*This chapter contains lyrics from Everything Changes by Staind*
Hermione loved the time she spent with the Weasleys, but this year, she was beyond ready to go home. She adored Molly and all her motherly fussing. She delighted in answering Arthur's endless, endearing questions about muggles whenever he couldn't catch Harry with them. She loved seeing Bill and Fleur. They'd wasted no time starting a family; she was already pregnant, and everyone was excited about the news.
She'd been ecstatic to see Charlie, and, to a certain extent, it was even nice to see Percy. As always, she was glad to see George and Ginny, with their barely concealed antics, innuendos, and overall good-natured shenanigans. She loved them all. Most of all, she was overjoyed to see Harry and Ron, her boys, home, alive, and in one piece. That in itself was the most precious gift of all.
Speaking of gifts, the silver pendant against her skin, hidden underneath her jumper, had been on her mind all day. Molly wound up having to repeat questions a couple of times, she'd been so distracted. Hermione couldn't meet the knowing, mischievous glimmer in Ginny's eyes during those moments. She knew that look meant an unwanted, pending inquisition later that she wasn't remotely prepared for. When Ginny smelled gossip, she was a downright terror.
She also wasn't ready to deal with the questions brewing behind the calm on Harry's face, though she was thankful for Ron's love of food. It kept him occupied, oblivious to her lapses of attentiveness. As far as he was concerned, it was the loud, chaotic gathering that pulled her mind in all directions, and if it weren't for all that had happened at home, he'd be correct.
Hermione decided to implement a new tradition after Voldemort's defeat, and she thought it was quite brilliant. Luckily, so did Harry and Ron. For the last two years, she's bought two different sets of gifts: books for the rest of her friends and family, as that is what is expected of her. She knew they'd never read them, but everything was still too fresh to jar her loved ones any more than necessary. The true gift behind it, one that went unspoken, was keeping something solid and familiar.
For those closest to her, she quietly gives them a separate, "real" gift.
Last year, it started as a tiny, miniscule rebellion against the image she'd created for herself. The boys had been shocked, but ecstatic. Ron had even given her a kiss square on the mouth, flabbergasted but pleased at the turn of events. Having spent his entire life being a sidekick, an afterthought, or the kid who got the hand-me-downs, the fact that he would be in such a special, privileged position with anyone was something he didn't quite know what to do with. Hermione didn't know what to do with that, either. Ron had always been a special person to her. She never expected it to mean so much to him.
What pulled at her heart strings more than anything else, though, was Harry's silent tears of joy. She'd pulled him into a crushing hug and cried with him when he told her that it still amazed him that anyone saw him as a person, and not just the orphan boy from the broom cupboard or the Boy Who Lived. He blubbered about already knowing that she saw him as a person, knowing that they were a family, but at times he still felt like the child who had spiders for friends.
She remembered clearly how they'd all laughed when Ron shuddered.
In the end, it was Harry who turned the action into something she would make a tradition, for as long as she lived. Now that she, too, was an orphan, it seemed more imperative than ever.
That's why it didn't surprise her in the slightest when Harry sat down on the grass beside her. Instead of trying to come up with something to say, Hermione simply scooted closer to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. For them, this one movement was an act as old as the world: a symbolism of all they'd been through. Brother and sister contented themselves to staring up at the stars above them, with Harry's arm draping over Hermione's shoulder and tucking her into his side.
She was nearly asleep when Harry's quiet voice jolted her eyes open. "Are you okay, Hermione? Really?" Hermione turned her head slightly, once more examining the five o' clock shadow that didn't quite sit well with her, the small crack in the lenses of Harry's glasses, and the messier-than-normal state of his hair. It was hard to see in the dim light that barely reached their hiding place, but earlier she noticed what appeared to be bruises forming under his eyes.
The brightness that was only just starting to shine in the jade of his irises again had dimmed.
"I'm okay, Harry," Hermione mumbled, "but when are you going to tell me what happened with you?" Predictably, the man just hung his head a bit before looking back at her. "Nothing gets past you, does it?" She rolled her eyes and lightly nudged his ribs. "You should know better." A deafening silence fell between them, and she couldn't stand it. "Talk to me. What is it?"
The heavy, melancholy sigh that fell from Harry's mouth might as well have been a bullet from a gun. "It's Ginny. She's talking about needing some space, and I..."
When Harry's voice cracked, so did her heart.
"Oh, Harry." Hermione wrapped her arms around his waist, determined to squeeze his broken pieces back together. If Ginny Weasley broke his heart, she'd never forgive her, no matter how much she loved her. With that being said, the whole thing didn't make any sense. As she held him, her mind raced through every conversation between her and the redhead. There had to be a way to fix this...
A lightbulb suddenly lit, and that gave Hermione hope. She could fix this.
"Hey," she said quietly, "I think you two just need to talk."
"Hermione—"
"No, Harry," she cooed, placing a quick, chaste kiss on his shoulder. "Every time I talk to Ginny, she tells me that you're it for her."
With Harry's depressed sigh, Hermione decided that it might be a good time to give him their Christmas presents. She gently untangled herself from her best friend, ignoring his curious stare. A few moments later, she pulled out two Firebolt 2000's from her bag, along with his invisibility cloak he'd loaned her nearly two months ago. "You two need to get back to the thing you both love the most," she announced, her voice still just barely above a whisper. "I'm sure if you talk it through, it'll all work out."
Hermione had to suppress the loud, booming laugh that threatened to come loose from her chest at the sight of Harry's gaping face. Instead, she wrapped his hands around the broomsticks. "Merry Christmas, Harry. Now go!"
The relief flooded through him was enough both fill her heart and shred it to pieces. "You're the best, you know that?"
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Yes, yes, now go! Off with you! Go get your witch!"
When Harry grabbed the back of her head, it was a totally different feeling than when Draco did it. She knew what to expect, for one. Harry lifted his chin at the same time that she lowered hers, and she welcomed the familiar warmth in her heart that came with one of Harry's forehead kisses. "I didn't bring yours, but your present is back at home," Harry whispered. "So don't think I forgot about you, okay?" Hermione grinned. "I know."
Harry made it about five paces before Hermione blurted, "Oh, and Harry?"
He turned around, an amused smile playing on his face. "Yeah?"
"The spell to fix your glasses is Oculus Reparo."
The pair shared a wistful grin, memories of their first meeting lingering, unspoken.
"You know, when I came out here, I half expected you to take out your wand and just do it."
Hermione's chest burned. "Well, if you'd stop breaking your glasses, silly, I wouldn't have to, would I?"
"You know," Harry said thoughtfully, "I think this pair is going to have to stay cracked for a while. Knowing my luck, I'd just make it worse."
Everything that was right there, tangible but unspoken between them lingered in the space between them. It was a miracle that her voice stayed level through her watery smile. "I love you, too, Harry."
Thankfully, giving Ron his new Wizard's Chess set and pile of chocolate frogs wasn't nearly as eventful. The pair exchanged quiet "thank you's" and "how have you been's," quietly catching up in the dark. It felt like old times, and for that she was thankful. The pair even played a round before she sent him off with a quick hug and her best wishes. He'd promised Lavender he'd spend the night with her, as she'd had to work today.
George was ridiculously ecstatic with his gift of Zonko's dungbombs and Spotted Bubble-Hiccup Beans. The wizard literally scooped her up and swung her around as though she were a doll. She hadn't been able to help the delighted squeal that he wrenched from her—she loved the feeling of spinning in the air, and it was a feeling that lifted her spirits every time.
Just like with Harry, she firmly told the others that if anyone asked, they did not come from her.
Normally, when it was time to leave, Hermione usually felt a little sad. This time, however, her feelings were mixed. She loved her time at the Burrow, and she was still a little sad to leave, but she was also excited to be getting home. There was a certain blonde wizard that she couldn't wait to see. So, when she glanced up at the sky and saw a pair of silhouettes flying side by side against the moon, she was content.
Hermione took a deep breath and let the earthy, fresh smell of trees and freshly cut grass wash over her. When she was a younger girl, she believed that this smell from her Amortentia was indicative of her feelings toward Ron. Now that she was older, it carried a different meaning for her. Her parent's backyard carried a nearly identical smell. Narcissa's garden, too, smelled much the same when she visited as a child, except it was much more floral.
She wondered how Draco's mother would feel about her now.
"I get lost in my thoughts out here, too, sometimes."
Hermione didn't have to turn far to see the face that matched the voice.
"It's quite easy, isn't it?"
Charlie strode up to her side, perfectly at ease. The man that this family rarely saw joined her in staring up at the moon, hands tucked in the pockets of his worn dragonhide jeans, long scarlet ponytail brushing the small of his back. "It is."
"I find that when I'm faced with an impossible situation, the answer is to just do it."
Hermione started. "What?" Her head whipped toward the Dragonologist. "What are you saying?" Charlie's face came into view, the Burrow's back light finally reaching him, and he gave her a crooked smile. "There's only a few things in life that make people stare at the moon for this long. Especially from this spot."
Hermione folded her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling exposed.
"I suppose you have a point."
Charlie nodded, turning his sights back to the sky. "I like to think of this as the Thinking Spot. Every single one of us has been out here, at some point or another, when life gets to be a bit much. Guess that means you really are one of us."
Tears pricked at her eyes once more as she turned her own sights back upwards.
"That means a lot, Charlie."
He shrugged, and she said nothing.
"Whatever it is, chances are you're fucked either way, so you might as well go with the option you can live with."
Just like that, a huge weight fell off her chest. He was absolutely right, so Hermione reached into the neck of her jumper and pulled out her pendant. There was no point in hiding it.
"You know what? You're pretty brilliant. Thank you."
He nodded, and it felt like a weight fell off of him, too. "Working with creatures who can kill you in an instant will teach you a thing or two."
"How is Norbert, anyway?"
A boyish grin snapped across his features, and it took several years off him instantly. "He's doing great, Hermione."
"I'll have to make sure to tell Hagrid then."
A light chuckle that she would have never expected to come from a guy who appeared to be so serious took her off guard. "No need. He checks in on him from time to time. The man still insists he's his mum."
Hermione was still laughing about that when she stumbled back into her own living room. This day officially inspired her beyond all measure, and she knew the perfect end to her perfect day.
She felt giddy as she eased herself up the stairs toward their rooms. Light, even, as she changed into a pair of leggings and one of Draco's button-down shirts. The figurative icing on the cake was slipping the tie she stole from him this morning openly around her neck, framing her new pendant that sat openly between her breasts. When she rolled the sleeves up to her elbows and bunched her hair atop her head, she was ready. She'd go as far as to say that she was more comfortable than she'd been all day.
This was home was supposed to feel like. Here, in her parent's home, dressed in clothes she stole from her... boyfriend.
Hermione's cheeks burned. She hadn't had a chance to contemplate the reality of it much, but now that she was alone with her thoughts, she realized that it felt right. More than that, she realized that she'd been so comfortable, so content, so... happy... that the idea of them being anything else hadn't occurred to her. This was what it was supposed to be—a statement of fact, the same as Harry being her brother, Ginny living for gossip, Ron loving food and chess, or George showing up for Slackers Saturdays. It just was.
Draco, the cunning wizard that he is, managed to sneak in and become a part of her. She wouldn't have it any other way. As a matter of fact, she hoped it would always be this way.
Hermione's jaw dropped as an epiphany hit her.
She couldn't imagine ever waking up or going to bed with any other wizard.
Even when she was around her magical family, Draco had been the main thing on her mind.
Her first instinct when she got home was to change into his clothes.
She practically lived to see his smile and hear his laugh.
She found it increasingly difficult to stay mad at him for long.
All he had to do was walk into the room to make her smile.
She anticipated him coming home—the idea that he wouldn't never crossed her mind.
She never wanted him to leave. She missed him when he was gone.
When he around, she felt lighter, freer... more like herself.
His pain had become the same as her pain. His joy, her joy.
It was him that she wanted to claim her virginity. The idea of it being anyone else made her skin crawl, made her want to puke.
"Holy shit," Hermione gasped. "I love him. I'm in love with Draco."
With that admission, she found herself beaming as a massive warmth filled her from head to toe. It felt like the last remnants of her shell crumbled, leaving her a new woman. "I'm in love," Hermione laughed. "Merlin's beard, I'm in love!"
She spun around in circles around the room, arms open wide with joy. "Winky!"
The house elf immediately appeared, though when she saw the Miss acting out of character, she froze. "Is everything alright, Miss?" Hermione, still laughing and overflowing with joy and wonder, picked her up and spun her around with her. "Yes! Winky, would it be very much trouble to help me get my art supplies downstairs?"
The massively alarmed elf nodded feverishly. Although, after another moment of studying the strange with that held her, she softened. "Miss seems happy." Hermione grinned. "Winky, I just realized I'm in love with Draco." It was the first time that Hermione had ever been patted on the cheek by a house elf. She blinked but said nothing. "Miss would make a fine Mistress," the elf said quietly.
Hermione's stomach dropped. This elf knew something. "What is it?" Hermione asked gently. "Is something wrong?" The house elf popped out of Hermione's grasp and reappeared by her art supplies. "Winky is not permitted to say, only to help Miss Grangey however she can. Where would Miss like her art things?"
Hermione tried not to let her stomach turn to ice. "Is Narcissa alright?" To her relief, Winky nodded. Of course, that was right before panic punched her. Hard. "Winky, please tell me Draco's alright! Draco's okay, isn't he?" The house elf nodded with... was that pity? "Master and Mistress are both in good health, Miss. Would Miss like her things brought outside? Winky knows that Miss Grangey likes to paint there."
Hermione swallowed the dozens of questions bubbling to the surface. Winky wasn't going to tell her anything. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble. I would really appreciate the help."
"It isn't too much trouble. Winky is honored to be of assistance to Miss Grangey," the house elf proclaimed, and then she—along with all her art supplies—was gone.
If Draco and Narcissa were both fine, then what was troubling Winky?
Hermione stood in the center of her nearly empty bedroom, turning the conversation over in her mind. Could it have something to do with Lucius? She would have to ask Draco about it when he got home. If there was something going on with his father, surely he would confide in her about it—right?
She hadn't bothered with the Prophet for months, so she couldn't be certain, but it could be possible that his father was getting out of Azkaban. Maybe that was what had Winky upset. The man's never exactly been kind. Hermione decided then that she would absolutely be asking Draco what was going on when he got home.
If her theory was correct, then she had no doubts that Lucius Malfoy would throw a fit if he knew what his son had been up to—living with and dating the likes of her, and all. Hermione nodded to herself. Whatever it was, they would simply have to deal with it together.
Those were the thoughts that settled her as she crossed through the door to the back porch. The Malfoy patriarch was not going to ruin her good mood. She wouldn't let him. However, she was a little disappointed to see that Winky had left already. She liked talking to that elf. Winky was a sweet soul, and obviously treated well, which was another notch in all the reasons she loved Draco.
That thought took her down a figurative rabbit hole as she dipped a brush into the paint.
She loved his smile.
She loved his laugh—the real one, the one only she, and possibly his mother, saw.
She loved his massive heart, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.
She even loved his attempts to hide it—they were endearing, and so very him.
She loved his mind, his witty comebacks, the way he bantered with her.
She loved the way he pushed her to give her best.
She loved how he never backed down from her; in fact, he goaded her to push back harder.
She loved his little shenanigans, the way that he playfully teased her.
She loved their late-night talks over a cup of tea—always either peppermint or passionflower, with a splash of milk and honey.
She loved waking up with him in the morning, and the deep, throaty sound that his voice made from disuse. She loved that they made time to share a cup of coffee before he left for work—the only difference in their brews was that he didn't take his with cinnamon.
It humored her to no end that he couldn't properly make it; she'd have to make it for him, or he'd put too much sugar in it. He did it every time.
She loved his insecurities—like the fact that he required reading glasses. It was no wonder he was always behind in school. He couldn't properly see to read without them! Despite what he thinks, his scars didn't detract from his beauty. In fact, they added to it. They were proof that he had a past, that he was human and had a beating, feeling heart. No matter how much he hid it.
His primping—yes, he does, in fact, primp—was another sign of his insecurity, no matter how much he says otherwise.
Hermione's mouth curved into a broad smile that made her cheeks sting. She loved him the most when he was completely relaxed. That was when he allowed his hair to be less than perfect, let his scars show, and he strutted around in those hidden sweats that looked better on him than his suits. Those were the times when he gave her a million-galleon smile and she had to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose while they read.
He hardly ever read anything that wasn't informative, while her fancies, book wise, changed nearly daily.
Yes. Those were the times she loved the most.
Hermione didn't look away from her work when she heard the front door quietly click shut. She knew who it was. "Welcome home, love." A bright giggle ripped through her when she heard the stutter in Draco's steps. Thankfully, her brush stayed steady.
As his steps drew nearer, her heartbeat quickened. This wizard would make focusing impossible. She would be lying if she said it bothered her. Her ears perked up when she heard a soft thud behind her. She didn't get a chance to ask, because it was soon followed by her favorite pair of arms wrapping around her waist.
Something was wrong.
He held her tighter than normal. His cheek wasn't resting on top of her head—instead, his chin rested on her shoulder. He was holding her closer, a little more flush with his chest... at least, the best he could given their height difference. Not that she minded—not at all—she actually enjoyed their closeness. But this wasn't normal. She felt it in her bones.
Hermione turned her head so she could get a better look at him. It was just as she feared. His mask was up. "What's wrong, Draco?" She asked softly. She felt the heavy swallow in his throat. Panic instantly shot up through hers. She swiftly turned in his embrace, dropping her brush and pulled him to her. "Draco? Talk to me. What is it?"
His eyes were a bit too cold as he stared down at her. This wasn't right. This wasn't her Draco.
It was almost like looking at Malfoy, her childhood bully—but at the same time, not.
"It's... nothing," he sighed. "Just been a long day."
Hermione narrowed her eyes up at him. "Try that on someone who will believe it. Draco, I thought we were past this." She nearly lost it when her boyfriend's mouth pressed into a hard line. When he tilted his head, unable to look at her.
She reached up, grabbing the sides of his coat and forcefully pulled him toward her until they collided. Draco's hands automatically flew to her shoulders, steadying them both. Her chest, heaving with frustration, rapidly rose and fell against his. It forced him to look back down at her. In her book, that was a win.
Even if his eyes had turned into two balls of steel.
"We're in this together," Hermione hissed angrily, "whether you like it or not, because I'm not going anywhere. Your days of bottling everything up and doing things on your own are over."
And then he kissed her.
Hermione's blood instantly turned to lava in her veins, and though her first instinct was to throw her arms around his neck, alarm bells were simultaneously going off in her head.
Something was undoubtedly wrong.
His hold on her was rougher—his kiss frantic, desperate, even.
He practically yanked her legs around his waist, and though she held onto him with all the strength she possessed, it still didn't seem like enough.
One arm practically caged her against him while the other fisted her hair, firmly holding her mouth to his.
She was more than happy to give him everything she got, but that didn't change the fact that her heart was a battering ram in her ears.
So, she fisted his hair. She held his mouth to hers, eagerly exploring with her tongue, catching his eager moans with a matching one of her own.
She felt it when her back hit the wall, but it only vaguely registered that he'd cushioned her head with his hand.
Her skin burned when she felt his hand dip under her shirt and skim up her side.
"Yes," she gasped. "Please."
She felt him harden under her heated core, and that was her undoing.
"Please, Draco," she moaned into his mouth. "Please."
His wicked smile against her lips was everything.
Expert fingers trailed up her burning stomach but stuttered as they grazed her breasts. "No bra, Mi?" He murmured. "Let's see..."
A single finger skirted up toward her collar bone and grazed her neck before lightly drifting back down to the center of her chest. Her breath hitched, and his eyes glittered in response.
"You're prancing around here in my shirt..."
Hermione's heart stuttered at the feel of his fingers lazily drifting between her breasts. With each stroke across her sensitive peaks, Draco was rewarded with the slacking of her jaw and quiet squeaks that bordered on moans.
What was it she wanted to ask him about again?
He picked up his impromptu teasing by drawing circles right under her pendant with the tip of his skilled fingers. Hermione felt like she would combust with the vaguely familiar feeling of her core growing hot and her juices pooled between her thighs.
Whiny sounds that were foreign to her own ears spilled from her throat. Were it anyone else with her, she might have been embarrassed; but this was Draco. She wanted—needed—more.
"Wearing my tie..."
His palm splayed out over her heart, his mouth forging a trail of kisses along her jaw, taking his time while he gradually made his way toward her ear. Each kiss sent another electric shock through her, his touch igniting its own inferno.
She nearly forgot her own name.
Hermione was a panting mess, shamelessly sighing and groaning, squirming and seeking friction under his own personal brand of magic.
Draco was a merciful tormentor. He rewarded her with his own sly, wicked grin and hummed his approval.
It only made her want him more.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me."
Two fingers lightly pinched her pebbled nipples. Hermione's eyes flew open with a squeak; she was introduced to a pair of powerfully brewing storms. "And if I was?" Hermione barely recognized her own voice; the words flew out in a high, breathy gasp.
Draco's dark gaze flickered down to her parted, needy lips. With a single thrust of his hips against her hot, soaking mound, she was rewarded with his lips pressed to her neck. "It worked," he muttered against her skin.
"Draco, please," Hermione gasped, frantically grinding her hips against her boyfriend's throbbing bulge. The woman whose mind had emptied of all thoughts except burning desire for the man she loved relished in the feel of sinfully perfect lips curving upward against her skin. That mouth might as well have been a strike of lightning to her soul.
"Such pretty words from a pretty mouth," he breathed, sending shivers up her spine.
"Draco," she pleaded.
"Mmm," he hummed. "I wonder. How many ways can I make you say my name?"
Hermione's breath hitched as Draco's touch trailed lower. A trail of fire blazed down her chest, skimming over her stomach until it flirted with the band of her shorts. Her grip tightened in Draco's hair, a wordless plea.
"You have to say it," he quietly hissed in her ear.
Hermione knew words. She knew lots of words. She even knew advanced, eloquent words. She had a vocabulary worthy of writing the most fantastical of novels, should she ever get to writing one.
Draco bloody Malfoy stole her words.
Instead, she tried to make the frantic carding of her fingers through his hair, the tightening of her hold on him, the erratic arch of her back and shameless push of her sex that throbbed nearly to the point of pain against the steel in his pants do her talking for her.
The amusement in his voice nearly made her want to throttle him. "Use your words, Mi." It was undoubtedly the gentlest command she ever heard. That didn't take away from the power from it in the slightest. The sound shot straight to her libido. It was the first time Hermione had ever been turned on by being told what to do. What's more, she wanted to obey.
Another first if there ever was one.
"Touch me," she whispered.
"Good girl." The deep possessiveness that laced those two words struck a chord within her she didn't even know she had.
The moment Draco's fingers slid past her waistband, his darkened, lust filled gaze snapped back to hers with a wicked grin. "Maybe not such a good girl."
Hermione was too far in a lust-filled frenzy to find one iota of embarrassment. Draco was playing her body like a fiddle, and he hadn't even touched the part of her she wished he would the most.
The man she loved claimed her mouth with his as he slid a single finger straight past her slick folds. Their breaths hitched together when he found her clit, their loud moans mingling as one.
It was Draco who broke the kiss first. His gaze burned into hers as his finger toyed with it as though it were his favorite instrument. Hermione's eyes rolled into the back of her head, her mouth falling open into a perfect O as her nails dragged along his scalp under his intense stare.
"You're soaking, Mi, and no knickers. Tell me—" Draco increased the pressure on her clit and his finger brushed a little faster, drinking in the sound of her moans. "Who does this pretty little cunt belong to?"
Hermione pressed her hips firmly against his hand, but she still couldn't find her words. Draco pressed his mouth to her jaw, trailing a line of kisses across, and just when he found the juncture just below her ear, he breathed, "Answer me."
He slid his finger inside her, pumping her slowly at first, waiting her to say it. Draco smiled against her skin when Hermione started meeting him thrust for thrust. "I'll pull it out if you don't say it, Hermione," he murmured.
"Yours, Draco. It's yours!"
Draco rewarded her with sliding in another.
"Good girl. It's mine. Don't you dare forget it."
That was when Hermione surprised them both. She grabbed Draco's face with both her hands and forced his gaze back to hers. "Every part of you is mine, and don't you dare forget it," she echoed back fiercely. The fire that blazed in her skin burned in her tone, and when she slammed her mouth onto his, it roared in her blood.
Later that night, Hermione woke up alone. She could hardly believe what happened, and despite her confusion, a girlish smile spread across her face. She clutched the sheets against herself as it all flooded back to her.
Draco had been the personification of her wildest dreams.
He'd been gentle, at first, yet so passionate while he held her in his arms.
He'd been demanding, yet never more than she could take, as he buried himself in her over and over again.
He'd been so patient with her, and as he held her to his chest, his face nuzzled in the crook of her neck...
He said it. Those three words she'd desperately longed to her.
"I fucking love you, Mi. I love you."
"I love you too, Draco. So much."
They'd found heaven and ecstasy together, leaving Hermione Marked forever.
A beautiful but melancholy melody drifted to her ears from downstairs. "What...?" Hermione whispered. The young woman wrapped a sheet around her body, not bothering to get dressed, and tiptoed toward the stair landing. It had been years since she last heard a guitar being played in person.
She didn't even know Draco knew how to play. What other talents has he been hiding all these years? When she heard a smooth but gritty, enchanting voice that made her eyes drift to a close, her heart both soared and shattered. So that's what else he had been hiding.
She could get lost in that voice forever—but the words broke her heart.
I am the mess you chose
The closet you cannot close,
The devil in you I suppose
'Cause the wounds never heal.
"Oh, Draco," Hermione quietly breathed.
But everything changes
If I could
Turn back the years
If you could
Learn to forgive me
Then I could learn to feel
Hermione swallowed. He does feel, much more than he thinks.
Oh, but the resolve and sadness that seeped into her, just listening. Had Draco ever been so beautifully open?
Sometimes the things I say
In moments of disarray
Succumbing to the games we play
To make sure that it's real.
Could this song... be about them?
The chorus rang within the walls of their home once more. Draco's voice turned harder, more raw, angry... more desperate. Hermione gripped the railing harder, forcing herself to stay in place.
He needed this, this outlet. For a man who never allowed himself to be vulnerable, this was monumental. She felt that if she bolted down the stairs like she so desperately wanted to, she would rob him of the chance to let go of the ghosts that haunted him.
When it's just me and you.
Who knows what we could do
If we can just make it through
The toughest part of the day.
They could. They could work through anything, if only he'd let her help him. As she stood there, basking in this raw, exposed side of him, she prayed he'd let her in. She'd never wanted to hold him more than she did then.
But everything changes
If I could
Turn back the years
If you could
Learn to forgive me
Then I could learn how to feel,
Then we could
Hermione wanted to break down into bitter sobs. Her knuckles were turning a ghostly white, her grip was so tight. She already had forgiven him a while ago. What was he thinking?
Stay here together
And we could
Conquer the world
If we could
Say that forever
Is more than just a word.
If you just walked away
What could I really say?
So, Draco's been hiding the fact that he's a talented lyricist. One who just claimed her virginity, told her he loved her...
And if his own words were anything to go by—he still had doubts.
Hermione couldn't stand there and stay silent anymore.
"Draco!"
She darted down the stairs, ignoring the shocked look on her boyfriend's face as he sat his guitar down and rushed into his already outstretched arms. She collided into his chest, scrambling onto his lap, her heart shattering with words that still rung in her ears.
The young woman held him with all the strength she had, and fiercely whispered, "How many times do I have to say it, you insufferable man? I love you, and I'm not going anywhere. Not until you make me—and you'll be hard pressed to get rid of me then."
Draco's silence stilled her, even has he clutched her to him and placed a gentle kiss on her temple.
