If Draco was dreaming, he didn't want to wake up. Ever. He'd murder whoever dared to try—unless it was Mi, or possibly his mother. The two witches he cared about the most would always be the exception.

Draco felt like he could finally breathe, finally think, now that he could freely think it; could finally use the name that had been hovering around the farthest corners of his mind. Always there, but never allowed to surface.

Granger—Hermione—Mi—who was he kidding? Her names were practically interchangeable.

She both built and destroyed him. Challenged him and comforted him. Drove him utterly mad and turned his whole world on its head, stole his breath with a single look. If he were truly honest, she just had to be in the same room.

He never knew how liberating total honesty with himself could be.

He never felt more alive than he did in this moment.

He still wasn't sure it was real, but he would be damned if he ever let this go.

After all, he is an inherently selfish bastard. The witch in his bed didn't know it yet, but if Draco had it his way—and he had no qualms with doing whatever it took to get his way—these mornings would never end.

Draco sighed as he watched the sleeping witch beside him. He already couldn't see himself with anyone else, and all they'd done was snog. A lot. Heavily.

As long as he was going to continue down this road of honesty, he might as well admit one more thing: it was the best damn kiss of his life.

Vanilla coffee topped with cinnamon was his favorite flavor in the world now.

The night before, Mi did what she does best—simultaneously blowing him away and ripping his heart out of his chest. Now that he thought about it, it was a lot like the first morning they woke up together. Draco shook his head slowly, rolling his eyes at the ceiling at the memory. Only his witch would automatically assume a wizard was drunk because he showed her affection. Then again, because it was Mi, her first response would be to take care of him.

She was always taking care of him. Idly, he wondered if that stemmed from eight years of making sure Potter and the Weasel didn't kill themselves. He'd gladly hire Winky to help Mi around the house full time if it weren't for the fact that she would throw a fit, no matter how much she liked her personally.

Draco wanted to take care of her. He's never taken care of anyone, but he wanted to do that for her. If she'd let him, she'd be the most spoiled witch in England, if not the world. Key words: if she would let him.

Mi left him shaking his head, more often than not. How could such a fiery, brilliant witch be so bloody oblivious? She read him like one of her books when it came down to literally anything else, but when it came down to all the glaringly obvious signs that he did a shit job of hiding... nothing. If she were an outsider, reading their very situation with any other two people, she would have pieced it together ages ago.

Clearly, it took just showing her. Draco had been certain that it all would have come to a head when he heard her drunken admission—even if it was just a game—and he'd all but said, "yes, please!"

It took every ounce of restraint in his body to not attempt kicking the Weasel siblings out of the house right then and there. He'd been shell shocked at first, frozen to the spot right by the front door while he listened to the witches starting their game. What possessed Weaselette to bring up his name to begin with? When Mi boldly proclaimed that she'd take him to bed, he literally had to readjust himself before making his presence known.

It wasn't one of his finest moments, but it was better than the alternative.

Needless to say, it was quite easy to forget she was a virgin at that point, and Draco didn't take up the Older Weasel on his offer to stick around. The other reason being he didn't like the way Mi's head casually rested on his lap. Like she belonged to him or something. The way that prick looked at her was enough to make him want to snap his wand in half. He knew that look—it was one that he found on his own face frequently around her.

Minnie was a terrible nickname for a witch like her. It was too... basic. Too plain. Not to mention it reminded him of McGonagall. The old bat's name is Minerva, for fuck's sake!

Draco fought the shudder that wanted to shoot through him. Leave it to a Weasel to slap an off-brand, cheap label on gold.

He could admit that he didn't like that they had those cutesy little nicknames for each other, at least, to himself. He hated the jealousy that tended to flare when he thought about it. A Malfoy, jealous of a Weasley, was entirely unheard of! That was something he would take to his grave, hands down.

Leave it to someone with a heart like hers to see something worthwhile in people like that. As long as she cared about them, he'd have to keep working on holding his tongue when it comes to anything Weasel-related. That venture seemed to be doing alright so far—Weaselette didn't try to hex him when he walked in the door.

Every morning that he woke up with this infuriatingly beautiful witch—inside and out—it got harder to keep his hands, his thoughts, and his feelings, to himself. Especially when she took to prancing around the house in his bloody quidditch jersey. She was a siren, and she didn't even know it.

The witch drove him bloody mad. The shower became his best friend several weeks ago. A shit-eating grin spread across Draco's face at the thought. He could let her know what she did to him now.

On another note, it was no bloody wonder she more or less locked herself away in the room she kicked them both out of for the past month. He knew she was up to something. When isn't she up to something? The witch had been hanging around the likes of Potter all this time.

It both unsurprising and yet awe-inspiring that it was her who defied the laws of magic to once more prove the entire wizarding world wrong. She's Hermione fucking Granger; what else could anyone expect? That genius of a witch has been doing that ever since she set foot in this world. Draco should know that better than anyone. He spent nearly his entire life at war with himself when it came down to her.

He spent it hating the fact that she was a walking, talking, breathing contradiction to everything he was ever told. Hating that Potter rejected his offer of friendship, just to see him hanging around with her. Hating that he both made and broke a promise to her, and all because he found out what she was and what it was supposed to mean to pureblood wizards like him.

It made him question himself. He didn't like to question himself, so naturally he would turn his anger toward the source of his own doubt.

Draco suppressed a snort, not wanting to wake her. She still made him question himself. She made him question everything, question the entire world. Only, now he wouldn't trade it for anything.

Mi gave him the second greatest gift he could have ever gotten when she removed his Mark and gave him his life back. The witch topped everything the second her deliciously soft, eager lips returned his kiss.

He panicked when he heard his own words coming out of that pretty, brilliant mouth again. She'd gutted him in the most frustrating way humanly possible. He almost wished she'd have been cruel or heartless, but when she kissed his damned Mark, she all but unmanned him. Draco had never experienced anything so... unnervingly intimate in his entire life! The witch shredded his heart, pieced it back together, and then stole the damn thing in one simple move that meant more than the world.

When she echoed a nicer version of his own words back at him, he could practically feel her slipping through his fingers. He practically tasted the self-depreciation that somehow registered as truth in her mind, and he couldn't stand it.

Mi proved that she needed to be convinced, somehow, that she was worth a lot more than the slurs he once threw at her. For someone who regularly preached scars not defining a person, it scared the shit out of him to see that wound on her arm define her. Draco would gladly admit that he panicked, so he did the only thing he knew to do. He took her by the back of her head and showedher how wrong they both were. There was no better way to derail the smartest, most logical witch in the world than override that brain of hers with emotion.

It was a gamble—she could have slapped the piss out of him again—but it was one he'd gladly take again.

Those little mewls of hers branded him permanently. The way she held him, molding her delectable body against his, mahogany curls draping around him, chocolate eyes shining in the dark—and those fucking giggles! That wide, adoring smile he never thought would be aimed at him...

His bed smelled like vanilla. He wanted that. Wanted her—happy and smiling and laughing at him and reading with him and—everything. He wanted everything. Forever, if she'd have him.

He wanted to give her something as meaningful as what she gave him. He wanted to be the one that made sure she finally saw herself clearly. Merlin, those words would haunt him as much as her laugh and the freckles that dotted her face like stars.

"That's simple. I am one." She'd said it so calmly, as if it were one of those facts she rattled off in class. The idea made him want to hit something, someone—except he was the one that did this to her. Would she let him make it right?

On an equally important note, he needed to check on his own project. If he didn't get it figured out, and soon, there would be no forever. Draco swallowed. The idea that she wouldn't be in this world scared the shit out of him before, but now, after spending day in and day out with her for the past month... after last night... it made him physically ill.

Right now, though, he could focus on everything that was right and good in his world. By that, he meant the sun kissed arm draped over his waist. The warm, pliable frame that was halfway sprawled across his own; the head that rested on his chest, the curls that tickled his cheeks. He would gladly focus on the beautiful face that looked so peaceful in sleep; the soft snores that reached his ears and now lulled him into the most restful sleep he's had in years.

Draco could focus on the genius mind behind the face and the smart-assed statements that were almost always right before a gesture of kindness. He could focus on eyes that saw right through him and endless moments where she called him on his shit.

His chest tightened at the same time her arm did. Yeah. He could definitely focus on that.

"Draco, stop thinking so loudly. We're sleeping."

Her words, nearly a perfect echo of his own from that first morning, were possibly the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Draco only held her tighter. He couldn't—wouldn't—lose this. "You're drunk," he murmured.

That full, sleepy smile on her face was everything.

"Stay," she sighed, and for a moment, Draco weighed the risks of cancelling Christmas dinner with his mother. He slowly shook his head, an exasperated smile spreading across his face as he watched her eyes flutter open.

His heart was supposed to be black, hardened, cold, and unbeating. He was a Malfoy. He was a Death Eater; the embodiment of everything that was evil and cruel. So why did his heart warm and swell when he looked at her? Why did it race when she smiled at him, and why did holding her in his arms make him feel like coming home?

She was going to ruin him—and he would let her and love every second of it.

Holy shit. I fucking love her. I'm in love with Hermione.

"Only until we have to leave. It's Christmas, so we have to actually go see people today."

Mi's disappointed sigh echoed exactly how he felt. "I suppose you're right."

She wanted to stay. Here. With him.

That knowledge was worth all the gold and goblin silver in the world. Draco's chest felt like it might burst as he tipped her face up to his. When that beautiful witch beamed up at him, a piece of his inner monster died. The moment her arm snaked around his neck, everything him melted—fucking melted—at her touch. His nerves spiked with want and excitement, as though he were a Third Year all over again, and so when he pressed his lips to hers... he couldn't feel the darkness anymore.

What are you doing to me, Mi?

Something long buried—something he actually thought dead—snapped and roared to the surface as his witch's breath hitched. That sweet sound was music to his ears. His heart thundered in his chest when she wound her other arm around him, and he was more than eager to pull her flush to him. He needed her like he needed magic in his blood. This witch. His witch.

Draco felt eager, greedy fingers diving into his hair, and, merlin help him, those short fingernails grazing his scalp made his eyes roll in the back of his head. A sharp intake of breath bolted straight into his lungs; lightning became one with the blood in his veins.

He'd never felt more pure in his life than right now, wrapped up in the arms of this muggle born witch.

He frantically reached for the leg that was already draped across him and hoisted her on top of him. He needed to see her fully; needed to see the desire in her eyes that matched his own.

Her touch was heaven, her embrace was home... her body against his was a wet dream.

Hermione's kiss should be a sin.

Draco felt her heat grinding against his groin and he knew right then and there that if he didn't slow this down, neither of them would be going anywhere.

Of course, that was before the little minx put his willpower to the ultimate test. Her. Lips. Were. Against. His. Ear. "Draco," Mi moaned, and he swore out loud. There wasn't a sweeter sound—a more demanding siren's call—in the universe.

Merlin. Fucking. Help him.

Seriously.

Draco couldn't honestly say how he managed to find the strength to put his hands on her hips and simply hold her still. It went against everything he wanted—and he rarely did anything he didn't want to do.

This absolutely counted as one of those rare moments. Without question.

"Mi," Draco gasped. "Are you trying to kill me?"

That mischievous, sly grin on her face nearly did him in.

"And how, exactly, would I be doing that?"

The little minx then had the nerve to run her perfect hands up his chest, trailing along the sides of his neck with the tips of her nails until she got to his face, leaving a trail of flames and power in her wake. Draco's grip on her hips tightened, his breath quickening beneath her, both his eyes drifting closed as his jaw slacked.

Yes. She was absolutely trying to kill him. He was certain of it.

"Don't... play dumb," Draco breathed.

Every cell in his body came alive when he felt the palms of her hands cupping his face. They exploded when velvet lips pressed onto his. "Merry Christmas, Draco." The words sounded sweeter than honey.

He instantly felt the absence of her warmth. His eyes snapped open to find his witch sauntering to the door, her sultry hips swaying in a way that made him seriously consider the repercussions of owling Mother. Draco swallowed.

"Merry Christmas, Hermione."

It wasn't until after the door closed behind her that he realized she'd been holding something green in her hand.

Did she steal my tie?

Merlin, he loved her.

Draco had to stop himself from acting like a little schoolgirl, with the extra spring in his step bordering dangerously on skipping. Men—especially Malfoy men—do not skip. He may genuinely love the witch in the other room, but he still had his dignity to consider.

The ridiculously stupid grin that spread across his face didn't give a damn about either one. It was already shaping up to be the best Christmas that he could remember. If anyone told him a few years ago, that the lightness he felt was all because of Hermione Granger, he would have hexed them himself and laughed in their face. It would have been a sick, twisted joke to him then.

Time brings along surprising changes.

That was also why, as he dressed and reached into the top drawer of his dresser, his stomach twisted into knots. Would she like it? Was it too much, too soon?

He held the pendant in his hand by its silver chain and watched it shine in the morning light. When he had it made, they were still skirting around each other, both uselessly trying their hardest to hide the way they felt from the other. He'd hoped, at the time, it might help her to get a clue—protective properties aside.

It held a much more significant meaning to him now.

Would it to her?

Draco critically examined the silver dragon, with its head dipped and wigs held open while its serpent-like tail spiraled downwards. Nestled inside the larger spiral was a single sapphire. He'd tied Hermione's birthstone to his own magic source.

She wouldn't always be with him—as a matter of fact, she spent a lot of time here alone—so it seemed important that she be protected when nobody was with her. A witch or wizard was a lot more likely to threaten her than a muggle.

Would it make him seem overbearing? Would she take it as an insult to her own capabilities?

He cringed once more at his history of doing exactly that. If he could beat the shit out of his snotty younger self, he would.

"Get a grip," Draco muttered. "You're a fucking Malfoy. Be a man and just fucking do it already." It was easy enough for him to say, alright, until he saw her standing at the top of the stairs.

At first, she didn't seem to notice him. She'd relaxed her curls and pinned them back, so they fell in waves down her back. He wanted to touch them, but for a moment, he wondered what it was like to dress in such a casual manner to see family. It was more than clear that that's what the Weasleys were to her. What was also clear was that their traditions were the complete opposite of his own.

Well, they were Weasleys. He didn't expect formal dinners and the like from that lot.

His Gryffindor girlfriend, as expected, wore a red jumper, but what he hadn't expected it to look so gorgeous on her. It had a softer, more feminine look with lacelike sleeves and hung loosely on her frame.

Draco eyed her a bit more critically. Something didn't seem quite right. Was she losing weight? A sharp pang of worry cut through him like a knife. He didn't need to ask why. He knew, and he also knew that he would beg Mother for help if he needed to.

He wanted to kick himself for getting so caught up in the joy of getting the girl, that he almost forgot the more important thing—and that was finishing that elixir.

For once, Draco straightened his spine for something other than himself. Drawing on years of practice, he arranged his features in an expression that, to anyone else, would appear to be perfectly relaxed. "Mi," he grinned.

He should have known that the moment she turned around, she'd see right through him. Her mouth instantly set into a frown. "What's wrong?" He stifled a sigh. They've known each other nearly all their lives; he'd never get anything past her.

Draco settled for the truth. "I'm a bit nervous."

His girlfriend's—he loved being able to say that—eyebrows shot up. "You? Nervous? Whatever for?"

This. This he could do. Thank you, Mi.

"You see, I bought this girl a Christmas present, and I'm not quite sure if she'll like it."

He nearly snorted at the quizzical spark on her face.

"Alright, let's start with the girl. Is she a family member? What sort of girl is she?"

Draco didn't know whether to be disappointed or elated that she didn't automatically think of herself when he said that. He did, however, find it interesting that she did instantly ask if the girl was family.

Jealous, Mi?

He was going to have fun with this.

"Definitely not family."

"Well?" Mi demanded. "What sort of girl is she?"

I think I detect a hint of jealousy, Mi.

She was going to make this more fun than a little bit.

"Well," Draco said, working to keep the amusement off his face, "this witch isn't exactly a material person." He took a small step toward her, relishing in the slight pink tint in her cheeks. "She's a certified genius, she has a secret love of the arts, and a terribly unhealthy need to put everyone else before herself. Sometimes, that need even comes at the risk of her own life, with all that Gryffindor bravery that nearly always overrides common sense. Frankly, I've only seen her do anything for herself once in my entire life, and she's nearly a year older than me."

Draco cherished the hitch in her breath and nearly lost his composure when that slight bit of pink started turning red. "This witch is also a bit mad but has a heart bigger than the world." The corner of his mouth pulled up. He could get used to the slight tightening in his chest. "I think the only things bigger than her heart are her sweet tooth and her temper, especially without her morning coffee."

That spark of earlier reignited as he brushed her hair back behind her shoulder. "She'd rather go to the Hog's Head or read than watch the tele. She's far too quick to forgive, and I have yet to see a single thing she can't do when she puts her mind to it."

He fucked up and got lost in the wonder within her eyes.

"Just as I thought," he murmured. "Your ears aren't even pierced. Does that heart of yours have any room for yourself, or is it too full from the love you have for everyone else?"

"I'm sure whatever it is," Mi breathed, her mouth mere inches from his, "she'll love it." They both swallowed. "It's the thought that matters more than the gift itself."

It took Draco far too long to remember the pendant in his pocket.

"In that case, will you lift your hair?"

Hermione silently nodded and obliged. Relief flooded through him in waves.

He didn't waste any time clasping the necklace around her neck, but it was her gasp of surprise that floored him.

"Draco! It's beautiful."

He froze. This wasn't one of those polite compliments designed for social niceties. This witch actually meant it. He blinked. It was a basic pendant—a plain little thing, actually, compared to the other pieces and bobbles that just sat in his family's vault. He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.

She literally held the thing in her hand, gaping at it in sheer wonder. He'd never seen anything like it. Her gaze snapped up to his, and he found himself in shock, too. Why did she look like she was going to cry?

"Mi?"

"Nobody's ever—"

That was all he needed to hear.

Draco pulled her to his chest. His hold tightened when he felt his shirt dampen while she shook in his arms. He could kill the Weasel with his bare hands.

She sniffed. "I'm—"

"Don't you dare apologize," he muttered. "Besides, you might be a bit pissed off at me in a second."

"Why?" She mumbled; her voice muffled by his shirt.

"Because... it's not just a necklace. The sapphire has... magical qualities."

She stilled, and he panicked.

"Think of it like... a detector of sorts. It will glow if it comes near any mind-altering potion..."

Though her breathing started to even out, her silence kept every one of his nerves standing on end. "Italsoservesasashieldagainstunfriendlyspells."

Draco swallowed, fearing the worst when Hermione slowly raised her gaze up to his.

"Say what?"

"It... it also serves as a shield. Against unfriendly spells."

He was prepared for anger. He almost expected to have to buffer against indignation, maybe having to explain that he wasn't insulting her. What he hadn't expected, however, was that familiar spark of curiosity.

"How does that work? Is it some sort of advanced charm work? Would it be tied to the specific user, or does it work for whomever used it?"

Thank Merlin. His witch was back.

Feeling loads lighter, Draco took her hand in his and decided that it might be best if they walked and talked at the same time. It was almost time for him to meet with his mother, and she with her Weasels. "I would say that it's pretty advanced charm work, but don't ask me how it's done. I don't have a clue. As for your other question, it's tied specifically to you. It won't work for anyone else."

Hermione opened her mouth once more, ready to ask another question, as he knew she would. "Your hairbrush," he smirked. "You shed worse than any dog I've ever met—ow! Must you be so—"

"Violent? Yes, especially when I'm being insulted."

Draco paused. "So, you're not offended? By the necklace?"

"No. Should I be?"

He didn't get a chance to answer, because the center of his world reached up on her tiptoes and threw her arms around him. Vanilla, parchment, and coffee assaulted him, and suddenly he forgot how to speak.

"Draco, you're protecting me. Of course, it's far too much, but I couldn't ask for anything better. It's the most thoughtful, precious gift I've ever gotten. Thank you." The caress of her lips against his brought everything home. This. This was home. "Although, now I think I should be concerned about whether you'll like your gift."

Draco stilled. "Another? Mi, you've already—"

The sly witch pressed a single finger to his mouth, stopping him.

"Shh. Don't argue with me right now. We can argue later."

The wizard sputtered under her finger.

Mi, to his surprise, bloody grinned at him. "What? Making up is the best part. Didn't you know?"

Who the hell was this witch, and where was Hermione?

His eyes narrowed while she fished in her bag. "What did you say to me right before you were admitted to St. Mungo's?" Predictably, she rolled her eyes. "Alright, now I'm insulted. I tried to tell you not to let Harry get anything out of my desk, because my bloody medical papers and my will was in the drawer."

His relief must have been more obvious than he thought, because she snorted.

"I guess it's fair. I thought you were polyjuiced for a bit there, just because you weren't being a colossal tosser."

Well, well. Hermione does know how to swear.

The witch in question rolled her eyes, and Draco snorted. Sometimes, he swore she was a Legillimens. Of course, given who she was, would it really be a surprise?

All thought processes came screeching to a stop when he looked down at her hand. The only thing more perfect than this was the salve of her own invention.

Draco instantly removed his current cufflinks.

"Would you be a dear and help me with those, love?"

Hermione's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before she broke out in a gorgeous smile.

"Of course."

This would be the pair he wore with every shirt he owned, of that he had no doubt. There wasn't a thing in the world more fitting than a pair that depicted a lion's head and a snake that were nose to nose.