"Hey, Draco, where did you put my hairbrush?"

Draco didn't bother to look up from his copy of the Prophet. The corner of his mouth gave the barest twitch. "You actually own one of those?"

A dish towel went flying across the room, hitting him squarely on the side of the head.

"Hermione!"

The woman in question eyed the wizard she cared about, lounging on their couch with a newspaper in his grasp. It was times like this she loved and hated the most, though she hadn't verbally said as much. The normalcy stole her breath every time; she had to stop her mind regularly from spinning fantasies about these moments stretching out into years.

The fact that they'd given up on sleeping alone weeks ago didn't help matters at all. Every morning that she woke up with either his face buried in the crook of her neck or her head on his chest, their legs tangled together, it got a little harder.

She also knew that no matter how long she lived, their midnight whispers would forever be engraved in her memory.

"Is there a reason why you never take your shirt off?"

Draco snickered at her in the darkness. "Eager to see me shirtless, Granger?"

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"Alright, Hermione," he breathed. "It's that... I'm... not too fond of my scars."

She lifted her head, skewering him with a single look. "I've got scars, too, you know."

He sighed heavily, watching the roof with a look that screamed he was searching for strength. "That's different."

"How so?"

Draco turned his gaze back to her and lifted a single finger, watching her while it brushed over the scar on the side of her neck. "You didn't deserve yours."

She fought to keep a straight face, to keep still, to not give away how her body wanted to melt under his touch. "Neither did you."

Hermione's heart spiked as his touch trailed down her neck and over her shoulder, igniting a line of fire under her skin. It blazed with every feather light, lazy inch down her arm until he got to her wrist.

He turned her arm over, exposing the damning slur on her arm, and without looking up, he whispered, "Yours are proof that I do."

She shook her head sadly. He'd made her mind up for her.

"Sit up."

Draco's eyebrows shot up.

"Just do it," she huffed.

He watched her with an unspoken question as he obliged. Hermione reached out with determination only she could achieve, and, in one swift motion, pulled his shirt over his head.

She kept her initial reaction firmly in place. She was aware of his sectumsempra scars, as she'd helped treat the wounds. What she didn't expect were the other ones—large and small—that littered his skin like the aftermath of a storm. Outwardly, she appeared to be merely appraising, maybe even speculating. Inwardly, she cried and screamed at the injustice. At the proof that he'd suffered as much as she, if not more.

These weren't the act of a schoolboy who foolishly cast a spell he knew nothing about. These were the work of a monster. Rage roared just beneath the surface; she wanted to inflict the same pain Draco had suffered on whomever did this to him. It worsened when she saw his shoulders tense, the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes.

Outwardly, Hermione stayed level and calm. "Right. Now lay back down." That was when she curled herself up against him and traced every one of his scars, just as he had hers—the ones he could see, anyway. "One of these days, I hope you'll finally hear me when I say that these don't define you, Draco."

Hermione was in trouble, and she knew it.

"You are very much aware that I own a hairbrush, as you keep stealing it! Now what did you do with it?" As expected, a blue blur flew across the room and into Draco's outstretched hand. The annoying little ferret grinned at her mischievously. "You mean this one?"

Hermione wished she could vanish the stupid twinkle in his eyes. She was supposed to be irritated with him. "Hand it over, Draco." Damn him.

"Come and get it."

"Draco," she groaned. "Honestly! Christmas is tomorrow and we both have to be up early in the morning and—"

"You haven't brushed your hair or your teeth," Draco finished for her. He still hadn't wiped that no good catlike grin off his face. She was sure she'd take it back later, but right now... this wizard was a snake.

"Bloody Slytherin," Hermione grumbled.

"Bloody Gryffindor. Aren't you going to get your brush? Merlin forbid your precious routine gets disrupted..."

Oh, now he's gone too far.

Hermione stalked over to the couch and launched herself at him.

Draco caught her around the waist the moment she was within reach. A wicked smirk played on his lips the second he pulled her towards him, securing her sideways on his lap.

"Draco Lucius, I swear to Merlin—" the magicless witch whined, reaching for the brush that was just out of her grasp.

She would not think about the position she was in. She just wanted her hairbrush. There was not a single part of her that noted how perfectly right it felt for him to hold her this way. Nor a part of her that wished he wouldn't let go.

He couldn't make her admit it—not sober.

She adamantly refused to touch a single drop of alcohol after the last incident.

Hermione reached out as far as she could, ignoring the heat from Draco's chest that seeped through the Slytherin jersey she wore. She ignored the security of his arm around her waist, the solid frame against her, the urge to just curl up into him and breathe in the scent that was uniquely his.

The skin of his neck that begged to be kissed.

The sparkle of mirth in his eye.

The wide, dazzling smile that took her breath away. Every time.

The quiet, real laugh that lit him up and stole her heart.

Her eyes were on the prize, and she wouldn't tolerate unwelcome distractions.

In one swift move, Hermione's leverage was shifted from under her. A loud squeal was ripped from her as she was tipped backward, and before she fully processed what happened, her back was on the couch cushions.

She blinked up at the victorious grin on Draco's face, mere inches from hers as he hovered over her. Hermione's heart pounded loudly in her chest, her blood thundering in her ears. Draco's hair tickled her cheek, and all she could see were two pools of silver shining down at her. Vaguely, she realized that his jersey had ridden up, revealing her pajama shorts and exposed her stomach while their chests heavily rose and fell.

She wasn't sure whether or not she cared.

Goosebumps rose on her bare skin as she lay between the arms and legs that trapped her there. This was so very close to fantasies that have been running wild in her mind for a month. Ones she kept close to her chest; ones that she knew she couldn't—shouldn't—have. Her dirty little secret.

Ideas that people don't have about their friends.

Draco's eyes flickered downward for a fraction of a second. "You should stop licking your lips, Granger." The words came out raspy—like his sinful morning voice. "You're going to eventually give someone the wrong idea."

Hermione gulped. "I doubt it."

Draco shook his head, eyes closing with a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I thought you were supposed to be smart."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He took a deep breath, and, to Hermione's surprise, sat her brush on her chest. She had to withhold a groan of frustration when he leaned back, forcing herself to stay quiet as he stood and offered her his hand.

He pulled her to her feet and left her in a daze.

What on earth had that been about?

Hermione shook her head, willing her nerves to settle as she heaved herself back up the stairs. She'd worry about her routine after she tested Draco's other, more important, Christmas present. It was time.

Magic or no magic, she would always be a witch at heart. The intellectual brunette tiptoed past the bedroom they now shared at night, hardly daring to breathe. It was only when the door to the lab clicked closed that she slid to the floor, her lungs practically on fire. Ten minutes of gasping for oxygen later, Hermione finally pulled herself off the floor to check on the project she'd been working on for a month.

It looked perfect. The salve was a perfect ocean blue, cooled into a smooth, thick and odorless paste. The question was: did it work?

She already tested it on her non magical scars, of course. The smaller ones that were hidden on her ankles, the underside of her breasts, her inner thighs... Marks from another silent, untold inner battle that she was proud to say she won. Hermione was also proud to say that, after quite a bit of trial and error, it now worked splendidly on those.

Steady fingers dipped into the dense solution, and Hermione sent up a silent prayer to whomever would hear her. This needed to work. It had to.

Instead of going directly to the slur on her arm, the potioneer walked into the bathroom. The girl in the mirror who wore a determined, defiant face raised her fingers to the loud, angry scar on her neck. Hermione refused to blink, watching intently as the paste began to tingle on her skin.

Don't you dare fail me!

The Second Wizarding War veteran's chest heaved, rising and falling with abandon as her anticipation rose.

Please, please, please...

The scar pinkened at first.

Hermione crossed her fingers. All her nerves stood on end.

The skin paled next, fading into white.

Hermione's heart shot into her throat.

Before her very eyes, the raised skin sizzled a bit, before finally...

It receded—leaving her neck flawless once more.

Hermione's entire body sagged, tears of joy stinging her eyes, and she grinned widely. She'd done it. She really—as Draco would say—really fucking did it. She couldn't quite believe it, and she could see it with her own two eyes.

Her mind wanted to spin wildly, already contemplating the potential this could have for other applications, but now was not the time. Her excitement won out—she had a wizard to see. This... this could be given to him early.

Hermione dove under the counter for the spare container she kept there, in preparation for this moment and raced back into the lab. Once she filled the bowl completely, she snapped the lid on it and all but ran back to the bedroom, where she knew Draco would already be waiting with the table lamp on and a book in his hand.

The excited woman skidded to a stop by the doorframe, having to stop and catch her breath once more. Merlin help me, she thought. Please, please just let me live to see the new year.

With her breathing back under control, Hermione eased the bedroom door open.

She softened at the sight before her. It was everything she secretly wanted, and everything she couldn't have, but Merlin did she dream. Draco's profile was illuminated in the most perfect way; sitting up in bed, shirtless and comfortable, with soft green sheets barely pulled up to his waist, engrossed in a novel with a pair of glasses resting halfway down his nose that he swore to any and everyone he didn't own.

"Hey, Draco?" Hermione whispered.

She fought a smile when he only moved his head half an inch, saying, "Hmm?"

"Since it's Christmas tomorrow..."

He fully lifted his head then, his gaze immediately finding the container in her hand. "What's that you've got?"

This time, it was Hermione who wore the catlike grin. "An early present. You can have your other one tomorrow, before we leave to see our families."

She knew he'd put on his questioning face. He didn't disappoint. "Is that what you've been working on all month?"

Not much gets past Draco, it seems. She nodded, trying and failing to hide her excitement.

"What is it?"

Hermione nearly squealed when she turned her head to expose her scar free neck and heard Draco's sharp intake of breath.

"You have got to be the most brilliant, amazing, swottiest witch in existence."

She'd take that—any day of the week.

The "witch" in question all but skipped over to the bed. She was still not skipping anywhere. "Don't thank me, yet." Hermione hurriedly climbed in beside him and, before he could stop her, eagerly took hold of his arm. His gaze darted directly to hers in alarm.

"This is the one that bothers you the most," Hermione explained quietly, "and it doesn't belong on someone that never was one." With that, she tenderly turned his forearm to face her and pressed her lips directly to his Dark Mark.

Hermione instantly regretted the impulse but said nothing. She instead chose to keep her eyes focused on the task at hand and ignore the burning in her face. With practiced efficiency, she popped the lid open and kept her breathing even as she spread the salve over the symbol of her Draco's torment.

"Hermione—" The wizard murmured.

"Shh! I need to watch this."

"But—"

Hermione could hardly believe it as she watched the paste sizzle, just like before. Black ink began to bubble up and run down the sides, leaving the potioneer scrambling to pull the bottom of the jersey out to keep it from running on the sheets. She frantically placed Draco's arm over the fabric, eyes round and jaw dropped with awe, once more, at the capabilities of magic. As the stream of ink continued, she gripped his hand tightly in hers, nearly bouncing with elation. The stream of black slowed, and when the Mark faded to white, Hermione nearly cried with joy.

Finally... Draco's skin was like new.

"It worked, Draco. It really worked," Hermione sniffled, overwhelmed by the staggering, monumental significance of the moment. A single tear fell onto the new, blank skin, and she worked to keep from breaking down into sobs.

"Now you." The words were a single, broken whisper, and Hermione's head snapped up.

Draco's eyes shone with unshed tears, his Adam's Apple bobbing in a way she'd never seen before. Hermione's hands immediately flew to the sides of his face. "Hey," she cooed. "What's—"

"Your turn," he said, this time a bit more firmly.

Hermione softened. "This one's different." She knew exactly what he meant.

"How so?"

"That's simple," she stated matter-of-factly. "I am one."

She wanted to roll her eyes at the flash of steel in his eyes and the hardening of his jaw. He could whine and pout all the wanted, but...

"Like hell you are. Why do you say that? Because I told you that you were? Because I was the royal dick who wanted to feel superior by making you feel less than what you are? Because... Damn it, I saw your blood, Hermione!"

If there was one thing Hermione couldn't stand, it was when Draco had these self-depreciating spirals. She cupped his face in her hands and forced him to look at her.

"Draco," she breathed, holding him in place when he tried to turn his head.

"Hermione," he growled.

"Draco," Hermione said, matching his tone in warning.

The pair glared at each other—a standoff that only they would have. Their chests rose and fell dramatically, nostrils flared, mouths pressed into matching hard lines. Neither of them wanted to concede to the other.

That is, until Draco placed his hand behind Hermione's head and kissed her.

It wasn't one of those gentle, sweet kisses that girls often read about in romance novels—and that suited her perfectly. Fireworks exploded inside her head, her heart, her spirit as soon as his frustrated, aggravated lips met hers. She launched herself at him, eagerly throwing her arms around his neck and tackled him onto the bed.

Peppermint tea was now Hermione's favorite kind, hands down.

A shameless sigh of pleasure spilled from her throat, and she relished in the upward curve of Draco's lips. His deep, satisfied hum of approval was the most beautiful sound she'd ever heard.

She also had no idea that butterflies could be so violent. That is, until they swarmed through and out her stomach, penetrating her veins, her blood, causing her heart to pound out a heated, jagged rhythm in her chest. She loved it.

She loved that Draco held the back of her head, threading his fingers through her hair and holding her firmly in place while the other skimmed along her back and hitched her legs on either side of him.

Hermione greedily pulled him closer to her, if that were possible, desperate to erase every single inch of space. She wanted this. She needed this like she needed air to breathe. She wasn't sure that any of it was real, but she would be damned if she didn't take advantage of every second she could.

It was Draco who broke the kiss first, though he would be remiss if he didn't grin broadly at Hermione's whine of protest. "Now it's your turn, you maddening, beautiful, brilliant witch."

"In a minute. Shut up and kiss me," Hermione murmured.

Draco's eyes bloody sparkled, and the smile he gave her made a patronus look weak.

"Yes, ma'am."

Later that night, as the pair lay awake in the darkness, curled around each other with their legs intertwined, it was Draco who spoke first.

"Hey, Mi?"

A deaf man could hear the smile in her voice.

"Hmm?"

"Don't you dare call me your friend again."

Draco's hold on Hermione tightened as she giggled.

"Alright, then what do I call you?"

His response was instant.

"Yours. And you're mine."

Hermione pulled Draco's face back down to hers, and they picked up where they left off.

It was the best Christmas gift she's ever gotten—and that included the blank, renewed skin where a slur used to be.