Chapter 63
Friday 21 March 2003: PM
Blaise hustles to keep pace with the blur of motion that is Gus Gilmont, as they race to the Ministry's Records Room. Despite his mind being primarily consumed with terror for his friends – and his towering rage for McLaggen – Blaise appreciates Gus's blurring speed and grace, as her tall, strong form dashes through the building. For the aesthetics... but also because she's sexy as hell and seems to have zero awareness of it.
Gus turns at the locked door of the Records Room, catching Blaise mid-admiring glance. Uh-oh.
"You alright?" she brusquely asks, not bothering for his reply as she whips out her Auror badge and points it at the keyhole, rattling off her identification and immediately barging through the portal. "Follow me – if you can't keep up, stay out of my way, OK?".
"Got it." Blaise doesn't bother defending himself, aware that time is of the essence. He attempts to push aside his dread for the girls. They'll be OK – they're smart, brave, powerful witches – and Draco would move heaven and earth to keep them both safe–
"Zabini! No wool-gathering, you can do that on your own time. Listen - you take the "Ts" cabinet – I work with these people and I have little confidence in their ability to file correctly; this document is just as likely to be under 'Tiberius' as is it 'McLaggen'," Gus dryly instructs. "Holler if you find it – and don't worry so: it's a useless emotion right now."
Damn, she's prickly. Why is that so hot? I've obviously wasted far too much of my time with simpering females. Blaise nods, quickly rifling through the huge filing cabinet as Gus does the same with the 'M' cupboard at the head of the previous row.
Harry was right when he said Gus is skilled at rapidly processing information – she's already zipped through three drawers, compared to my plodding single. Well, better to make certain I've checked thoroughly; missing locating the address due to fumbled haste could be catastrophic. Blaise thumbs through the file tags as fast as he dares.
"Got it!" Gus crows in triumph. "Some dipshit shoved in in the 'M-os' – but this is definitely it." She speedily scans the multi-parchment will and testament, brows furrowing as her finger slides down the pages. "Blah blah blah… Gringotts account… primary residence in Islington… collection of antique teaspoons – kinky… twelve stuffed owls – yuck… YES! 'To my sole heir, Cormac Houkin McLaggen, I bequeath my hunting lodge situated at 78 Spinney Road, Ampton' – bingo!".
Gus spins on her heel, grinning jubilantly. "Hurry up, Blaise! We've got to tell Harry," she brushes past him urgently on her way back out the door, either not realizing or noticing that she's used his Christian name for the first time.
Blaise lets the silly grin on his face linger for a few seconds, though he vanishes it entirely as Gus hollers, "Get a wriggle on, I need to relock this room – stat." Shoving the rolled-up parchment deep into her pocket, she reaches out as though to yank him the last few feet, but drops her hand to her side as his long strides easily propel him out the door.
"Well? What are you waiting for?" Blaise cannot resist the little dig as Gus side-eyes him after securing the Records Room. "Race you?" he pertly challenges.
Gus scoffs. "That's hardly fair, is it?"
"I'd better give you a head start!" they exchange startled glances after speaking the sentence in perfect unison.
Recovering first, Gus picks up the skirts of her ruby-red formal Auror robes and streaks down the hallway toward the elevator bank. The funny little daisy stuck in the top of her braided dark caramel coronet bobs precariously as she sprints just ahead of Blaise.
Adorable… just like the faint, chuffing giggles that slip from her, every few steps. Blaise hears himself chuckling as he dashes behind in hot pursuit. He momentarily considers letting her win, but decides Gus would not appreciate it – and would likely hex him for sexist conduct. They are neck-and-neck as the elevators come in sight, both heaving deep breaths.
Flinging himself inside the nearest lift, Blaise laughs outright at Gussie's peeved, disbelieving expression at his victory (though she hides her face by aggressively punching at the appropriate buttons to return them to the Atrium).
"You did well – there's no shame in coming second, you know," Blaise patronizes, cackling as Gus's head whips around in outrage. "Or so I've heard."
"Did it cost extra?" Gus acerbically enquires. "Having to widen your doorways to fit your monstrously fat head through them, I mean?". She hums snidely, polishing her short nails on her sleeve in a display of studied disinterest.
"Tsk, tsk… I never took you for a sore loser, Gu– Auror Gilmont," Blaise teases. "And I assure you – the only thing I needed to have custom-made in my home was my huge bed."
The recurring image he has lately been obsessed with – that of a gloriously nude Gussie spread out on said bed, languidly beckoning at him to join her – flashes through Blaise's mind as he utters the unplanned retort. Oops.
He is immensely grateful Gus isn't given time to react (beyond her parted mouth and wide eyes), as the elevator swings to a stop.
"After you," Blaise nods, risking a light, directing touch to her shoulder blade. Gus darts out of the blocks like an Olympic athlete.
Blaise shakes his head, hoping to clear the residual fuzziness caused by Gus's proximity, before he too jogs back to their waiting group.
You've had infatuations for witches before – OK, mild fixations on engaging in consensual, fun sex with them – just let this go, she's already told you she isn't interested, Blaise reminds himself. He valiantly looks away for half a second before his dark eyes return to the enticing movements of her generous arse and thighs.
I could be in trouble here, he sighs quietly.
Scratch that – I believe I've met my match – and she already knows she's too good for me.
Shit.
Saturday 22 March 2003: AM
"Gilmont – you did a great job tonight. I'm very proud to have you on my team." Harry firmly shakes Gus's hand, smiling as he adds, "Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes asked me to pass on his appreciation, too. Is Faulkner still taking statements from McLaggen's table?".
"Yes, sir – and we located McLaggen's Gala date in a locked cubicle in the men's toilets. He appears to have Stunned her in a hurry when he realized Miss Parkinson was vulnerable; the young woman is groggy, but otherwise unharmed," Gus speaks composedly, despite her blush at Harry's praise. "We've sent her to the Healer, just to be on the safe side. She seems more angry than distressed – apparently McLaggen promised her 'a night to remember'," Gus wryly informs.
"Ever the wanker," Harry mutters. "Alright, I'll head to the ballroom now. Thank you also for organizing the Mediwitch so promptly – Miss Parkinson has assured me her injuries are not serious."
Gus wonders if her boss is even vaguely aware of how his whole face lights up just from speaking Pansy's name. She covers her smile with her hand; not that Potter would have noticed it, since his eyes remain dreamily unfocused behind his spectacles.
"Sir? Shall we head there now?" she prompts.
"Hmmm… what? No, no, " Harry waves off the suggestion. "You go home, Gilmont – you've done more than your share. No, I insist," he appends, as Gus prepares to object. "And don't return until you receive an owl from me, possibly tomorrow afternoon."
"Very good, sir," Gus reluctantly agrees. "Goodnight."
"'Night, Gilmont. Oh, Blaise – Hermione sent me a message, all the elves are staying the night at their place, we're invited for brunch at eleven. You should come along, too," Harry turns to Gus.
"Oh, no – that wouldn't be appropriate, sir. And I have – prior commitments. Thank you." Gus wonders idly why Blaise has stiffened at her words, his full-lipped mouth flattening. Nodding, she walks through the door Zabini is already holding open.
He falls into step beside her, silently keeping pace. The warmth of his body radiates to her, despite the respectable distance he is maintaining.
"You don't have to walk me out, Zabini – I'm an Auror, in case that fact has somehow eluded your notice," Gus points out, battling a yawn.
Blaise grins unrepentantly. "Who says you're not seeing me safely off the premises? I've had a trying night, you know," he huffs, keeping his handsome face perfectly blank. "It's about time the Ministry gave appropriate security detail to one of its most valued and productive assets," he sniffs, humour infusing his deliberately pompous, deep tones.
His ego's bigger than Jupiter – but I like that he can laugh at himself, Gus reflects, before she ruthlessly quells that admiring train of thought. They've reached the elevators; she half-turns to reply.
"On that – you didn't have to dog my footsteps all night, Zabini," Gus makes the tactical error of looking up at him. His comely jet eyes hold her own captive as the expression within shifts from laughing to intense.
"I wanted to help – and I wanted to spend more time with you," Blaise softly admits. "Please – I'm not saying this with any self-serving intent – I really enjoy being around you, Gu– Auror Gilmont." He carefully paces one step closer; Gus has to sink her hands into her pockets to stifle the urge to yank him as close as possible. She doesn't trust herself to speak.
"I know that I don't really know you – and I realize that you think me a rich, egotistical, spoiled womanizer – but I just want to say… I think you're amazing." Blaise shrugs nervously.
"You're smart, and strong, and fierce – the way you protected Wirey, the night that Theo was hauled in – and when you Stunned Bones – I mean, when your wand misfired," he hastily amends, rubbing at the back of his muscular neck.
"It was crass of me, trying to ask you out like I did – you were right about that – I'd kind of forgotten all about Daphne – shit, that doesn't paint me in a good light…" Blaise ruefully laughs.
"I promise, I'm not going to come onto you again… I just want you to know – because I get the distinct impression you don't hear it anywhere near often enough – you're beautiful, inside and out, Auror Gilmont. Thanks for putting up with me – and I can never thank you enough for helping to save my friends." His mien is both solemn and earnest, his beautiful, thickly-lashed eyes never leaving her face.
Well, fu– fudge, Gus reigns in her inner swear bear as she remembers she is trying to set a good example for Tavi. Imagine the damage Zabini could do if he were actually trying to seduce me. How am I supposed to respond to this genuine… niceness?
"Gus – you may as well call me Gus," she blurts out, cheeks heating. "And– um– thanks – for the– for the scallops, they were yummy– I gotta– I gotta go– " she whirls, pulling out her hands from her pockets as she jumps in an elevator and presses the Atrium button. The noise of the gate masks the sound of her Auror badge falling from her pocket to the carpeted floor just outside the lift.
"Gus– wait– " Blaise stoops, but the elevator whisks her away before he can complete his sentence. Once she is certain she is out of view, Gus lets a thrilled, flattered smile suffuse her features, before her stern, pragmatic side takes over.
Settle down – he's a practised flirt, and you've zero experience with men – literally. Just because he's funny, and unexpectedly sweet, and shockingly sexy – that's no reason to act the fool in his presence. You've no time for any trifling dalliances, even if he did change his mind and actively pursue you. Gus nods to herself decisively.
I probably just need a decent night's rest – and some perspective.
I don't need to think about a certain tall, winsome wizard with a smile that could melt butter – and a 'huge', custom-made bed. I certainly shouldn't contemplate him sleeping in it… shirtless… possibly sans pants…
Nope. That would not help… at all.
Saturday 22 March 2003: AM
"There he is!" Ginny points to a table beside the podium, in the half-occupied ballroom; Viktor keeps his large hand at her waist as she bustles over to where her brother is deep in conversation with a few Hogwarts wizards.
I know their faces, but do not recall their names… the shorter one, he is called something like… Shaming? Viktor concentrates hard. Ah – the dark-haired young man – Neville Strongbottom, I think. Da.
He doesn't get a chance at proper introduction, as Ginny launches herself at her brother; she fiercely punches Ron in the shoulder, sending him banging back against his chair.
"Hey – watch it, Gin! If that was meant to be playful – well, you don't know your own strength," Ron grouches.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley – you are an utter arse, and I am ashamed to share your bloodline," Ginny snarls, prodding at the spot she recently thumped. "Do you have any idea what your jealous, spiteful actions set in motion tonight? Of how many people you could have harmed – and did injure – because you have no impulse control, and lack any semblance of maturity? Huh? Do you?!" she drills two fingers into his bicep, ignoring his pained wince.
"Bloody hell, Gin – what's got into you?" Ron whinges, ducking and writhing to evade her furious jabs. "You're making a spectacle of yourself – have a care." He gestures to the curious eyes directed at them.
Ah – you stupid man. Ginny-evra is going to roast you like a Chinese Fireball presented with a fattened pig. Viktor grimaces, his own easy-going temper at breaking point as he considers what could have happened to his friends.
"A spectacle? A spectacle? YOU WANT TO AVOID PUTTING ON A SHOW, DO YOU?!" Ginny's enraged voice could carry to the next floor, such is her loud ire. Ron finally seems to realize he is in trouble, as he stumbles upright, chair legs screeching on the wooden floor.
"Ginny – settle down – you're overreacting– "
"Am I, Ron?" Ginny's whisper-soft response is deadlier than her holler. Her brown eyes blaze as she backs up Ron against the podium.
Ah – Shaming and Strongbottom are sensible to shuffle out of the line of fire, Viktor notes.
"Pansy bolted because you 'outed' her – mid-dance – to Harry – not that she has anything to be ashamed of, mind you. But you deliberately tried to hurt both of them, due to being consumed with bitterness and spite at the reality that Pansy preferred Harry to your sorry self," Ginny growls. "Merlin, Ron – we'd literally just spoken about the need to grow up!"
"Look – I just thought Harry should know, alright– " Ron continues to dig his grave deeper with every idiotic word spoken in his own defence.
"It's not 'alright': it's childish, and malicious, and do you know what happened? Cormac McLaggen snatched Pansy at the Departure Floos, held a knife to her throat, Petrified her, used her as a bargaining chip to coerce Hermione to sacrifice herself, then took them both back to his sick sex dungeon, where he planned to repeatedly rape and torture them and use them as 'breed slaves', Ron." Ginny brushes away an angry tear as she reveals the extent of the night's drama.
Horrified gasps sound from the remaining men at the table.
"Are they alright? Pansy and Hermione?" Neville implores. The other man – Seamus, not 'Shaming', I vas close – blanches, highlighting his freckles.
"Yes – they weren't seriously harmed, Neville." Ginny pats his arm reassuringly. "Hermione was able to overcome the effects of Cormac's drugging potion, thanks to her and Draco's soul-bonded magical cores – and then she headbutted him and they took him down."
"Soul-bonded magic? But me mam always told us that's naught but a myth," an astonished Seamus wonders, while Neville exhales shakily at the good news.
"Oh – maybe keep that bit quiet, please," Ginny guiltily requests. "I don't know if they want it made public… and you know what the press is like," she glares about the room.
"Ginny… is that true? About– about Cormac kidnapping them a–and what he was– what he planned to do?" Ron is now paler than Seamus, his voice jagged.
"Are you finally starting to understand that your actions have consequences, Ron? Yeah, they were both in grave danger tonight – as an indirect result of you being a right shit. Are you happy now?" Ginny's wrath softens to sorrow as she shakes her head at her brother.
"You can't blame me– oof!"
Neville surprises everyone by plowing a fist into Ron's stomach; the redhead staggers as Neville proceeds to push him onto the floor at the base of the stage.
Damn, I vanted to deliver that blow. Viktor pouts.
Neville crouches beside a winded Ron, shielding him from public view.
"Shut your mouth, Ronald. I heard what you did – and I do blame you. You're incredibly lucky Hermione and Pansy are OK, because I would have never forgiven you if the worst had happened." Neville slowly brings up his cramped fist, resting it on Ron's sternum with dangerous precision.
"And if I ever hear of you disrespecting another woman again – I'll beat the living shit out of you, understand?". He doesn't wait for Ron's tiny head jerk before standing up. "I'm going home – nice to see you again, Ginny. Viktor. Hope we can catch up soon… under better circumstances." He shoots a last disgusted look at Ron, before stalking away.
"I vill also be beating out the shit from you, Ronald Veasley," Viktor menaces. "Living or dead."
Ginny leans in. "I'm leaving with Viktor – do you want to try to 'slut-shame' me, too? No? I'd appreciate if you'd let Mum know that I'm safe, please. I'll be home tomorrow." She hesitates.
"Ron – you're my brother, and I'll always love you – but I really don't like you at all right now… and I reckon most people feel the same way. I hope this is your true rock bottom, I really do.'
"Because sooner rather than later, you're going to look around, and realize that you're alone. And it's entirely your own fault."
Ron doesn't speak a word; he remains shellshocked, arms huddled around his middle. Ginny smooths a damp copper strand from his forehead. "Bye, Ron."
Viktor gladly wraps his arm around Ginny as she cuddles into his side; he revels in the silky softness of her long auburn tresses, caressing gently. His big heart thuds crazily after hearing she will indeed be spending the night with him. I had hoped… but given the trials of the evening, I did not expect…
"Viktor? Is that alright with you?" Ginny pooches out her lower lip worriedly as they walk away from her decimated brother. Seamus tips his chin by way of greeting; Viktor returns the gesture.
"Of course, Ginny-evra – I am very lucky wizard – but of course, I do not presume– "
The passionate kiss Ginny plants on his lips cuts off his sombre assurance. "Well, I intend to presume your brains out," she grins. "Assuming that suits your plans, of course."
Viktor's huge grin answers for him. He wraps his brawny arms around her, returning her kiss with interest and nuzzling at her neck; Ginny shivers in delight, sweeping down her hands from his broad back to boldly squeeze his buttocks.
"Ginny-evra – ve haff not yet left the ballroom!" he contends, feigning outrage.
"Do it again?" he winks.
They look at each other, chuckling as they hurry toward the exit, hands held and swinging together.
Saturday 22 March 2003: AM
"Thank you, Macdolas. Do me a favour, if you would: toss a throw rug or blanket over Gelsy and Wirey, before you and Ruibby retire for the evening, please? They're bound to feel cold eventually; and seeing that hairy little grot's bare chest once was more than enough," Draco advises Mac, after taking custody of the tea cups, plate of biscuits and medicine, and a glass of tap water.
"Macdolas already covers the Wirey and Signorina Gelsomina in blankets, Master Malfoy. And places the Wirey's apparel by the side of the beanbag – Macdolas does not care for the sight either," he snorts witheringly.
"Excellent. Goodnight, Macdolas." Draco securely closes their bedroom door; Hermione lazily tilts her head against the lip of the big claw foot tub, as he brings in the refreshments to the ensuite bathroom.
"Have they settled down, do you think?" she enquires, as Draco sets the crockery and tumbler to magically hover beside the bath. Passing her two tablets of ibuprofen, he watches approvingly as Hermione ingests and washes them down with water.
Efficiently stripping off his suit and shirt, Draco bundles all the garments onto the vanity. Hermione watches avidly, her waning energy receiving a boost from the sight of all that creamy, muscled skin. He is (as ever) supremely unselfconscious in his nudity, pacing about the bathroom with an economy of movement and unstudied grace.
"Who, Lilliputian Romeo and Juliet? I truly hope so, Granger." Draco seems unconscious of her lascivious regard as he lobs his footwear near the sink. "I should have specified 'no sugar' before we left for the Gala – the little devils took full advantage of our absence to run amok."
Hermione draws up her legs in the hot, perfumed water, expecting Draco to join her; instead, he kneels on the side opposite the floating tea and biscuits.
"Have a sip, and a chocolate-dipped shortbread, ma petite," he encourages, wetting her special soap and diligently beginning to wash her feet. "I'll take care of the rest."
"Won't you join me? In the bath proper, please," Hermione purses her mouth into a beseeching little moue, pouting properly when he merely smiles and continues lathering her calves.
"I want to be a solicitous, caring boyfriend – and take proper care of my sore, tired, brave little witch," he explains. "And don't give me those bedroom eyes, sweetheart… you've been running on fumes for the last hour, and you need to relax and regenerate."
I won't admit that he's right… but I am starting to flag. Hermione sighs, reaching a hand to collect and sip at her chamomile tea. She dips a biscuit into the hot beverage, nibbling contentedly. Draco moves his attentions to her thighs, assiduously soaping her stomach and paying particular attention to her breasts, his eyes unblinking.
"You're very thorough, Draco," Hermione murmurs, as he makes yet another swirling pass around her nipples. He never fails to arouse me, though I'm too tired to do anything about it, she sighs to herself.
"Attention to detail – it separates the good from the great," he finally moves to her shoulders, pausing as Hermione finishes her tea and biscuit and sets the thin cup back on its saucer. She sinks a little lower in the steaming water, closing her eyes in bliss as Draco switches to soaping a soft washer and tenderly wiping her face and neck clean of sweat (she'd earlier removed her makeup at the vanity).
Disjointed images from the fraught experience in McLaggen's foul dungeon penetrate her relaxed fogginess; Hermione hunches forward as she remembers the maleficent glint in Cormac's eye… the glee on his face as the drug he'd administered had dulled her physical reactivity. Her breathing shortens into frightened pants.
Draco abandons the soap and washer instantly, clambering into the bath to kneel before her. He gathers her quivering form into his arms, crooning soothingly.
"It's OK, Hermione… my fearless, daring little lion - ma pauvre petite, I have you, you're safe… let it out, darling." She sobs into his neck, trusting her vulnerability to her caring lover without hesitation.
"Draco, he– he liked hurting us– he got off on putting that knife to Pansy's neck, and bragging about the sadistic plans he had for us both… he wanted to dominate us, to– to–" She is unable to finish.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry you endured that… you're safe, you're safe," Draco repeats the phrase, rocking her gently. "I'm here, I'll always be here for you, my love."
Slumped against him, Hermione weeps piteously, her cries weakening to snuffles and hiccoughs after an indeterminate period of time has elapsed. Draco carries on stroking her back and rubbing her arms, eventually moving to sit beside her. Hermione doesn't resist as he presses her against his chest; she curls around him gratefully.
"I'm sorry, Draco… I thought I was holding it together so well…"
"Mon amour: what goes up, must come down… did you not help me, when I crumbled at the bottom of the staircase, hmmm?" Draco wrings out the washer with one hand, dabbing it carefully to her tear-damp face. His actions still suddenly.
"Sweetheart – your cheek is swollen, and red – I thought it was agitation – what happened?" His question is couched in soft tones, but Hermione hears the steel beneath.
"Cormac slapped me – I was thinking about our final telepathic conversation, in the Atrium – and he decided I wasn't paying him enough attention," she states, as Draco growls like a caged tiger.
"I wish the gold headband had chopped off his filthy hand – I should have grabbed that bloody broadsword Macdolas dragged out and cut off his fucking head myself," he mutters blackly.
"It might make you feel better to know that I Accio'ed Cormac's detached fingertip beneath the bed," Hermione reveals. "I don't know if they can regrow it at Azkaban – or if they'll bother – but we hurt him, Draco… we hurt him badly." The thought considerably cheers her; she lifts her aching head to gaze tremulously at her beloved wizard.
"Is it wrong that I thought about killing him, Draco? That I seriously considered drawing on our magic and simply blasting him to smithereens?" Hermione confesses. "I could have done it, too; but in the end, I didn't want to have that… stain, on my soul. I want him to wither and die a little bit every day, in that tiny, cold cell, instead."
"Of course it isn't wrong: you are my precious angel, but you're human enough to want revenge, Hermione." Draco recommences bathing her face with the washer, taking extra care with her puffy cheek. "I'll Episkey your cheek, once we're out of the bath."
He delicately kisses the lightly-throbbing skin. "You're right, sweetheart – it will be a far greater punishment for McLaggen's sins – and Flint's – to have them suffer in prison. We'll make sure they never see the light of day again; and once their trials are complete, we will put them from our minds and enjoy our lives… free of their malignant shadows," he promises.
"Thank you, Draco… for everything. For looking after me, especially… you are a dream come true, you know." Hermione smiles lovingly at him.
"Eh – that's my line, as I recall? You are a shameless thief, but I forgive you." His smile fades as he shyly asks, "Am I really the– the boyfriend you wish for? The man that you– need, and want, in your life? I sometimes worry that I may have… overly accelerated our relationship. You can always ask me to slow down, or step back – I shan't take offence." Draco swallows uneasily.
"Pfft – you'd be devastated if I told you to take a step back, and you know it," Hermione confidently predicts. "I'm wholly delighted with where we are, in our relationship. We do need to discuss and decide on our upcoming careers, and living situations, though…?" she refers to her pending professorship, and Draco's possible art teaching career at Hogwarts.
"Mmmm, yes – I'll ask Minerva for an appointment," Draco muses, resting his chin on her curly, pinned-up mop. "Would you please accompany me, Granger? I'd like to make decisions for our future together."
"Of course – and I won't make that mistake again, Draco," Hermione vows. "I was completely fed up with my Ministry role, the day I definitively decided to quit – but I apologize for not running it by you first."
"Oh, that's fine; I've been subtly pushing you to resign since the first night I made you dinner here, remember? I'll support any career you choose, ma petite… well, with the exception of Muggle dentistry," he divulges. "That awful, macabre musical your father adores has put me off the profession for good, I'm afraid."
"Crap! Mum and Dad – they'll be frantic if they read about our ordeal in the Prophet tomorrow!" Hermione frets. "Is it too late to send a text?" she desperately ponders.
"Darling – it's just gone one AM. Your parents will think it's a dire emergency and panic terribly, if you disturb them this late. I'll set an alarm for the morning, and Floo-call your mother, how does that sound?" Draco compromises.
"You'd do that? But aren't you exhausted, too?" Hermione drowsily asks.
"You come first – and that includes putting your mind at rest about your family," he answers firmly. "Now, let's go to bed, and snuggle like bunnies, and sleep the slumber of the righteous, ma chérie." Draco sits upright, propping Hermione's enervated body against the back of the bathtub before climbing out and quickly wrapping a navy towel around his waist. He grabs another for Hermione, slinging it over his shoulder before plucking her easily from the cooling water.
Hermione stands passively as Draco pats her dry. He retrieves his wand from his robes halfway through the process, gently pointing it to her bruised cheekbone and healing the contusion.
I'm a bit of a mess emotionally, right now… but even though this roofie drama has been perfectly horrid, and terrifying, and made me sick to my stomach… I wouldn't ever go back in time to erase what's happened, Hermione resolves.
Being with Draco makes up for all of it… I never knew my heart could be this full, and yet keep on expanding… he's my miracle.
And to think… he was right under my nose all throughout our schooling, she marvels. The sly little Slytherin!
"Why are you looking at me like that, Hermione?" Draco cocks his fair head to the side, straightening up after completing his drying ritual.
"Oh, nothing really… I was just thinking of how much I love you… and how every day, I love you a little more – as crazy as that sounds," Hermione replies, wrapping her arms around his damp neck.
"I love you the most," Draco scoops her into his arms without further delay. "I always will."
Hermione lets him have the last word, happily submitting to being tucked into bed and spooned from behind. She basks in her joy for as long as she can, before tumbling into sleep.
Her ultimate thought makes her smile against her pillow.
I might just develop an Arithmancy equation for determining who loves whom more… and prove my silly wizard does not – in fact – love me more than I love him.
Impossible.
