Apparating with an unconscious person as baggage proves physically draining, so when she lands in Amortentia on her hands and knees moments later with Bruiser's comatose body collapsing to her right, Hermione opens her mouth in an attempt to catch a breath of fresh air.
Almost immediately, she raises her head and begins to explore the area around her. Several of the neon signs are turned on to illuminate the interior of the club, but other than those scattered flashes of pink, red, and green lights, Amortentia looks dead. Closed for the night. And in a sense, oddly abandoned.
But Hermione isn't interested in what the club looks like. She's much more occupied with confirming that Draco made it with her.
Angst courses through her veins when she scans the area and realizes that he hasn't arrived yet.
But before her body can swell into full panic mode—before she can plummet into that dark place in her mind that tries to convince her that Draco's presence is fleeting—Hermione hears a crack resound through the acoustically pleasing club. Rushing to a standing position, she turns to witness the exact moment that Draco lands on his feet on the dance floor, Aberfield falling out of his grip and collapsing on the floor beside him like a sack full of metal.
Silver meets bronze when his eyes find hers across the club, and gods, she fucking melts under the intensity of his stare, the referral of heat from one set of eyes to the other.
It's because Hermione now thinks that any moment spent apart from Draco is a moment that can transform into something wholly dangerous. She's thought it for a while, but something about the events of last night—simply letting Adrian go off by himself to use the toilet—ruined Hermione. Left her devastated and permanently scarred. She thinks it did the same thing to Draco—multiplied his dependability and attachment to her. Because losing one another—losing any of them now, for that matter—would be more painful than a knife straight to the heart.
So, when he finally appears in the club, Hermione breathes out a sigh of relief. But she doesn't sprint to him immediately because in the past hour, Hermione has hugged him far more than she probably ever should—what with his aversion to physical touch. Respecting that boundary, even at the expense of her love for the act, is more important.
She decides to let him come to her, should he want to.
"Are you okay?" His angelic voice is carried across the length of the club in the form of that simple yet all-consuming question. It kisses the walls and then bounces right back to her.
Hermione nods. "I'm fine," she answers, eyes fixed on him while her hands dust off her shirt. "Are you okay?"
Nodding, Draco runs his fingers through his hair and answers, "I'm alright, Granger." He momentarily glances down at Aberfield and scoffs, shooting his eyebrows up in a sardonic manner. "Better than him, anyway."
Hermione returns the laugh—brief and concise, like a huff of happy air from her mouth—and then she scans the club for Titus. Hears footsteps behind her and turns her head to see Draco walking towards her.
"Wait here," he orders, briefly placing his hand on her arm and then marching through the club and disappearing into the small, side corridor that leads to Titus' office.
She waits, anticipating his return with Titus shortly.
But until then, in the silence that occupies Amortentia, Hermione focuses on the faint buzzing sound that comes from her pocket.
Slowly dipping her hand into her pocket, she finds Graham's vial and removes it. There's an odd touch of heat that emanates from the glass and spreads across her palm, and she bends one of her eyebrows in confusion as she stares at it. The cerulean fog tinged with a white aura circulates around the interior of the vessel, but there's something different about this one. Something unique. Like it possesses something intensely burdening, charged with multiple counts of desolation and anguish.
Hermione's unsure if she can ever bring herself to look at the memories that float within Graham's vial.
She remembers the exact moment that Kingsley informed her of Graham's suicide. Recalls a variety of emotions coursing through her mind that all seemed to stem from different understandings of the situation. She was sad, confused, and—it's terrible—but there was this lapse in compassion where she did feel relief.
Relief—she'll never forgive herself for feeling that way. Not now. Not when she knows what Graham meant to everyone.
But there was relief. To ignore that emotion would be to ignore who Hermione has cared about since the moment she conceived the F.D.E.R.E., and that's Draco. And while along the way she came to find beauty and purpose in all six of those Slytherins, it really was Draco who she did this for.
And now, holding Graham's most precious memories in her insignificant hand, Hermione feels an overwhelming sense of sadness and guilt rush over her body, conjuring goosebumps on the back of her neck and straight up her arms. It's like he's here. With her hand tightly wound around his vial, Hermione feels Graham with her in this moment.
It's interrupted when Draco appears from around the corridor.
"Titus is in his office," he explains, marching towards her. Hermione shoves the vial back into her pocket by the time he reaches her, wraps his hand around her upper arm, and then consciously loosens the grip on her skin so that he can instead stroke his fingers up and down the back of her bicep. "But... before we go... I need to just explain something to you. Okay?"
Hermione gazes up at Draco, comprehending the sincere look on his face. She nods.
Draco exhales out of his nostrils. Takes a moment before finally speaking. "I went to Barnet last night. I was looking for Andrew, our dealer." He pauses, perhaps assuming that Hermione will have something to say about that already. But she remains silent, cognizant of the magnitude of Draco sharing this moment in his life.
He continues, a quick sigh helping his words fall out of his mouth. "I walked those streets all night looking for him. Initially, I just wanted to talk to him and ask what the fuck was in that cocaine. But it... the plan sort of fell through the moment I saw him. And I... did things that I probably shouldn't have done. Potentially incriminating things."
Hermione begins to comprehend what Draco is alluding to—what Aberfield mentioned in his office minutes ago. "Is he here?" she asks, her eyes glazing over his shoulder towards the corridor.
Draco nods, avoiding eye contact when Hermione eventually settles her gaze back on him. "I think you might know that, in the heat of the moment, I have some... anger issues—"
"It's okay," Hermione whispers, reaching for Draco's hands and taking them between hers. His fingers quiver in her grip, and she can't tell whether it's because he's nervous about the situation or if it's because he hasn't been able to take his drugs all day. His eyes are weak, his skin is pale, and his hands—they're freezing. Hermione does everything in her power to make them warm again.
"I'm just tired of people taking advantage of us. I'm sick of it."
Hermione nods in complete empathy. "You have every right to be angry about what happened to Adrian. And you have every right to be angry about the way the world has just spit you out and left you to dry. It's okay."
Draco laughs to himself. "It's really not."
Sighing, Hermione purses her lips and shrugs. "Well, it's not perfect circumstances, but—"
"Ah, she speaks the truth," Draco jokes with a light smile.
The moment he smiles is enough to make Hermione lose herself in the simplicity of his features. She rolls her eyes, releases Draco's hands, and playfully but lightly shunts his shoulders.
But before she can cross her arms over her chest, place them on her hips, or even just lower them, Draco reaches out for her wrists, tows her towards him, and plants his lips on hers. His chest crashes against hers, catching her completely off guard and claiming her for himself in this organic moment. It's a sudden force, a rush of serotonin all in one kiss.
And since she wasn't expecting the sudden flash of affection, Hermione initially fumbles when returning the kiss. But she finds her balance—plants her feet in front of his and her hands taut against his chest—and she kisses him back. Reaches up on her toes to meet him closer.
When the kiss begins to subside, Draco pulls away and exhales an unsteady breath. It flutters onto Hermione's lips and sends shivers down her spine. He remains silent for several more seconds before finally whispering, "Thank you," followed by an even softer, "I'm not sure if I deserve you."
Hermione looks up at Draco, coaxing him to meet her gaze, and responds, "You deserve a second chance at your life. At happiness. At peace."
"Yeah," he spiritlessly responds, as if he still needs far more convincing than that. "It just sometimes feels surreal that you're the one giving it to me."
It's funny to Hermione, because if Draco knew how much Hermione had cared about him during their final years at Hogwarts, perhaps he wouldn't feel so undeserving.
She considers telling him about the way she watched him walk through the halls during their sixth year of school. How every time she'd go to see Madam Pomfrey about a question from her readings, she'd look over at him in the corner of the hospital wing and watch him wither away under the spell that Harry—her best friend—used against him. How her heart towed towards him then in the same way it does now. How even when he was cruel to her—vile in textbook fashion—Hermione still cared very deeply for his well-being. Knew something was wrong and only wanted him to find the light in his own way. Even knew that underneath the façade, the act, and the trauma, Draco was and always has been a person worthy of redemption.
She almost spills it all when she opens her mouth to speak.
"Dra—"
"Draco?"
The word finds meaning in another's voice.
Hermione looks over Draco's shoulder and sees that it's Titus'. As if he knew that Hermione was going to say something of meaning, Draco rolls his eyes and spins on his heels, redirecting his attention to Titus. He gestures his head towards his office, and then disappears into the corridor again.
Draco reaches for Hermione's hand and pulls her with him. "Come with me. There's something I need to do, and I'd like you to be there for it."
Silently agreeing to Draco's request, Hermione follows him through the corridor and into Titus' office on the left. She meets Titus' gaze and smiles, though judging by the expression on his face, he appears to be playfully vexed with her.
Titus addresses her in that thick, Scottish accent. "Thought I told you to wait for me to get Adrian out of St. Mungo's."
She feels a light squeeze from Draco's hands.
"My way was faster," she responds cheekily, attempting to satiate his irritation with some humor.
The grey storm clouds in his eyes seem to disperse as Titus gleams, his smile as bright and wide as the sun when it eventually emerges out of the downpour. Crossing his arms over his chest, he shakes his head and glances up at the ceiling. "I'll admit that it was faster. But it was also reckless."
"What do you expect from a Gryffindor?" Draco adds to the joke, squeezing Hermione's hand again and endearingly looking over his shoulder at her.
Titus sighs. "Nothing less, really," he responds with a wink. And then he looks at Draco and raises his eyebrows, to which Draco nods.
When Titus steps to the side, he reveals what Hermione assumes they've come to deal with.
There's a young man tied to a chair, his body flaccid and his head drooping to the right. Gently, he first lifts his eyes so that they roll to the top of his sockets, and then with a trying burst of strength, he lifts his head up and gulps at the sight. Hermione tacitly gasps when she notices wounds covering his entire face—cuts that can't be more than a day old, bruises splotched across the contours of his cheekbones, and dried patches of blood around his nostrils and the corners of his mouth. His nose, bent and curved in this disturbing direction, looks like it's been completely broken.
Draco takes a step forward, releasing Hermione's hand in the process. Approaching the man and standing just two feet in front of him, he bends at his knees and rests his elbows against his thighs.
It's Andrew. Based on what Draco just told her, Hermione is sure of it.
"Please," Andrew mumbles, bits of saliva trickling from his mouth down to his chin. "I'm telling you... I—I really don't know if it was l-laced with anything."
Draco doesn't move an inch. Just stares at the dealer. Hermione watches as the back of his neck begins to pulse with anger, but the way that his body remains firm and unworked affirms that he's trying—he's trying so damn hard—to remain calm.
Andrew eventually shrugs, but it's a slow and jagged signal. "P-perhaps there were... t-traces of f-fentanyl, but I—"
"Yeah," Draco cuts him off, cracking the knuckles of his right hand with his thumb to stop his hands from doing something else—something more dangerous and violent. "Perhaps there were. But that's not what I'm here to talk about."
Andrew's eyelids grow heavy as he assumes the worst. He drops his head in submission.
Draco gulps, straightening his back in the process. "You are lucky that I've recently learned something about mercy. Because were it solely up to me, you would have been dead last night in a goddamn heartbeat." He pauses and swallows the fury in his voice. "You should consider yourself blessed by every single goddamn god in the fucking books, because I'm going to give you an out. A second chance. Not with us, but with your life."
Andrew gazes up at Draco, shock in his eyes.
Hermione thinks that if she could see her own face, it would look something like Andrew's, too.
"You do what you need to do to survive," Draco continues, "but you stay the hell away from my family. Do you understand? We're done with you, and you're done with us. And if I ever hear or even catch a fucking whiff of you selling to someone I know in the future, then I assure you that you won't be as lucky on that day as you are today." He pauses again to catch his breath, then turns around to glance at Hermione. "You can thank her. She's the reason I'm sparing your life."
Hermione almost chokes on the insinuation of it all, but when Andrew nods in gratefulness, the pressure in her chest subsides, and the water in her eyes seems to flow the opposite direction.
"I got it," the dealer whispers, nodding his head once. "I won't... bother you... or the others ever again."
"One more thing," Draco says, turning to Titus and gesturing his head towards the door. Titus slips behind Hermione, and after a minute, he returns, dragging Aberfield on his stomach and by his feet across the floor, and then chucking his body into the office. He disappears again and does the same to Bruiser, tugging her in the same fashion and then casting her next to Aberfield. Then, he stations himself against the door and watches with a contemplative look on his face—a look that Hermione has to glance at twice in her own sort of confusion.
Draco approaches them and lifts their heads up to face Andrew.
"Are these the two people that gave you that cocaine?"
Andrew stares at them momentarily before nodding. "Yes," he whispers, "that's them."
Unphased by Aberfield or Bruiser's wellbeing, Draco drops their heads back onto the floor with two resounding thuds. And then he turns over his shoulder and nods at Titus, who eventually comes out of his still unclear state of shock and pulls a silver coin out of his pocket. He tosses it to Draco, who catches it effortlessly. Turning back to the dealer and holding the coin between his index and middle fingers, Draco says, "This will get you back to Barnet. Just flip it three times over in your palm."
And then, mercy takes the form of a magical act.
Removing his wand from his pocket, Draco slowly begins to heal some of the wounds on Andrew's face. The magic is gentle and purposeful, each feature leisurely returning to its original state. Hermione watches with awe as Draco amends every physical injury that he inflicted on Andrew's face, and she finds it almost metaphorical. Beautiful. Draco is mending something that he's broken, and he's doing it out of this principle of reconciliation and second chances. He's using the same logic which Hermione employed through her time with the Slytherins and showing the man who almost ruined his life mercy. Mercy. Hermione never imagined she'd watch something like this happen.
And when he successfully cleans the wounds on Andrew's face, leaving him with nothing more than a small scar on his cheekbone, Draco casts the ropes around his body away one by one. Unconstrained by the taut binds, Andrew leans forward and massages his wrists, lacerated and reddened by the coarse ropes.
Draco slams the coin in the dealer's palm. And when he rises to a standing position, the dealer mirrors him. His legs wobble slightly, and Draco almost reaches his hand out to help him. But Andrew catches himself before he can, and then he looks at Draco, then at Hermione, and then back at Draco again.
"Thanks," he whispers as he starts to spin the coin in the palm of his hand. "I'm sorry."
After the third turn, Andrew disappears. Spins and contorts into the air and travels back to Barnet, presumably never to be seen again.
Hermione stares at the back of Draco's neck in total shock.
She considers bursting forward to hold him. It's what she wants, but does he feel the same way?
She waits patiently for him to move, say something, turn around and look at her. The toes of her right foot tap against the floor—maybe she's not as patient as she thought—and her fingers grow restless as they long to comfortingly streak through his hair.
But she stands still. Hermione waits for the right moment to approach him, comfort him, be with him.
Titus makes the first move. He approaches Draco, sidestepping Aberfield and Bruiser on his way there, places his hand on his shoulder, and tilts his neck to meet his gaze.
His voice is quiet, but Hermione is able to make out a faint, "I'm proud of you."
Draco turns his head and nods at Titus, twisting the side of his lips in a trying grin. And then he does a full turn over his shoulder to meet Hermione's waiting eyes.
His approach is slow, but with his feet dragging and his eyes tired, Draco does eventually reach Hermione. Caresses her curls with his fingers to tuck them behind her ears and then places a gentle kiss on her forehead.
He opens his mouth first. "I shouldn't have gone looking for him in the first place—"
"It's okay," Hermione says. "We all do impulsive things." There's a beat before Hermione says, "Sometimes, impulsive actions lead us to reveal what truly matters to us." Brushing her fingers through the front of his hair to reveal his glowing eyes, she sighs. "It doesn't make us reckless. I think it actually makes us whole."
Draco sighs, staring at Hermione like he's seeing a shooting star for the first time. And it's a perfectly beautiful, tranquil moment, defined by nothing more than their undying need to protect, comfort, and support one another.
But when Hermione's eyes trail beside Draco, and she watches as Titus drops to his knees and looks at Aberfield with that same puzzled expression, she has to let that happy feeling go and survey why Titus is so perplexed by Aberfield's face.
"Titus?" she asks, prompting Draco to turn around and look at him as well. "Is everything alright?"
Titus doesn't answer. Just gawks at Aberfield as the wheels in his brain turn and turn and turn. His facial expression eventually morphs from confused to stunned, and then after another moment, he looks nothing short of outraged.
"Why, out of all the people in the world, is Quincy fucking Aberfield here?"
Hermione is dumbfounded. Her chest tightens at that question, eyebrows furrowing to the center of her face. She feels this pressure manifest across her forehead and temples, and it's unlike anything else she's ever experienced.
Because the way Titus says Aberfield's name—the way his face glows red and the veins in his neck jut out—leads her to believe that there's something sinister below the surface of the question.
"You know Aberfield?" Draco asks, shockwaves spurting with each syllable he delivers.
Titus looks up. "So it is him." His eyes glaze away from Draco and Hermione as he scoffs to himself. "Son of a bitch. I knew I recognized that vile, pretentious, disgusting face—"
"Wait," Hermione interrupts, shaking her head as she attempts to understand how it is that Titus knows Aberfield. "How exactly do you know Aberfield?"
"Hogwarts."
Hermione's eyes widen.
"1974-1981."
She almost blacks out.
Titus turns back to look at them. "And you mean to tell me that this tragic excuse of a human being has been leading your program?"
"He's..." Hermione starts, her voice wavering. "He's been working at the Ministry for a few years now—"
"How the fuck is that possible?" Titus asks, almost shouts, and that causes Hermione to take a step back. Collide her shoulder with Draco's, who reaches for her arm and holds her taut against him.
"Titus—"
"And her?" Titus asks, pointing to Bruiser on the ground. "I almost recognize her too, but her face is... it's not the same as who I initially thought. But she has the same stature, the same aura, even the same fucking pompous smell as that bitch—"
"Are you saying you know Bruiser as well?" Draco inquires, his eyebrows creasing.
Titus cocks his head to the side, baffled by some aspect of Draco's question.
"Bruiser?" he asks. "Who the hell is Bruiser?"
"Cleo Bruiser," Hermione adds, pointing to her on the ground. "The Healer who was brought to help with treatment and therapy."
It's shocking to Hermione what Titus does next: he laughs. At her. At them. Steps over Aberfield's body to reach Bruiser's and then takes a chunk of her hair in his hand. Lifts her head up to get another look at her face.
"I don't know who 'Cleo Bruiser' is," Titus starts, dropping her head back onto the floor and standing up straight, "But I'll tell you this. If my suspicion is right, then I'd like to know what sort of sick and twisted program you were helping run, Ms. Granger."
She doesn't know what Titus means by sick and twisted. The F.D.E.R.E. was something that she helped create for this specific group of people—her peers. And she knows now the flaws embedded in that program—knows that the way Aberfield manipulated the purpose and avoided the real issue at hand made this program a failure.
But... sick and twisted? Hermione thought that her intentions were good. So, what can he possibly mean by that?
"Rethink a better way to word that question, Titus," Draco seethes, his hand around her arm tightening in a possessive manner. It's an ever so slight mannerism, and Hermione can't tell whether it's Draco getting angry or Draco getting protective. Either way, uneasiness continues to sweep over her body as she awaits Titus' explanation.
But instead of explaining himself, Titus storms towards his desk, grabs his wand, and then trudges back to where Bruiser lies. He lifts her head, stares at her face for another moment, and then sets the tip of his wand against her cheek.
"Finite."
Hermione isn't sure what sort of spell he's terminating with that incantation. Not until she sees the look on Titus' face—wide eyes, scarlet cheeks, a creased forehead that just screams complete rage. And when he maneuvers Bruiser's body over onto her back and shows Hermione and Draco the product, Hermione's heart stops beating.
Bruiser's face is... different. But not completely dissimilar—she does still possess wildly sharp features that run across her face. But she's more... sickly. Pale. And her nose, mouth, even eyes are completely distinct from what they were previously. Whereas before she was an inviting figure—someone that, with a white coat on, wouldn't seem so threatening—she's now entirely sinister. A mystery.
"I knew it," Titus growls, casting her to the side yet again in that same hardhearted manner. "Beauty-Charmed bitch."
Hermione stutters over her words, her mouth still in that same open state of shock. "I don't... I don't know who that is supposed to be."
Releasing his clenched teeth, Titus responds, "Back when Voldemort was in his prime, he kept certain Death Eaters quite close to him. One of them was a man named Tyrion Mulciber. Have you heard of him?"
She remembers the name—Mulciber. Knows that she fought someone with that name in the Department of Mysteries and at the final battle at Hogwarts. Remembers the cold, hard, glare in his eyes and the razor-sharp contours of his facial features.
Titus continues, despite Hermione not audibly responding. "Tyrion had two children. One of them was Cassius Mulciber."
Him. That's who she fought.
"The other—" he points to Bruiser— "is Rose Mulciber."
There's... another one?
Hermione didn't even know that a Rose Mulciber existed.
She thought she had every inch of the Wizarding World mapped out. That the strings which were left loose before the war were tied in their victory. That every secret, every collusion, every fucking riddle in the book had been debunked. But who could've predicted something like this? Who would've thought that someone from such an ostracized family could make a name for herself, find a job at St. Mungo's, and covertly slip her way through the system?
How could anyone—including Hermione herself—be so fucking blind?
Kingsley had already admitted to being completely vapid to a lot of the initiatives in the Wizarding World. Solely focused on rebuilding relationships with other governments, Kingsley could've easily overlooked the odd flush of Rose Mulciber's façade. Rose wore a literalfaçade—must've covered her face in a Beauty Charm day in and day out to convince every single person she came across that she was Cleo Bruiser.
But blindness is not just a fault of the eyes. Sometimes, it permeates the mind. Makes people believe only what serves their purpose. And perhaps—perhaps—that's where Hermione was once at fault.
Draco shakes his head, completely dumbfounded at the news. "What the fuck do you mean by Rose Mulciber?" he seethes, his cheeks glowing red. "My father spoke of Cassius often. He even visited the manor several times. Not once have I heard of a Rose Mulciber."
"To my knowledge, Rose was never a Death Eater," Titus explains, running his fingers through his hair. "She was a student with Quincy and I at Hogwarts. Her and Quincy, well, they didn't interact much, but they were both reclusive in their own sense of the word. Kept to themselves in very strict terms.
"But I remember Quincy's face every single time that Headmaster Dumbledore brought up the presence of a dark force in the Wizarding World. He'd beam, I tell you. Beam. Like Voldemort was secretly this fucker's hero. And he'd write things down in newspapers and book. You know, really engage with what was being written." Titus shakes his head. "I'm telling you that this guy was obsessedwith Voldemort."
Hermione can't believe what she's hearing. Her whole perception of Aberfield shifts on its head yet again.
"And Rose—Rose didn't speak much, but there was something about the glower in her eyes when dark magic was brought up in our classes, or when potions class would turn into who could concoct things like Draught of Living Death the fastest. She'd enter this competitive state of mind and just... flatten everyone with her ingenuity. But other than that, Rose kept very quiet. It's why, I believe, her name was never much of an issue." Titus pauses, exhaling a nervous breath. "After Hogwarts, I didn't hear a word about her or Quincy. They just... disappeared. Hadn't really thought about them until now."
When Titus looks up into Draco and Hermione's astonished eyes, he falters again. The world drops on his shoulders and figuratively tows him to the floor, and even though he still physically stands tall, Hermione can tell by his expression that there's an overbearing presence floating across his mind in this moment.
She's seen it in Draco's eyes before—it's a display self-culpability.
"Perhaps if I'd paid more attention, or bothered to read newspapers, or ask you about the program—"
"Titus—"
"I just didn't want to push you to say anything you weren't comfortable with," Titus continues, covering his eyes with his fingers for a few seconds before wiping away what Hermione suspects are tears. "I wanted our times together to be spaces where you didn't have to talk about the program, because I know it exhausted you all. I didn't ask because I didn't want you to feel like your lives revolved around your past mistakes. But maybe... if I'd just asked once who your mentors were—"
"This is not your fault," Draco says, shaking his head and preparing to take a step forward.
"No, I know." Titus grunts to clear his throat—try to force the tears back into his eyes. "I just cannot understand why they'd want to lead a program like this. What was in it for them?"
Hermione doesn't know either, really. What could possess Aberfield to be enamored with Voldemort? He is, of course, a muggleborn. Voldemort's entire purpose in life was to eradicate that entire population and create a more homogenous world. What the hell is there to look up to?
In reflection, though, she remembers something about the way that Aberfield talked about Voldemort. There were times in seminars that he'd comment on Voldemort's extraordinary ability to capture the attention of his followers. How his charismatic nature was rather appealing to his followers.
And his entire fascination with retribution—that has always been an enigma to Hermione. All those times that he pushed the idea of payback and repentance as if they were synonyms—what was he playing at when he pushed those ideas?
Hermione didn't bother to look in between the lines then, because she didn't know what was happening. But she's reading the fine print now, evaluating everything that she remembers him saying. And parts of his speeches—little segments of his lessons—did possess questionable undertones. Undertones that resonated not just with Voldemort, but with restricted magic. With unethical practices. With complete and utter fucking bullshit.
"We can figure that out tomorrow when they wake up," Draco asserts, rubbing his hand against his head. "Today has been without a doubt the most exhausting day of my life. I'm tired, Titus."
"We should go and get some rest, then," Hermione suggests, taking Draco's hand in hers and squeezing it lightly. "And we'll come back first thing in the morning with everyone else and get to the bottom of what has been happening."
"You two go," Titus says, shooing them with a slight hand gesture—one little flick of his fingers in the air. "Get some sleep." He lowers his eyebrows. "I mean it. I'll take care of them. And if they wake up before you arrive, that's all the better. I can give them a piece of my mind before you take your turn."
Draco and Hermione both try to laugh as Titus samples his humor in the moment. But it's like asking a river to cease its rolling and turn the other direction. Gravity won't allow it to happen, just as the weight of the situation won't allow either of them to fully release the shame in their bodies.
Titus notices it. Shoos them one more time as sweety as possible. "Go, go. They'll be here tomorrow when you come back. Everything will be alright."
It's hard—almost impossible—to walk away satisfied from the situation. There's an itch that both Draco and Hermione feel in their spirits, and the question of satiation is one that seems too taxing to ask at this time of night, especially after the day they've already had.
So, with their hands clasped tightly within one another's, and with a brief "thank you" from Draco to Titus, the two each nod at their friend and eventually disapparate from the scene, landing right in the center of their bedroom—a routine occurrence at this point in time. It's as if both of them knows that this was the spot they ought to return to. No wasting time chatting with the others about the events of the night. Not when it can hinder their sleep.
No—Draco and Hermione would let the others sleep with some peace tonight, and then in the morning, they'd come together for a confrontation unlike any other.
Once situated in the room, the haze of the apparition sucked into the invisible atmosphere of the bedroom, Hermione turns to face Draco. Gazes into his moonlit eyes and then places her hand on his cheek. His cheek, which is hot to the touch.
Draco sighs at the gesture. Turns his head into her hand and closes his eyes to enjoy the warm feeling of it all, because Hermione's affection feels like an inferno.
The question just sort of... comes out of her mouth.
"How do you feel?"
Such a dumb fucking question, Hermione, she thinks to herself. But it's too late now to take it back. You idiot. You know the answer already.
Hermione awaits his answer, her internal monologue only driving her crazier.
But Draco—Draco smiles.
"Like shit," he responds, his eyebrows leaping up and the tired smile on his lips growing a little more pleasant.
Hermione half-expected that answer, half-expected him to sugarcoat things. But, she supposes, his honesty is a sign of growth. He's not hiding behind any sort of façade or any false emotions. Draco is honest about how he's feeling—can decipher where is emotions are at. And that's far better than him ignoring them.
"Me too," Hermione says, attempting to smile to alleviate the unease.
Reaching forward and securing a piece of Hermione's hair behind her ear, Draco casts his eyes upon hers, and it's that look in his eyes that causes Hermione to go somewhat weak at the knees. She doesn't show it physically, but she can feel her limbs turn to gelatin. His eyes are like magnetic steel, luring her in without fault. She can feel space between them become less distant.
Forehead to forehead now, Hermione sighs. "I'm sorry I couldn't see it all earlier."
Draco places a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose. "It's okay."
"It's really not," she laughs to herself, but then she feels Draco's hands take her face and lift it up to look at him.
And suddenly, because the magnetism of his eyes is just so irresistible and so gut-wrenchingly inviting, Hermione opens her mouth, and out tumbles her inner monologue.
It's much to Draco's enjoyment, because he stands there and listens. Intently. Like his life depends on it.
"It's like... I just knew that there was something troubling you during our sixth year. I'll just never forget the look on your face, the exhaustion in your steps, and the lifelessness in your eyes." She gazes up into them—wonders how such ethereal irises could ever be so damn lifeless in the first place. "Malfoy, you just looked so tired. So dissociated from everything around you. And I noticed. And I wanted to help you. But I figured that whatever I tried to do wouldn't make much of a difference. Wouldn't have ever gotten through to you as I think it's doing now. Things were much more complicated back then, but that didn't stop me from caring about you. It never stopped me from wanting to reach out. And when I saw you again for the first time in the Ministry... that feeling returned almost immediately. You were the first one—the only one, really—that I wanted to see."
Draco stares back at her, eyes wide with that realization.
"And this will sound horrible—I just know it—but when Kingsley told me about Graham's suicide, a part of me was actually relieved that it was him and not... you."
He's silent at that statement. Hermione can't read his stoic expression, so she tries to defend herself.
"I know it sounds just terrible. Gods, I know. Graham didn't deserve what happened to him—none of you did. But ever since that moment, I've just felt this undying need to help you now because, well, I should've helped you then. I should've just listened to my gut and reached out anyway. I shouldn't have been afraid of what Ron or Harry or Ginny or anyone else would've said. I should've just tried to talk to you."
She realizes that somewhere through her monologue, Draco has inched even closer to her. Holds her neck with his soft hands and has his chest up against hers.
"Everything I've done for this program—every step I've made, every initiative I've crafted, every fucking time I followed you through corridors or bothered you in bathrooms or shoved you in frustration or tried to hold you or touch you or hug you—it's all been to help you. To make up for the times I didn't tell you that I cared. To show you that I care now when I really should've shown you that I cared a long time ago, too."
At the conclusion of her rant, Draco flattens his lips and tips Hermione's chin up so that she's gazing right at him. He looks almost uneasy, like he doesn't know exactly how to respond in the moment. Like the sudden influx of such authentic and harbored feelings might've been too much for him to handle or make sense of amidst the unpredictable set of circumstances they face.
But Hermione knows how he feels about her. It's in the things he says, the things he does, and the choices that he's made since accepting her help a few weeks ago—they all represent this blossom of new beginnings for Draco Malfoy, and Hermione is like the soil that nurtures the plant. Gives it a purpose and a home to settle into.
Hermione's heart drops to her stomach when Draco whispers, "I didn't know you cared about me that much," and then her heart hits the floor when he adds, "I never thought I'd be worthy of someone like you."
Unacceptable. Hermione can't hold it in any longer.
"I will tell you time and time again that you are worthy of those things. Draco Malfoy—you are more than deserving of help, happiness, and all the love in the world. And I will do anything I can to demonstrate that to you every single day that I can."
That confession seems to send him right into a gush of affection. Like a wave crashing on shore after journeying for days, weeks, monthsto get to that promised land, Draco drops his head down and kisses her. Settles his lips between hers and holds them in place for a long, passionate kiss. And it's through that moment of fervent contact that Hermione feels butterflies leap through her stomach and flutter in every direction possible.
Draco shifts away for a moment, his lips lingering just in front of Hermione's, just enough that when they lightly brush over hers, she feels energy ripple across his to hers.
"I don't want to sleep just yet," he whispers ever so softly, shaking his head against hers.
Hermione nods in concurrence, biting her lower lip. "Me neither," she responds, and then she's throwing her lips back onto his and kissing him with the same passion and fury as a rolling tempest. Her hands reach for his head and she tows him down towards her—holds him like she'll never let go. And then she's running her fingers through the hair on the back of his head like any inch of him spared would be a crime. Like she requires feeling every single part of Draco Malfoy—adoring him, respecting him, loving him.
Draco's hands find her waist almost immediately. Fingers curling around the indentations of her body, he pulls her flush against him, and with the tilt of his head to the right, he deepens the kiss. His lips become wayward as they travel to the corner of her mouth, then to her neck, and then down to her exposed collarbone. Hermione sighs sweetly, taking in the warmth of his lips and the fervor of his touch as an emblem of his shared care.
Peppering kisses across her neck and toying with the bottom of his shirt, Draco begins to embark on a stream of affirmations.
"What did I do—" Draco starts, lacing kisses on her skin and drawing stars with his fingers— "to deserve you? To deserve—" his hands find her hair— "this preposterously perfect head of hair, this—" his hands drop to her cheeks— "perfectly beautiful face, with perfect bronze eyes and perfect skin, this—" his right hand finds her chest, and he places it right on top of where her heart is beating like a drum— "ridiculously kind heart, and this—" his hands latch onto her waist again, fingertips below her shirt and on her skin— "perfectly seamless body?"
Hermione giggles melodically, basking in the way that Draco adulates her features. She twists her neck to the side, allowing him to continue to lay kisses all over her skin.
And perhaps he thinks that she's attempting to pull away from him when she cranes her neck, because Draco suddenly lunges for her hips and tugs her right back against him. Tuts and stares into her eyes and shakes his head.
"I haven't finished," he whispers, almost moans. "Won't you let me finish explaining to you why I don't deserve you?"
"You do deserve me," Hermione mutters back with a smile.
"I deserve this?" he asks, reaching forward and dragging her lower lip down with his thumb.
Hermione slowly nods, her eyes engrossed with the fiery look in his.
"And... this?" He kisses her jaw—nips at it, too.
"Yes," she whispers when his lips reach the space between her jaw and ear.
"And... what about these?"
Draco's hands slip underneath Hermione's shirt, fingers dancing dragging up her skin and then finding her breasts beneath her bra.
She smiles, rolls her eyes at his cheekiness, and then, much to Draco's surprise, she lifts her shirt off of her head all by herself. And then her hands reach back for the clasp of her bra, and before they both know it, Hermione is tossing her bra to the side, completely exposed, and Draco is in heaven.
"Does that answer your question?" she retorts, followed immediately by her lips right back on his, and her hands, warm and excited with the prospect of the night, reaching for the bottom of his shirt. She rips it up and over his head and tosses it on the floor, and for that brief moment which they are unconnected—when his shirt is covering his face, lips, and eyes—all Hermione can think about is being close to him again.
And so, before his shirt even hits the floor, Hermione is already kissing Draco yet again. And it's so forceful that when Hermione crashes into him, Draco stumbles backwards—collides with the dresser and almost bites her lip because of the shock.
"You don't think that you deserve this?" Hermione asks in between kissing him. "How much more can I convince you that you do?"
Draco pauses, pulling away for a moment to look into her eyes. "Be with me," he says, his tone earnest and decided in their fate. "Be with me again."
"Oh," Hermione starts, desperate to keep the enjoyable, playful energy at play, "You're not tired anymore?"
She feels a smile form against her lips, and that's how she knows that he's with her.
"Suddenly," Draco starts, gripping the back of Hermione's thighs, lifting her off of the ground, and then guiding her legs to wrap around him, "I'm not tired at all."
"Good," she says, capturing his lips between hers and holding onto his shoulders for dear life as he carries her to his bed—glues his hands to her back and lays her down carefully.
Nestled between her legs, Draco trails his hand down her side and wraps his fingers around the waistband of her jeans.
"You're not tired either?" he asks, slowly pulling her pants down her thighs. "Not tired after saving all of our lives time and time again?"
Hermione giggles as the denim slides off of her thighs, then calves, then feet, and she glances at the ceiling when it thump onto the floor.
"You're not too tired from supporting everyone? From demonstrating just how perfect you are?"
She shakes her head—lowers her eyes when she feels Draco playing with the edges of her underwear.
"You're not too tired—" he leaves a kiss on her skin just above the waistband— "from piecing me back together again, Granger?"
Again, Hermione shakes her head. Responds with, "I could do this forever, Malfoy."
"Such unmatched endurance you have," he whispers against her inner thigh, leaving trails of kisses up her leg and occasionally nipping lightly at her already tantalized skin. "I must admit that I admire the way you handle such strenuous circumstances and catastrophic news." His fingers curl around the elastic band of her underwear, setting her body aflame with configurations of stone and ripples. The hair on her arms sticks up with anticipation as he blows cool air across her inner thigh, and then drags his tongue over that spot and kisses it. "Seems as though you're capable of handling just about anything."
"Perhaps," Hermione purrs, trembling at the way his lips run over his skin.
"You say that I deserve second chances," Draco continues, his voice as smooth as honey but his eyes as ardent as fire, "and that I deserve to be happy. But you—"
He pauses and waits for Hermione to nod in consent before sliding her underwear off of her body.
"You deserve to feel euphoric."
Hermione's eyes close as she suffocates on that word—euphoria. She knows the feeling. Is well aware of the rush of it all, the high, the feeling that the world is at her fingertips. Being with Draco—loving him, even—is the rapture. The thrill she's been chasing for so long. It's right, it's exciting, but it's also comfortable and beautiful and... right. It's just right.
"But while we're here," he starts, sliding his middle finger into his mouth, turning his hand so that his palm faces the ceiling, and slowly settling it right beside her, "I need you to do something for me."
"O-kay—"
Hermione gasps for breath—shuts her eyes and winces at the new sensation. Because before she can finish her sentence, Draco's finger slips inside of her.
And when he starts to pump in and out, his movements calculated and designed for this, Hermione loosens the tension in her legs and flutters a wanton sigh.
Draco continues. "I want you to forget about everything else for this moment. I want you to focus on only this. No wandering thoughts. No coming up with schemes to help us. None of that. If you're not thinking about how perfect you are, or how much you deserve to feel total fucking bliss, then I've not done a good enough job. And Granger—" He glides another finger inside of her, and that causes Hermione to quietly whimper— "I don't like to do things half-arsed."
That sounds like a challenge almost too difficult for Hermione to ever overcome. Her mind often has a tendency to wander and worry, and so when Draco tells her to stop overthinking—when he practically begs her to wholeheartedly be here with him in this moment—she has to push herself out of her comfort zone and do it. Think about her body. Listen to her senses. Respond to the way his fingers—now three fingers, oh gods—beat in and out of her like he's worshipping her.
Hermione's right hand finds the back of his head, her left hand grips her lower back, and she raises her hips ever so slightly to feel everything a little deeper. It works—Draco's fingers seamlessly slip in and out of her, and he's so deliberate and intentional with his movements—knows exactly which moments he should curl his fingers and which he should relax them. Can sense when she needs a moment to recuperate and when she desperately needs more. Can read her body language like he's studied it all his life—her raised hips, her heaving chest, her strained veins against her neck. It's all like a book to Draco as he pleasures Hermione in what feels like the most limitless demonstration of his adoration.
And gods—gods—how does he manage to make Hermione feel euphoric without even completely fucking her? How do his fingers have enough electricity in the world to make her feel like she's on fire?
Hermione moans within her mouth, her lips clasped. Vibrations shoot down her chest and into her lower stomach when Draco's tongue suddenly flicks across her clit. And then it doesn't take long for her to come undone—push against his mouth and let out a solemn sigh. Crane her neck and dig her head into the duvet below her, hushing her sensual whimpers.
And when Draco's fingers slip out of her, Hermione is quick to rise from the bed, plant herself on her knees, take Draco's cheeks in her hands, and slam her lips against his. She has no care in the world of the taste of herself on his tongue—his tongue, which breaks the barrier of her lips and swipes across hers over and over.
And there's something ravenous now about it all. The drive, the spirit, the energy latched onto both of their tongues.
Hermione realizes that the game between them has changed. While it was once about vying for some sort of intellectual supremacy, it's now about neglecting the madness of the world around them. Hermione plans to win—drag Draco across the finish line with her so to bask in their shared glory of overcoming whatever the hell else the world decides to throw at them.
And that's when Hermione's hands drop to Draco's pants. She fiddles with the belt, yanks it out of the loopholes, and then fiercely unbuttons that button with one quick motion. Draco undresses himself, his lips slipping off of Hermione's from time to time as he occupies himself with that task, and then before she knows it, as she reaches her hand down to feel him, Hermione has her hand wrapped around his cock and she's releasing him from the confines of his briefs.
He's hard, the blood within him both stiff and hot with anticipation, but he's also soft, his skin like perfect velvet. Hermione's careful when she begins to pump her hand up and down him, and when he moans against her mouth and his lips grow tense against hers, Hermione suspects that she's hit a pleasant spot within him.
Through kisses, Hermione asks, "Will you forget about everything else, too?"
"Yes," he responds rather quickly, nodding simultaneously and knocking his teeth against the tip of her nose as he does so. His actions are scattered and almost wild as Hermione continues to stroke him up and down, gently circling her thumb over the head of his cock to build more tension, more desire, more euphoria within him.
Her grip around him tightens just a bit, enough for him to pull his lips away and let out another moan. Hot air fills the space between them as Hermione dips her forehead against his and works him a little faster, a little harder, a little more deeply.
Almost instinctively, Draco lets out a quiet, "yeah," and it's soft and coarse at the same time, sending Hermione into this complete state of desire.
She removes her hand, pulls on his shoulders, and crashes her back against the bed, dragging Draco down with her. Something about that little word sends her over the edge, and she forces his head down so that he's looking into her eyes, acknowledging her unquestionable consent, and then reaching down onto the ground to search for his wand.
He performs two spells—a silencing charm on the room and a contraceptive charm on her.
And in the moment that Hermione tips her head back and exposes her neck to the ceiling, Draco places his mouth right next to her ear and whispers, "Do you want to feel euphoric with me?"
Hermione rolls her head. Answers with a "yes," and then breathes deeply when Draco pushes into her.
And it's seamless.
He's already unsparing, fucking her like it's their last day on earth. Thrusting his hips and slamming against hers like going any slower would be a disservice to her needs. One of his hands finds the top of her head, and he strokes his fingers through his hair as if to get lost in it. And the other hand finds one of her breasts, and then it's replaced by his mouth, and then he's sliding his tongue across her hardened peak, and that action coupled with the way that his cock slides in and out of her intensifies everything she feels in the moment. Her body screams with bliss.
Words refuse to leave her mouth. As much as they soar through her brain—Draco, just like that—oh, gods, that feels so good—harder, faster, more, please, more more more—Hermione can barely find the breath in her lungs to say them to him.
She thinks maybe he's reading her mind, though, as he continues to fuck her perfectly. Realizes that mind-reading is more nuanced than that, in reality, so she settles on the fact that he just knows her body all too well. His speed accelerates, and the sound of his hips bucking against hers fills the room melodiously.
A moan is all she can let out. Guttural, then from her throat as she croaks when he slams into her particularly hard. She's almost embarrassed that a sound like that left her mouth, yet when she lifts her hand to clasp over her lips, Draco is quick to praise her and dispel her worries.
"Don't," he says, taking her hand in his and gluing it above her head. He slips his fingers through the spaces between hers and holds on tight. "Let me hear all of it. Let me drown in it."
She doesn't need more convincing. Draco's deep inside of her, and so she releases the grip of her teeth on her tongue and opens her mouth to gasp in delight. She can feel Draco smile against her neck and beating pulse as she breathes out pleasurable sounds—sounds she never knew she was capable of making.
And Draco loves it. Sucks on her neck—bites it a little too—and mutters affirmations into her skin as he continues to fuck her.
Something about him enjoying those sounds flicks another switch inside of Hermione—makes her want to take some charge and, once again, show Draco Malfoy exactly how much he deserves to be helped, appreciated, and loved.
"Turn over," she whimpers, finding his eyes and savoring the way that they glimmer with excitement when she says that sentence. He smiles as he rolls over onto his back, and Hermione mirrors the expression as she straddles her legs across his waist and slides herself down onto him.
It's evident in the sound he makes that Draco loses it. He throws his head back, opens his mouth, and then bites down on her lower lip to avoid inevitable stuttering.
She settles her hands upon Draco's chest and glances down at him, taking sight of the tattoos that pulse with his beating heart. One hand covers Saturn while the other settles on the constellations, and she digs her nails into his chest to greet those little stars with love.
And with some sort of superhuman strength centered in his abdomen, Draco lifts his torso off of the bed, wraps his right arm around Hermione's back, and then tugs her head down so that their lips meet again. She rocks herself against him, her hands wandering for the perfect spot on his body like they're travelers in search of shelter. The back of his head proves perfectly warm, and so Hermione's hands settle in his hair as she endures the cataclysmic feeling of Draco's cock deep inside of her.
She's not tired, she'd not tired, she can't even think about sleeping anymore. Not when she feels about a moment away from propelling into the sky and soaring next to the stars. Not when Draco's lips are as ardent as a fiendfyre. Not when all the feelings that fester within her make her feel more alive than she's ever felt in her whole life. Not when—oh gods—not when his finger is now circling around her clit and rendering her absolutely bloody useless.
It's the influx of every part of Draco being connected to her that causes Hermione to come again. Fold her trembling body against him and keen without care right into his neck.
Draco's fingernails dig into her legs and graze up her thighs. He grips down—hard—and then his hands go stiff. And when Hermione finally locates her bearings and returns to his lips, Draco exhales and feeds her the sounds of his own release, his own climax, his own bright light.
"Do you believe it now?" Hermione pants, still committed to fucking him until he comes himself. "Tell me you believe me, Draco."
He nods, and a low moan escapes his lips. "Yeah," he responds, his voice fluttering. "I believe you."
Draco follows her lead and comes undone inside of her, dropping his head into her shoulder and breathing hot air against her skin. He's catching his breath, gripping onto her thighs for dear life, and closing his eyes to take in the sensation, and all the while Hermione is stroking her fingers through the hair on the back of his head to remind him that she's here, she's present, and she's practically in fucking love with him.
She's in love with him.
How the fuck did that happen? When did that happen?
Those questions remain tangibly unanswered as she settles the side of her head against his and follows his staggered pattern of breathing.
And then her eyes journey downwards and fall upon the heart tattoo on his arm, and when she traces the outline of the heart with the tip of her finger, Hermione thinks that that action might say enough about how she feels. If he would just read between the lines, then perhaps he'd know what she means to convey with that act.
And it's obvious at this point, but Hermione can't find it in her heart to leave his arms. She doesn't want to leave. Can't bear the thought of not being attached to him.
Perhaps that's unhealthy.
But what's worse—falling madly in love with Draco Malfoy, or leaving him out to dry?
She thinks leaving him out to dry is worse. Way worse. That loving him is not a bad thing at all.
Draco's hands find her cheeks again. She loves when they're there on her face—when the cold from his palms calms the heat displayed on her cheeks. He balances her out—makes her whole.
"Come here," he whispers, guiding her off of him and then lying her down on her back with her head on the pillow below. He drops to his right arm and stares intently at Hermione as the both of them attempt to catch their fleeting breaths.
"I don't want to think about everything else," she whispers, reaching up and moving loose strands of his hair away from his forehead. "Not yet. Please. Not just yet."
Draco nods in agreement, no sign of deviation anywhere in his expression. "We don't have to." Slowly positioning Hermione on her side, Draco shuffles down and crowds his chest against her back. "Not yet." He places a delicate kiss on the back of Hermione's ear. "Not yet." His hand wraps around her stomach, and he interlocks his fingers through hers. "Not just yet."
With a peaceful sigh, Hermione truly basks in the pure moment, dreading the rise of the sun in the morning when she knows will signal the removal of herself from his arms. She wishes that she could cement this feeling forever—not have to deal with the obvious crisis before her.
But there's that nagging feeling about Draco—the one where she feels an undying need to protect him.
And so, in order for these moments to continue, Hermione realizes that she has to walk through Hell in order to pull Draco out.
But Hell with a lover is better than Hell by oneself.
And Hermione will crawl on her hands and knees if it means she can help him find earth's light yet again.