower to not punch in his stupid, smirking face. It's difficult, yet somehow she manages to maintain her cool. Hermione supposes it's a good thing she chooses not to act on the impulse; she's not sure she would stop with just one slap this time.
After dinner, Hermione retires to her room early. It's been a long, draining day of pretending that she doesn't care, and she wants to be alone for what little is left of it. Besides, she has an assignment to work on, even if it's not due for another four days, and that's a better use of her time than further subjecting herself to Malfoy's presence.
This week Irene has asked Hermione and Draco to each write a letter to one person whom they felt had wronged them. She's been procrastinating, unsure whom to choose as her recipient. Most of the people who have persecuted her are either dead – Voldemort, Bellatrix, and others of their ilk – or friends whom she's long since forgiven, so she hasn't felt motivated to write to any of them. But today has given her an abundance of fresh material.
Hermione writes down her thoughts, the ink of her Muggle pen freely flowing, and then sets the paper on the nightstand.
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. ~ [ oOo ] ~ .
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"Wake up!"
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She can feel warm hands wrapped around her biceps, shaking her, but the sensation is vague, dreamlike, and she is unable to identify the source.
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"Is the missy being all right, Mister Draco?"
"I don't know. I just– I think it's just a nightmare, but I'm not sure. Granger, wake up, dammit!"
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A sound echoes through her mind and though she recognises it, Hermione can't place it at first. Something isn't adding up, doesn't quite fit, but it's so hard to tell exactly what it is because all her attention is fixed on the accursed agony currently burning through every cell of her body. She focuses her mind as best she can, trying to ignore the fear that a demented, high-pitched cackle strikes in her, and when the sound becomes words, she realises that it is Malfoy.
But that can't be right, her mind screams. He's supposed to be a silent observer.
That bit of incongruity grounds her, and she begins to remember. It is all over – the torture, the battle, the war – and this scene is just a dream, regardless of how real it feels. Hermione can still hear him, the panic in his voice as he demands for her to wake up, and she does her best to listen.
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"But the missy's burning up and the shaking is getting worser, too. What do we's do, Mister Draco? She's gonna hurts herself."
"Shit… I know what this is. I can't believe I didn't realise it before."
"What's is it? How can we's be helping the missy?"
"Tippers, I need you to get Irene. Tell her that Hermione needs a strong Pain-relief potion and some Draught of Dreamless Sleep. Hurry."
"Yes, yes. I's go right now."
"Come on, Granger, tell Aunt Bella to fuck off already. The anniversary celebration is over and you need to wake up."
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Hermione tries to open her eyes, but they feel so heavy. After a couple attempts, she finally manages to rouse from sleep, but her perception is still muddled. Her body jerks with involuntary tremors and her nerve endings feel as though they are on fire. It's a side effect of her trauma-induced nightmare, she's certain of at least that much; it's not the first time she's woken up in this state, it just hasn't been this severe in a long time.
The pain doesn't recede, but she gradually comes to her senses. She realises that she's in her room at the cottage, laying in her bed. A stray piece of her hair, wild from her restless sleep, falls into her eyes. Hermione lifts a weak hand with the intent to sweep the strand away, but to her surprise something is holding her limbs tightly against her sides.
A warm exhale brushes the side of her neck. "Took you long enough."
"Malfoy?" Hermione whispers, bewildered by the situation she finds herself in. Laying on her side with her back to his chest, she can feel the uneven cadence of his breathing. His arms are wrapped around her middle, pinning her own arms down, and her legs are bracketed by his sturdy ones. It's surreal how intimately entwined they are, and if she wasn't so spent, she'd probably throttle him for taking liberties with her while she slept. "What are you–?"
"Get your mind out of the gutter," he says, the words an exhausted mutter. "You were thrashing all over. Really, you should be thanking me. I could've just watched as you damaged yourself."
"Why didn't you?" she asks, her curiosity getting the best of her. At her words, he goes silent and she can feel his muscles tense all around her. But she needs to keep talking, needs to keep her mind occupied; it's the only way the throbbing pain is tolerable. So, after a minute or so passes and he still doesn't speak up, Hermione prods at him. "No snappy comeback, Malfoy? I'm disappointed."
"You were screaming." Draco sighs, and his breath washes over her neck again. "Look, I wasn't lying before. Living with the Dark Lord, with Voldemort, was– You'd be surprised how much a person can lock away, the atrocities they can see, that they can commit, and still manage to live with themselves. Even if they have a conscious.
"But the thing about a conscious is that, eventually, you run out of room to hide those things. One day, one of those terrible things will be too much and the guilt will gnaw its way out. That night in the drawing room... every scream was a fucking judgment against me. I couldn't do anything." His breath falters, hitching tight in his chest, and she can feel a spot dampness spread across the shoulder of her nightgown. "I never could do anything."
"I didn't even think about what it was like for you," Hermione says, her voice low and hushed. A minute or so passes as she absorbs his words, but then she swallows her pride and places a shaky hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Thank you, Draco."
"Shit, Granger. Don't go all mushy on me now."
"Never." Hermione smiles, feeling the lightest she's felt in a long, long time. By speaking of his fears, Malfoy has given her something precious – the knowledge that she is not alone. "Let me show you something."
"Fine, but it better be good."
"Oh, trust me, it is. But um, Malfoy?" Hermione shifts in his hold. "You have to let me loose first."
He lets her go immediately and sits up, leaning his back against the headboard. Hermione slowly rolls over to look at him, and she sees a faint blush dusting his saline-streaked cheeks. The sight is unexpected, though surprisingly pleasing, and she can't help but let her smile grow.
"What?" he gruffly asks.
She just shakes her head gently and points. "Take that sheet on the table, would you?"
"What is it?"
"My assignment, of course. Read it."
"You've got to be joking."
"Just read the fucking letter, Malfoy."
"Such language!"
"Malfoy."
"Fine," he says, grabbing up the paper. "Dear Malfoy – really? You couldn't find anyone, anyone at all in the whole wide world, better to find fault with?" She elbows him in the meat of his leg, hard, in spite of her pained and fatigued muscles. "Dammit, Granger, there's no need to get violent. I'll leave off with the commentary, alright?"
"Wise choice."
He rolls his eyes and starts over.
"Dear Malfoy. Over the years, you have insulted my heritage, my looks, my personality, my intelligence, and my friends. You've even spoken flippantly about the prospect of my death. But honestly, I don't care about any of these things. These were the actions an arrogant, prejudiced, entitled brat, and as such, I did not allow myself to dwell on them.
"What I do care about is that now, as an adult, you have betrayed my trust. You stole – and read, I might add – my diary, using what you found inside to mock me. You covered my walls in terribly drawn pictures, wasting my own supplies in an attempt to torment me, when what I really needed was someone to talk to. So in short, you, Draco Malfoy, are a rubbish friend. Sincerely, Hermione Jean Granger."
Draco coughs, a poor attempt to hide his chuckle. "Someone's a bit melodramatic."
"If I were to grade you on that assignment," Irene interrupts them, holding up a couple of small potion bottles, "I would give you full marks. How are you feeling?"
"Terrible," Hermione confesses, "but I'll live."
"I think I've got something that'll help the pain." Irene helps Hermione into a sitting position and gives her one of the vials, placing the other on the nightstand. "Take the other one when you're ready to sleep."
The pain starts to fade almost immediately after she drinks the potion, and Hermione sighs in relief. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. It was all Mr. Malfoy's doing."
"And that's my cue to leave," Draco says, carefully getting off the bed, making sure not to jostle Hermione in any way. "I've already put up with enough sappiness for the day."
He's almost out the door when Irene stops him. "Have you done your assignment yet?"
Draco leans against the doorjamb, wearing a neutral expression. "Yeah."
"Who did you choose to write to?"
He walks away, throwing the answer over his shoulder. "Myself."
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. ~ [ Symptom: Increased Emotional Arousal ] ~ .
The late afternoon sun shines through the window, casting the shadows of the nearby trees onto the floor. It's quiet in the cottage, with only an occasional strong gust of wind to break the silence. Draco makes his way downstairs with intent of enjoying the fresh air outside, but when he reaches the sitting room, he forgets his plan.
Hermione is sprawled on her back across the sofa, asleep. One slender arm rests comfortably on her belly, while the other hangs off of the edge, her fingers nearly touching the floor. Her chest rises and falls, while her gentle breathing ruffles the edges of the unruly hair that frames her face. Her diary lays open on the floor, a couple of the pages wrinkled from the fall, and her Muggle pen has rolled under the large piece of furniture. The scene is peaceful, and the contrast between this one and the one he witnessed just the other night makes his chest ache. He never wants to see her in that dreadful state again.
Draco has been warring with himself for the past few days. For no discernable reason, he now has the overwhelming urge to be close to her, to the point that he actively seeks out her company. She doesn't seem to mind, seems to reciprocate in fact, and that encourages his fascination all the more. He finds himself looking for ways to touch her – a light stroke of his fingers as he hands her something or a brush of their shoulders as they read together on the sofa – and is surprised when she doesn't recoil.
Even when he is not with her, his head is filled with thoughts of her: of how her hair had tickled his nose with its sweet scent and how right she had felt in his arms. Merlin, she's even been haunting his dreams. It hasn't been the usual nightmares either, but rather scenes of a more sensual nature.
All of this is doing strange things to his head and, even more distressing, his body. He becomes unreasonably warm whenever they're together in the same room, and sometimes if she looks at him just right, he gets completely tongue-tied. At the sight of her, his heart starts to pound, its rhythm abnormally frantic, and the sound of her voice causes his breathing to become laboured. If he didn't know better, he'd say he was falling ill. But he does know better, and the thing that baffles him is that he's never really found her attractive.
Well, maybe at the Yule Ball in that stunning blue number, he admits, though he wouldn't have before this therapy session, not even under the threat of the Cruciatus Curse. But she'd pretty much had that effect on everyone, so it doesn't count.
Hermione is plain, pushy, and self-righteous. Not to mention her nagging is worse than a Banshee's scream. And if some of the rumours he has heard are to be believed – trapping someone in their Animagus form for months and permanently scarring traitors – she has a vindictive streak to rival nearly any Death Eater. He knows all these things, has been on the receiving end of her ire many times, and yet he finds himself drawn to her.
Draco shakes his head, trying to rid himself of these wayward thoughts, and picks up her diary. He is about to close it, without reading it this time, but he sees his name on the open page and can't help but take a look. It's her fault, really. Hermione should know better by now than to leave sensitive information unguarded around him. She's practically begging him to do it.
He skims the page quickly, before she can wake up and catch him red-handed, and his mischievous grin shifts into something more contemplative. It's her last weekly assignment and, as per Irene's instruction, it catalogues what Hermione believes are Draco's positive traits. Its contents are not necessarily what he would have expected, and what she has written does nothing to dissuade his growing feelings for her. It builds them up, in fact.
And that's when Draco Malfoy realises that he is well and truly fucked.
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. ~ [ oOo ] ~ .
"We haven't finished our assignment and yet here you are, hiding in the kitchen," Draco says, teasing her as he lingers in the doorway. "You disappoint me, Granger."
The week is nearly over, and so far it has been a rather quiet one. The lack of external conflicts – dreams instead of nightmares, friendly banter instead of a clashing of wills – has given Draco ample time to sort out his internal ones. And, as what tends to happen when left to make his own choices, his decision heavily favours his own wants, rather than what social protocol dictates. The only person who has ever been able to persuade him otherwise, who could force him to take the bigger picture into account, is his father. But Draco is tired of conforming his life to another's will; Lucius' guidance has brought their family nothing but misfortune, something that his son is not eager to repeat.
Draco Abraxas Malfoy wants to pursue a relationship with Hermione Jean Granger, if she doesn't hex his bits off for even suggesting it, and in this new world he is at liberty to do so. Anyone still clinging to the old ways, the ideals that nearly tore the wizarding world apart, can just sod off. All he needs now is to find the courage to bring up the subject with the maiden in question.
"For your information, I have completed my part of the assignment." Hermione lifts her head to glare at him, momentarily forgetting her work. "And I'm not hiding. I'm making cupcakes."
"Cupcakes?" he asks, dubious, and moves to stand next to her. "You can bake?
"Yes, cupcakes. And yes, I can bake," Hermione says as she goes back to her task. "Tomorrow we get to go home, so I thought a celebration was in order."
Draco leans his hip against the countertop and shifts closer, inspecting the mixture in her bowl. "Itching to get rid of me, I see."
"That's not what I meant and you know it." Hermione points the icing-covered spoon at his nose. "Stop twisting my words."
"Fine," he says, wrapping a hand around her wrist and gently guiding the utensil away from his face. His fingertips linger just a bit, dragging across her warm skin, and when he lets go there is a hint of pink in her cheeks. "Let's just get this assignment over with. Irene sent our wands to Tippers this morning, you know, and the little imp won't hand them over until she's satisfied that we've done our work. She's got some kind of Shielding Spell around them, too."
"And the 'Great' Draco Malfoy couldn't get past a bit of elf-magic?"
"You think I'm great, do you?"
"Actually, I think you're ridiculous."
"Now, now, Granger. That is not a positive trait." Draco shakes his head, clucking his tongue. "Someone is not following the instructions we were given."
"Oh please." She scoffs. "As if you ever do what you're supposed to do."
"You are stubborn, even in the face of adversity."
Hermione sets her bowl down, her brows knit together in confusion. "What?"
"You heard what I said."
"Yes, I did," she admits, "but I don't understand why you said it."
"I'm doing what I'm supposed to for once and proving you wrong in the process." Draco crosses his arms, smug. "Now it's your turn. Come on, say something nice about me."
She faces him with an overly-sweet smile. "You are adept at hiding your deceitful intentions."
"I think the phrase you are looking for is" – he steps into her personal space, looks her directly in the eye, and smirks – "able to adapt according to the company kept."
Draco knows he shouldn't provoke her, but she's challenging him, daring him to try to beat her, and that fiery disposition appeals to his competitive nature.
"You!" Her saccharine expression drops as the implications of his statement become clear. "Again with my diary! I can't believe you –"
Hermione never finishes her thought. Instead, she retaliates by grabbing the bowl of icing and dumping it on his head. It makes a squelching noise as it comes into contact with his hair, dripping the sticky pink mixture down his face and neck. Draco lifts the metal mixing bowl off of his head, stares her dead in the eyes, and drops it. With a great clatter, the rest of the icing splatters across the floor, much of it landing across Hermione's feet. He can feel it begin to ooze down his back and chest, some even sliding under the collar of his shirt, and he knows he must look completely absurd.
Her hands come up to cover her mouth and her shoulders begin to shake, but there is no hiding the laughter she is struggling to contain. It bubbles up from her chest, and soon the kitchen is filled with her mirth.
"Now you've done it, witch," Draco warns as he clears the excess icing out of his eyes.
His tone, paired with his devious grin, has Hermione slowly backing away. "We can talk about this, can't we?"
He grabs a handful of pink from the top of his head. "I'm afraid not, Granger."
"Come now, Malfoy. Let's not do anything rash," she says, her hands raised in supplication while her gaze darts about, looking for possible escape routes.
"Oh, it's bit late for that." He shakes the hand holding the glob of icing, staring her down. "Wouldn't you say?"
Draco lunges towards her and she darts to the side, trying to get past him and through the door. But he is too quick for her. He catches her arm, pulling her into his side, and smears the contents of his hand into the crown of her head. Not to be outdone by him, Hermione quickly snatches up some of what had spilt onto her feet and rubs it across his cheek.
It becomes an all out war, a shifting mass of pink ammunition flying through the air. They continue with their complicated choreography of evasive manoeuvres and sneak attacks, punctuated by laughs, shrieks and epithets, until the icing starts to set, hardening like a shell on their skin and clothing. By the end of the battle, she has managed to get nearly a dozen good hits on him. But his score is better by half, gaining him the victory.
Hermione collapses on the floor and rests her back against the kitchen cabinetry. Draco sits down next to her, and after a moment in which they both collect their breath, she nudges him with her shoulder. "We're a mess, aren't we?"
"Yeah," he says, his tone now soft and serious. He can hear the double meaning laced through her words, the questions about their sanity. "But eventually, we'll get ourselves all cleaned up."
She looks at him, her brown eyes thoughtful, and she takes his sugar covered hand in her own. "You really think so?"
"Of course," Draco answers with confidence. Then, as if he's imparting a great secret, he leans to speak directly into her ear. "You're Hermione Granger and the way I hear it, there's nothing you can't do."
Hermione's breath falters for a moment, her inhale slow and shuddering, and at this distance he can see her surprise in the subtle dilation of her pupils. She smiles slyly and closes the short distance between, kissing him on the cheek. Then she tilts her head slightly, studying his face for a reaction.
Draco's heart dances in his chest, and his mouth goes dry. Her action, that brief press of her lips, has brought him to a precipice, and he has the feeling that his decision now, whether to withdraw or leap, will determine much about what will happen in his coming days. She has given him the perfect opportunity to test the waters, to see if his selfish desires are shared. But that course of action risks alienating him from the only people he still has left. It gives him pause for just a moment, but then he looks in her warm, brown eyes and at her full, pink lips, and he realises he just doesn't care. With an audible gulp, he leaps.
Draco brushes the pad of his thumb across her cheek, dislodging a chunk of sugary pink, and curls his fingers around the nape of her neck. She is covered in goop from head to toe, clothes mussed and face dirty, and her hair is a frizz of wild tangles. But none of that matters. For the first time since fourth-year, he thinks she is unequivocally beautiful. Instinct has him pulling her close, chest to chest, but Hermione places a trembling hand between them. Just as he's about to retreat, horrified that he has so misread the situation, her eyelids flutter shut and she presses her lips to his.
Her kiss is tender, weighted with emotions that he does not expect and knows he doesn't deserve. It sends a jolt through his body, and he returns the kiss with fervour. She gasps at his enthusiastic response, and he takes the opportunity to pull her bottom lip into his mouth, gently suckling the sweetness from it. In return, she swipes her tongue across the sensitive flesh of his upper lip, and he moans into her mouth.
I've been a bloody fool, he thinks. Wasting my time fighting with her when we could have been doing this instead.
Her fingers fist around the fabric of his shirt, bringing him back to the present, and his free hand moves to trace up and down the length of her spine. Draco opens his mouth to her prodding, letting her capture his tongue without reservation. It is a perfect moment between two imperfect people, and he can't help but think that this is the instant in which his life will truly begin. Cupping her face in his hands, he claims her lips once more, transferring every last bit of his affection for her into the action. It's only when his lungs begin to burn from lack of oxygen that he releases her lips, giving them one last nip. Then he rests his forehead against hers, brow to brow, in contentment.
"That was just… wow," she whispers, her panting warm across his face.
Draco chuckles, the sound rough as he catches his breath. "So, want to have another go?"
"Definitely, yes."
"Are you sure about this? What about your friends?"
"Well, what about them?" Hermione asks, her expression equal part stubborn and confident. "I'm quite capable of making my own decisions."
Her answer leaves him feeling relieved, and he returns her quip with one of his own. "Yes, I suppose you are."
"And you? Are you sure?" She bites her lip nervously and her eyes shift downwards. "I mean, your family–"
"Will get over it." Draco finishes for her. "My mum saved Potter for my sake. She can love you for my sake as well."
"And your father?"
"He's got a long time left in Azkaban to get used to the idea." He pulls her close once again, placing a quick peck on her lips, and grins. "That's enough of the serious stuff for now. Let's track down Tippers and get our wands back, yeah?"
"Please. I do not want to clean this up the Muggle way."
"I don't fancy you doing that either." Draco stands, holding out his hand for her. Hermione takes it and he pulls her to her feet, steadying her with an arm around her waist. "You'll take too long and it will cut into our snogging time."
She slaps his arm and narrows her eyes. "There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don't even know where to begin."
"What? These hands were not made for menial work, and you know that you're dying to have your lips on my delectable ones again." He tips her chin up and smirks at her defiant mien. "Admit it, Granger. I'm right."
Hermione lifts up on her tiptoes, and for a moment he thinks she might kiss him again. But then, her hand slides across his mouth, smearing it with a glob of half-set icing. Twisting out of his arms, she runs for the next room, laughing as she goes. "Never!"
Draco wipes off the evidence of her attack and begins to stalk his prey.
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. ~ [ oOo ] ~ .
Three hours later, they flop down on the sitting room sofa, exhausted and cupcake-less.
After chasing each other through the cottage most of the afternoon, leaving lumps of pink icing in their wake, they had finally turned in their assignments to Tippers and retrieved their wands. Much to Draco's chagrin, Hermione had insisted that they clean up all the detritus left behind by their battle and pack in preparation for their early morning departure before any more pleasurable activities could be indulged. By the time all the necessities had been completed, they'd had little energy for baking or, more worryingly, snogging.
Though in all honesty, he's not too terribly put out. He's just changed the timeline of his goal; they'll be refreshed enough in the morning to have a go at round two before they have to meet with Irene. Content with his new master plan, Draco puts his arm around her, and Hermione curls into his side with a contented sigh. His eyelids begin to droop, his mind soothed by the scent of her freshly-washed hair, and one last thought crosses his mind before sleep finds him.
I could get used to this.
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. ~ [ Completion ] ~ .
Irene leans back in her chair, the squeak of the wood overly loud in the comfortable silence of the room, and smiles.
To her right, Draco Malfoy is examining his nails and trying very hard to appear indifferent. She knows otherwise, though. The set of his shoulders is relaxed, and there is a telling curve to his lips, the beginnings of a cheery grin that he tries to control with very little success, which speaks of an underlying happiness.
On her left, Hermione Granger has been wavering between two courses of action. At the moment, she is smiling as she looks at Irene, her eyes warm with the glow of contentment. But just seconds prior, she had been watching young Mr. Malfoy in her periphery, trying to keep her interest in him discreet. When he caught her gaze, Miss Granger had blushed most ferociously before turning away. At his amused chuckle, she had lightly smacked his arm.
Interesting.
"Tippers made sure I received your final assignments, and I have to say, I'm impressed," Irene says. "I am also pleased to note that not only have the two of you managed not to kill each other, but you have both made significant progress with your mental health. I am satisfied that you now have the positive coping mechanisms you need to maintain and further your healing on your own. Congratulations on the completion of phase one of your therapy."
She hands each of them an envelope and continues.
"Inside you will find your release papers. But," Irene's bright voice turns mockingly stern as she continues, "if I find out that either of you have been causing trouble, I will consider the incident a relapse and, as your Mind Healer, I will alert the proper authorities. I'm sure they won't be so lenient with you a second time. They're liable to put the two of you in a shared Azkaban cell, or worse."
"Is there even anything worse?" Hermione asks. "I can't think of anything."
"I can think of a few things," Draco says, his voice filled with dry sarcasm.
"Oh really." She raises an eyebrow in challenge and crosses her arms. "What exactly are you trying to say, Malfoy?"
"I don't know, Granger. Why don't you tell me?"
"All I know is that you are an insufferable sod." Hermione throws her hands in the air. "Why do I even bother?"
Draco leans over the arm of his chair, his lips nearly grazing her ear, and whispers. "Because you like me."
Hermione sputters and goes red, but doesn't refute the statement. Draco settles back into his former position, and a smug smirk stretches across his face.
"Well, if there are no further issues to be discussed, you two are dismissed." Irene stands and walks around her desk, reaching out her hand, first to Hermione and then to Draco. They also stand and after a few hearty shakes, she continues. "It's been a pleasure working with you. Now go, enjoy your lives."
"Thank you, Irene." Draco nods his head and moves to wait by the door.
"Yes, thank you," Hermione says, her eyes glossed with the tears she is holding back as she hugs Irene tightly. "And we will. Enjoy our lives, that is."
Then the young woman goes to the young man, and hand in hand they walk out of the Healer's office.
"That ended well. Don't you think, Tippers?"
In the corner of the room, the shape of a female house-elf gradually becomes visible. When the elf-magic that had kept her hidden dissipates completely, the little creature steps forward, smiling. "Oh yes, Missy Irene. They's seeming very happy now."
"That is the most important thing, after all. But they were rather entertaining, weren't they?" Irene sighs wistfully. "I think I'm going to miss them."
"They's was very fun," Tippers says, nodding her agreement. "I likes being your's eyes and ears."
"And I appreciate your help. Now, all that's left is to extract the information for storing to their files." Irene picks up the crystal paperweight and taps her wand against it. It begins to glow, emitting a soft white light, and images begin to drift to the surface of the globe, each of them from Tippers' perspective. The Healer uses her wand to direct them to a series of vials, which are stationed on the bookcase behind her desk. "Do you think they suspected that we were recording them?"
"Oh no. Not at all, Missy Irene." Tippers shakes her head emphatically. "They's doesn't know I's connected to the crystal ball. I was very, very sneaky."
"Good. Now, my darling," Irene says as she rubs her hands together, a wicked glint in her eyes as she faces her partner, "is there anything you'd like to watch once more, before I put these all away?"
"Can we's watch the kissy?" Tippers jumps up and down excitedly. "It was being perfectly lovely."
"I thought you'd never ask."
.
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