"You all are already aware of this," Walt said. "Tonight is a night about revisiting a few things we've discussed before. A bit of review, if you will."
The group sat in their normal circle, though since the night Draco shared his memories and Hermione had taken Dennis's seat to his left, she'd had that seat ever since. As they were approaching the last few weeks of their time at The Willows, their nightly group sessions had turned into every-other-night sessions, and tonight would be their last until the beginning of next week, an appropriate time for a "review," as Walt said.
Hermione already knew what Walt was referring to—the purpose for tonight's repetition—but she hadn't spoken to anyone else about it.
"You are all aware that, as wonderful as your care team is here at The Willows," Walt enunciated with a smile and a pointed look around the circle, "no facility can heal you. No counselor or mind healer or therapist can heal you. We can only guide you, enlighten you, and challenge you to be your best selves. Ultimately, you," he said, once again, taking a moment to pause and look at each of them individually, "and you alone will have to do the heavy lifting to heal yourself. No amount of potions, medication, alcohol, or even therapy can do that for you."
"So," Walt stood, clapping his hands together in finality, "if you'll all follow me, we're going to be continuing tonight's session in the cellar."
"The cellar?" Nicola asked, standing and brushing off her slacks, though they were as immaculate as always.
"I didn't even know there was a cellar," Dennis said, as they all filed out of the room.
Most of the others wore confused expressions, yet, they said nothing as each of them followed Walt through the door and down the hallway. They passed through the kitchen and dining room and out into the back yard, where bright twinkling stars lit up the inky, black sky.
It had warmed up a bit, so the cold wasn't nearly as biting as it had been earlier in the week, but Hermione still wrapped her arms around her chest to block out as much of the October air as she could. It wasn't just the cold that had her hands shaking, however.
"Are you okay?" Draco asked, bumping his shoulder into hers as they walked.
The moon was full overhead, tingeing everything in an ethereal blue—as if the entire grounds were submerged in the ocean—and casting just enough light that Hermione could faintly make out the crease in his brow when he looked down at her.
She unfolded her arms and reached for his hand. "Yes, I'm…" She glanced over her shoulder and noticed that Seamus and Dennis were quite a few steps behind, and with everyone else being ahead of them, they weren't likely to be overheard. She wasn't sure why she cared if anyone could hear at this point—in about five minutes everyone else would know anyway.
"It's the boggart," she said, her fingers closing around her wand instinctively, the vinewood always a comfort to her even if it wasn't drawn. "I'm facing the boggart again."
"What?!" Draco said, loud enough that both Nicola and Parvati whipped around to see what happened, their eyes questioning. When Draco lowered his voice again, they faced forward again and kept walking. "Are you serious?" he asked, incredulously as they passed the corner of the granian pasture. When she didn't answer, he stopped, his hand no longer moving with her forcing her to stop as well.
He lifted his eyebrows, clearly expecting some sort of explanation. Looking back, she wasn't entirely sure why she didn't mention it to him before; maybe subconsciously she knew he wouldn't exactly be on her side with it, not after how badly it had gone the last time. Honestly, the boggart Greyback seemed to feature in her dreams just as frequently as the real Greyback now, so she didn't think his reaction was completely unwarranted.
"Yes, I'm serious. Like Walt said, we have to take control of our own healing, and…" Hermione stopped talking as Dennis and Seamus passed them, both giving them questioning looks as they passed, but thankfully they kept walking.
"Putting yourself in danger isn't exactly the same thing, Granger," he said, and her eyes narrowed at his use of her surname. Even in the faint light of the moon, she could see him clench his jaw as he backtracked. "Hermione."
"I won't be in danger. Now we all know what they're capable of, and I'll be more prepared."
Draco huffed, looking off toward the others as they walked through a clearing that led into the side of a small hill, what looked to be a root cellar just visible on the far side of them. "I can't believe Walt would suggest that you go through that again. He fucked up badly enough by letting it happen once, but—"
"Walt didn't bring it up, I did."
Draco's eyes snapped back to hers.
"I need to do this for myself," she continued. "I was the only one who couldn't face my fear, and—"
"If you're doing this just to prove that you can, then that's—"
"It isn't to prove anything to anyone," she said, bristling at his accusation. She realized as he glared at her, that her words weren't entirely truthful. "Well, anyone other than myself. I want to do this, and I think I can. I…I thought you'd be a bit more supportive, actually."
His shoulders fell slightly, just enough for her to see the softening of the tension on his face. "I just don't think you—"
"I don't need your permission," she said, turning on the spot and storming away from him. She'd never been the type of person to seek someone's approval for her decisions, and she certainly wasn't going to start now.
His hand in hers again, stilled her once more. "I thought we said we weren't doing that anymore," he said, his words not nearly as biting as they should've been, given that they had, in fact, agreed to not run away from their problems.
She sighed and tried to pull her hand away. She knew she was overreacting, and truthfully, she was acting immature as well, but her nerves surrounding what she was about to face yet again paired with his lack of support made her irrationally furious.
His fingers twisted through hers even as she tried to pull away. "Stop doing that," he snapped, and she stopped squirming, but the heat in her gaze never faltered. "You're right."
Hermione's scowl instantly fell. She really hadn't expected that, or at least not so soon.
"It's not that I don't think you're capable. You're brilliant." The inferno that had been threatening to overtake her moments ago was immediately extinguished as his words brought a lump to her throat. She'd be lying if she said that she wasn't terrified to face the boggart again, and the sincerity on his face as he told her that she was capable turned the raging blaze into a cozy heat that warmed her to her toes. She stood up a bit straighter as he went on.
"Last time took everyone by surprise, not just you. I know you can handle yourself, but…I just…I don't have to like it."
"You two coming?" Walt's voice shot through the dark, and they both turned to see him waving them over.
"You don't need my permission for anything, but I feel like we should at least discuss it if the decision puts you at risk."
She wasn't used to running her ideas by someone; her first instinct was to throw it back in his face, to tell him she didn't need his consent, but instead, she felt his thumb rubbing along the back of her hand as his other reached forward to brush her cheek. She swallowed her pride like a lump in her throat and nodded as he kissed her forehead.
As they started toward Walt and the others, she mumbled, "I'm sorry." Those two words had never been particularly easy for her to say, and now, despite knowing she needed to say them, they still left a horrible taste in her mouth.
He gripped her hand once. "Me too."
"Lover's quarrel?" Seamus said, before Parvati elbowed him in the ribs. Hermione and Draco both ignored him as Walt stepped inside the cellar, the wooden door scraping slightly against the dirt floor as he pushed it further open.
"This feels like the start of a horror film," Dennis whispered as Walt disappeared inside the room.
Alys laughed, shaking her head, as she followed him inside.
When neither of them said anything after disappearing into the creepy room, Hermione and the others all turned to look at Susan.
A soft click echoed from inside the room, and it was immediately filled with a milky yellow light, bright enough to make them all squint before their eyes adjusted to the glare. Taking this as their cue that it was safe and they weren't all about to murdered, they filed inside. Hermione expected a cramped room that reeked of old beets—the Weasley's being the only root cellar she'd ever seen—but the room was much bigger than she'd thought, not quite the size of the group therapy room but close.
There were piles of boxes stacked haphazardly from floor to ceiling, a grandfather clock with a broken face propped into one corner, and a row of garment racks lining one wall, on all of which hung clothing from at least a century prior. Otherwise, the room was completely empty.
Except for the familiar cupboard sitting in the center of the room.
Her palms immediately started to sweat the moment Hermione's eyes fell on it. Seamus seemed to have noticed at the exact same instance.
"You've got to be kidding me," he said.
Nicola's gaze shot to Hermione's, the older woman's eyes kind but probing as she searched Hermione's face for the fear she was trying desperately to hide. She'd asked for this. She wanted it, and she knew she needed it. That didn't make it easy.
"Walt, this is a horrible—"
"It wasn't Walt's idea," Hermione said, looking around the room. "It was mine."
Seamus looked like he wanted to say something else, but he held his tongue. Draco held on tightly, his hand still in hers, as she spoke.
"The rest of you went after I did," she said, her eyes flitting between Parvati and Nicola, "even after my attempt went so poorly, and nothing happened. I want to try again." She felt like she could've said more. Maybe she should have. She could have told them all about the deep desire she had, the all-consuming need to fight for herself. She could have told them that her whole life she'd fought for others—house-elves, Harry, Muggle-borns, all of Wizarding kind—but she wanted to fight for herself for once. The feeling she'd had when she'd been able to cast that Patronus, when she'd opened her eyes to see the beautiful moth circling around Draco's head, it was one of the greatest experiences in her life.
She couldn't have begun to describe it to them all, nor could she really verbalize her need to do it again, to prove to herself that she was capable; that, she may not be the same person she was before the war, but she was a better version of herself because she'd survived it.
Instead, she simply said, "I need to."
No one moved, and for a split second, beneath the prying eyes of the group and the bright orange glow of the bulb above them, she started to question her decision. She swallowed, shuffling slightly, clenching onto Draco's hand beside her. She knew there was nothing to be scared of. Despite what had happened last time, Walt had assured her that they would all be behind her, ready to assist if needed.
She glanced toward Draco but found him glaring at Walt instead of looking back at her. The latter, however, seemed oblivious to the anger being directed at him.
"Well, let's do it then," Seamus said, giving her his characteristic smile. As the others followed Walt's lead and took a few steps back, Seamus winked at her, squeezing her shoulder once as he passed. "We're right behind you."
Draco kissed her knuckles before letting her hand go, albeit reluctantly, and joined the others by the door.
"Whenever you're ready, Hermione," Walt said, nodding toward her with an encouraging smile. With a deep breath, Hermione turned back to face the cupboard. It looked even more ominous now; the dark cherry wood was chipped in one corner, and deep darkened scrapes covered the top doors. But it wasn't as much about the wardrobe's appearance but what she knew to be inside of it.
She closed her eyes for a moment, knowing everyone was watching her but she refused to feel self-conscious. She'd learned over the last two months that none of them were judging her. So, she gave herself the time to gather her thoughts, sort her emotions into her intricate boxes where they belonged, and recite potions ingredients in her head until she no longer felt Greyback's sharp claws digging into her throat.
She opened her eyes and willed herself to lift her wand, gripping it tightly in her hand so that she wouldn't drop it like last time. Draco stood only a few feet to her left, and her eyes fell on his. His face was tight, his jaw set and his brows knitted together, but when their eyes met, he offered her a forced smile, only the corners of his lips turning up slightly.
For some reason, his seriousness gave her the boost she needed to lift her wand and say, much more emphatically than she felt, "Alohomora."
The cabinet door creaked open just a few inches, the sound cutting straight threw her in the cramped cellar. She waited with bated breath for the foul creature to push its way out the door, her hand sweating around her wand while the other sat fisted tightly by her side. After a few seconds of silence, she took a step toward it, and she saw Draco take a step as well, his eyes too glued on the abyss just visible through the crack in the door.
With every second they waited, the anxiety in her chest tightened, gripping her like the werewolf had the last time she'd faced the boggart, but she pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the humorous image she'd been practicing in her mind since she spoke to Walt about doing this yesterday—morphing Greyback into the Yorkie her neighbor had growing up, complete with a fluffy pink bow and tutu.
She turned toward Walt for instruction, thinking maybe the boggart had moved somehow, taking up residence somewhere else on the grounds or leaving entirely, but the creak of the hinges made her snap her eyes back toward the center of the room. The cupboard door had pushed open the rest of the way, and from the depths within, Greyback stepped out, one black leather boot after the other. He stood up, rising up to his full height, and Hermione felt her skin turn to ice as he stared down at her.
He rolled his neck, the edges of his heavy cloak falling down enough to expose his chest. Just the sight of the heavy scars and thick black hair covering his skin made Hermione's stomach roil. The boggart's glacial eyes met hers, and the feral snarl that fell from his blood-stained lips broke her arms out in goosebumps. "I've been waiting for you to come back, Mudblood. I knew you'd miss me."
She stood rooted to the spot, her mind completely blanking as he took a step toward her in a half-crouch—predator stalking prey.
"Remember what I told you? The exciting plans I had for us?" His head tilted to one side as he spoke, slowly as if he wanted her to savor this as much as he was. He stuck his nose in the air, breathing in deeply, a heavy groan emanating from deep within his chest as he closed his eyes.
Hermione's mind started to run away with her; her heart was beating wildly as she tried to will herself to speak the words.
"I can smell you." He took another step toward her, licking his lips. His words came out more growl than anything. "I can't wait to taste you."
"Focus. You can do this." Draco's voice cut through her racing thoughts and the boggart's menacing grin. Unfortunately, Draco drew the beast's attention as much as Hermione's.
As the creature's face snapped toward him, an ominous snarl rising from its mouth, Greyback's eyes landed on Draco's, and all at once, it was gone, swirling and drawing in on itself until Hermione heard a gasp fall from her lips.
She stumbled backward as she looked upon, not the werewolf she'd been facing before, but herself, lying on the dingy dirt floor of the cellar, thick blood pouring from her lips. The boggart version of herself arched its back, hips pulling off the ground as a shrill scream broke through the room. Hermione was vaguely aware of a few of the others behind her, just as shocked as she was by the turn of events.
But the sound of herself screaming, her voice cracking and echoing off the walls around them, brought her out of her daze, and she lifted her wand. She whistled one quick shrill note to pull the creature's focus back to her, and before it even had the chance to turn back into Greyback, she focused on the first thing that popped into her mind and said, "Riddikulus."In a fraction of a second, the boggart shifted again, and in the place where she'd lain was now a clown, complete with foam nose and bright red grease-painted lips. It rolled backwards in a circle beforejumping to its feet with its arms outstretched as if to say, "Tada!"
Hermione flicked her wand again, and the clown was launched off its giant red feet and sent hurtling backward until it crashed into the wardrobe, rocking it onto its back legs as the door slammed shut. The lock clicked loudly into place in the wake of the heavy thud of the boggart, and the room was plunged into a silence so thick that it left Hermione's ears ringing.
Draco's gaze was fixated on the spot where the boggart had been, wide-eyed and ashen-faced, and Hermione heard awkward shuffling behind her.
"Well," she said, turning around, facing the rest of them as if the situation hadn't taken a dramatic turn. "That's that."
Walt even seemed speechless where he stood, rooted to the spot and his gaze shifting from Hermione to Draco. After a split second's hesitation, he smiled at her. "That's that."
Having already shared her memories with them all, Hermione didn't think it was necessary to talk about why her boggart took this specific form as they all had done after facing their own personified fears. She wasn't sure if it was due to the fact that technically she hadn't banished her own fear—her own had left her shaking and frozen in fear; it was Draco's fear that she sent hurtling back into the darkness. Whatever the cause, Hermione didn't feel like she'd accomplished anything really. She'd built this scenario in her mind wherein she'd vanquish the boggart and with it the load she'd been carrying for almost two years. Instead, she felt unchanged, not like she was still beaten, but as if her desire to prove herself was completely unnecessary.
"Huh," she said, more to herself than to the rest of the room. "I thought it'd feel different."
Alys placed a hand on her shoulder, drawing Hermione's attention to her. "This was just an exercise, a metaphor, so to speak. It doesn't truly mean anything for your healing. I think you crossed that bridge weeks ago, boggart or no boggart."
"I agree," Walt said, addressing Hermione and the rest of the group. "I think you all have crossed that bridge weeks ago. I think it's a perfect opportunity to tell you all how proud I am of you for all of the work that you've put in. I told you months ago when you first started that the responsibility lies on each of you to take control on your own recovery, and each of you took that and ran with it. You've each opened up to one another and to the counseling team in a way that even I didn't think was possible, and I couldn't be happier with the progress you've all made."
Walt's eyes landed on Draco's, the latter narrowing his slightly when he realized he was about to be singled out. "Draco, we don't have to do it right now because our time is up for the night, but I do think we should talk about what just happened here. Let's tackle that on Monday, okay?"
Draco gave him a terse nod only for Seamus to cut in before he could answer, though Hermione was sure he wasn't going to anyway.
"I think it's more important that we talk about why Hermione thought that a creepy ass clown was somehow less terrifying?" Seamus said, shaking his head at her. "There's clearly something wrong with you."
As they all laughed and filed from the room he added, "I'm pretty sure that's my new boggart form actually."
Hermione awoke slowly, shrugging off the haze of sleep like a winter coat, and as she blinked at the room around her, the edges coming into focus as the blurriness of sleep faded away, she knew simply from the moonlight cascading in through the window that it was well past midnight.
She rolled over to reach for Draco, realizing that at some point in the night, he'd let her go, only to find him missing and his side of the bed cold, the blankets haphazardly throw over the mattress. She sat up, turning toward the bathroom, but the door was open, and the light was off.
She threw on her pajamas and slid her feet into her shoes before heading toward the hallway. Peeking outside, she found the hallway empty, which really, she'd been suspecting. She assumed Draco was in the art therapy room, she turned left instead, walking toward the kitchen and hoping that tea would urge him to talk to her. The entire walk back from the cellar and even later, as they lay together, her back fitting perfectly against his chest and their legs entwined, he'd been completely silent.
She hadn't even asked him about the boggart; she wanted to, of course, but the fact that he didn't immediately bring it up paired with the way he'd glared at Walt earlier beneath the swaying orange bulb of the cellar told her that he wasn't quite ready to address it yet. He was brewing in it, that was for sure.
Instead, she'd simply told him if he wanted to talk about it, she was always willing to listen. He'd answered with a kiss across her bare shoulder as he held her tighter in his arms. At some point, as she'd waited for him to speak, she'd fallen asleep.
Hermione wasn't sure what to think. A part of her, the part of her that relied on him far too much than she was willing to admit, was overflowing. Once the shock of seeing herself bleeding out in the middle of the dirty cellar floor, she'd felt overwhelmed at the definitive proof for how much he cared about her.
But, another part of her, her more rational side, felt horrible that she had become just another part of his life that he feared losing. The look on his face as he stood transfixed looking down on the boggart, panicking at his own fear being lain bare in front of them all—completely by surprise—was heartbreaking, and she hated that he had to go through it all over again.
Also, his absence from their bed was proof of the fact that he still wasn't sleeping. She'd felt him tossing and turning ever since he'd shared his memories, but she hadn't awoken to him having a nightmare in a couple weeks. Whatever it was though, it was enough to draw him out of the bed in the middle of the night.
When she made it to the kitchen, she was surprised, however, to find him sitting on a barstool, a cup of still-steaming tea in front of him. His hair was standing on end, and it made her smile despite their current situation. He lifted his eyes, still puffy from sleep, to meet hers, but he said nothing, a tired half-smile his only greeting.
He flipped an empty cup from the tea tray in the center of the bar and sat it in front of the open seat beside him. Taking that as her invitation, she dropped a kiss to his cheek before sidling into the stool and filling the cup he'd given her.
As her tea steeped, she said, "You didn't bring your flask." More an observation than a question.
He breathed in deeply and then exhaled before answering. "I'm trying this thing where I don't try to drown everything in alcohol. Apparently, it's not a healthy way to cope. Or so Susan tells me."
"Ah, well, what does she know?" She flashed him a grin before leaning her head onto his shoulder. "I suppose she's right," she said.
They sat in silence for a moment. She didn't want to push him. She knew he grew up being taught to carry his secrets and pain close to him, guarding them like a dragon's hoard and never allowing anyone to see, but he'd jumped those hurdles and then some over the last two months. He'd shared plenty with the rest of the group and even more with her personally, so she surmised that he'd do the same with this situation as well.
"Sorry I woke you," he said, breaking the silence around them. He was slowly spinning his cup by the rim, twisting it around on the countertop in the same way he always did the signet ring on his finger.
"It's fine," she said before taking a sip of her tea. "I'm always down for tea at"—she glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside them—"one in the morning."
His attempt at a chuckle in response came out as a huff. After a long enough bout of silence for her to finish her tea—and Draco to not touch his at all—he said, "It's you."
She blinked, running back over the last few things they said to try and make sense of his comment, but nothing stuck out in her mind. Unless he meant, she was his boggart, which clearly, she'd seen that just like everyone else. "What's me?" she asked, looking toward him, but, knowing it may be easier for him to talk if she wasn't, she quickly turned back around.
"That I've been dreaming about."
She said nothing. Her mind was reeling too much for her to address his statement or to ask for clarification, and she wanted to give him the opportunity to tell her at his own pace, so she waited; she had to force herself to not fidget in her seat, but she waited.
"Every night since my memories. I…it's always the same night. The one with…the one at the Manor." He spoke as if he'd practiced this a dozen times already, his words rolling off his tongue emotionless, tired and drained. She suspected he was Occluding, but she'd never tell him not to. Who was she to stop him from finding some sort of comfort in whatever way he knew how? She knew what Susan would say, but if he wasn't actively hiding from her or trying to push her away, she couldn't fault him for trying to alleviate his pain.
"Only it's different every time. None of it's what really happened. It's always… much worse. All the things I was certain were going to happen, with Greyback or Bellatrix or even the Da—Voldemort. Sometimes…sometimes it's me."
He didn't speak again for long enough for her to assume that he wasn't going to, so she laid her hand across his thigh, trying to soothe him in the same way that he always did her. "What do you mean? What's you?"
"Sometimes"—he paused again to wet his lips—"sometimes it's me doing it. Like it was you instead of Astoria."
She hadn't been expecting that at all, and his words took her breath, causing her heart to stutter in her chest. She took a moment to try and find the words, not really knowing if there was anything that she could say to rid him of that guilt. "Draco, that wasn't—"
"It doesn't matter. Whether it's me or Bella or Greyback or my father, it doesn't matter." He paused long enough to take a breath. "The ending is always the same."
She couldn't stop herself from looking at him again, but she was surprised to find he was already turned toward her. His mask had slipped, revealing an open vulnerability she hadn't been expecting. His brow was furrowed, his eyes full of a fear that she'd never seen in them before, enough to make her reach out to touch him.
"You die," he said, his voice catching slightly as he searched her face. "Every time." Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and swallowed once before opening them again. Hermione noticed then that they were all his, the tell-tale signs of Occluding missing from them. Perhaps she'd been wrong before, and he hadn't been Occluding at all.
"I'm never able to stop it," he said, blinking back the same emotion he'd been fighting over the last week, with each passing night that he awoke from the same nightmare. The same that had been written all over his face in the cellar hours earlier, beneath the shocked expressions of the others. "I can't save you."
She knew she couldn't stop his nightmares; she couldn't fight the battles for him, not when the enemy was his own mind. And that thought alone was blinding, all-consuming, and her heart sank like lead as she hugged him.
He dropped his head onto her shoulder as she brushed her hands up and down his arms. Turning her face toward him, she said, "You did." She pressed her lips to his neck, just once above his collarbone. "You already have."
They stood that way for a while, his forehead against her shoulder and her peppering kisses along his neck. She knew there were no words that could help him—not with what he'd seen in the cellar and not with what he faced in his dreams—so she just held him, her hands on his chest and in his hair. It was the best she had to offer him, her support, her assurance, and her love.
Once there were no more words to say, they returned to their room, Draco's tea still standing tepid on the counter as they left the kitchen. It was technically Saturday morning now—the green, glowing numbers on Draco's bedside clock read 2:13—so Hermione unplugged it from the wall, hoping he'd be able to sleep in and catch up a bit on all that he'd miss out on over the last few weeks.
She wasn't going to hold her breath, but she was hoping that after having finally shared what he'd been going through with her, that maybe he'd be able to sleep. Without the weight of unspoken words hanging over him, perhaps the dreams would just fade out… or at least become less prevalent.
With her head on his chest, Hermione lay tangled around him, listening to one heartbeat after the other. It wasn't until the hand he'd been using to trace along the curve of her shoulder and down her arm began to slow and his breathing evened out that Hermione allowed her eyes to close as well.
A sliding sound awoke them both around mid-morning, much later than they'd typically sleep, and Hermione was immediately thankful that she'd unplugged the clock. She lifted her head toward the direction of the sound and found a letter on the floor in front of Draco's door.
They'd both shifted positions throughout the night, and just like most mornings, Draco's chest was against her back with one of his arms beneath her pillow and the other wrapped around her waist. When she dropped her head back down and mumbled, "You've got a letter," he said nothing, but she knew he was awake by the way he buried his face in her curls and pulled her closer to him.
She laughed at his attempt to hold her still, his half-asleep whine in her ear sending a chill up her spine, and then said, "I'm trying to roll over, not get out of bed, you oaf." Finally, he relinquished his hold on her enough for her to roll over and snuggle into his chest, one of her hands twisting beneath the hem of his shirt to trail up his back.
His hand left her side, sliding down her bum and waking her up in a whole different way before pulling her leg over his hip. The familiarity of it, both this morning routine and this specific position in which they were currently laying, brought a smile to her face as she turned her face up enough to kiss his neck.
"No dreams, then?" she asked, one finger dipping just beneath the waistband of his joggers.
The soft groan he gave made her heart start to race, and he said, "None that were bad." His voice, raspy from sleep, rumbled through his chest and cut straight to her own.
"Oh, so, good ones, then?" she asked, her lips brushing against his collarbone as his fingertips left a trail of sparks along her hip.
He hummed his agreement, and, in one swift motion, proving he was much more awake than she'd thought him to be, he switched their positions, rolling her onto her back with his mouth now against the hollow of her throat. "Very good ones," he said, punctuating each word with his lips on her skin.
"Mmm," she said, biting her lip as he did the same just below her ear. "Tell me."
"Well…" He sat up, rocking onto his knees and pulling at her sleeping shorts. "For starters, you were wearing far less." With a smirk, she lifted her hips from the bed so he could pull them off.
After shedding them, she did the same with her shirt, throwing it over his shoulder and onto the floor at the foot of the bed. "Then what?"
His eyes roved across her skin for a split second before he continued, a slight smile curving up along one side of his mouth. "Secondly," he said, dropping a trail of kisses along her stomach and stopping just above her hips. He lifted one of her legs and draped it across his shoulder as he licked his lips, making her breath catch. "Your legs were here."
"I think I like this dream."
"Oh, you definitely liked it," he said, before biting the inside of her thigh. "I could tell."
"How so?" She had to force herself not to lift her hips again, both eager for him to touch her and excited at this game they were playing.
His eyes met hers, heavy grey storm clouds despite the bright morning light shining in through the windows. "All those noises you make," he said, and even if she couldn't see his mouth from this angle, she could tell he was smirking.
Running her fingers through his hair, she said, "Show me."
Just as he dipped down, a heavy knock on their door brought them to a sudden halt. They sat in silence for a split second, their eyes locked on one another and Hermione biting back a laugh at the irritated expression on his face, before the knock sounded again.
He closed his eyes, his indignant huff tickling across her hip bones as he mumbled something that sounded like, "Not again" before yelling in exasperation, "Go away!"
"Malfoy, open the door!"
Harry's voice on the other side of their door for the second time in less than a week—catching them in a similar situation, no less—made Hermione sit up quickly, flashing Draco an apologetic smile because of her interfering friends. "You've got to be kidding me," Draco said as she pulled on her pyjama shorts and snatched her shirt off the floor almost in a single movement.
"Coming, Harry," she said, as she pulled her shirt over her head and quickly pulled her hair from the neck hole. She glanced once at Draco, rolling her eyes to find him lying on his back, his face buried in the crook of one elbow melodramatically, before throwing the door open.
Harry's nose was curled up in disgust as he said, "Don't you two do anything here besides just…ya know? Never mind, don't answer that."
Hermione rolled her eyes and asked, "Did you need something? I wasn't expecting you this morning."
Harry's look of revulsion dropped from his face instantly, and Susan stepped into view. Hermione's gaze shifted to Susan's. The fact that she was here with Harry immediately filled Hermione with dread. She couldn't have put a name on it, but just like the ominous music playing in the background of a film, she felt it in the air around them as Harry looked down at the floor, shuffling his feet before bringing his gaze back up to hers. "Umm… I'm actually not here to see you, 'Mi. Malfoy," he said, looking past her at Draco lying across his bed, "I need to talk to you for a minute."
Hermione's eyes followed Harry's where Draco had now sat up on his bed, a look of clear confusion on his face as he met Susan's serious gaze.
"Umm… in private, actually," Harry said, his lips pursed slightly and his hands shoved into his pockets. If not for Susan being here, Hermione would have assumed this was going to be one of those 'If-you-hurt-her-I'll-kill-you' kind of talks, but as it stood, Susan's kind eyes and sympathetic expression paired with Harry's obvious discomfort, Hermione was certain this wasn't going to be one of those kind of talks.
"Oh, umm, okay," Hermione said, glancing once back toward Draco who was now standing, looking incredibly uncomfortable himself. He took a few steps toward her as she turned back toward Harry. "I'll just be in my room, then."
As she started to leave the room, she felt his hand on her wrist.
"Stay," Draco said, his eyes focused on her for a moment. It wasn't until she nodded that he finally turned his gaze on Harry and Susan.
Harry pulled his hands from his pockets, but the way he was wringing them said that he wasn't any less uncomfortable. He looked toward Susan for guidance, and she nodded. "Okay. Can we come in then?" she asked.
Hermione stepped out of the way and looked back at Draco who was lifting one arm, motioning them in. Harry stood in front of Draco's desk, shuffling his feet again, and Hermione's palms began to sweat.
"Maybe you should sit down," Harry said to Draco then toward Hermione as he lifted his hand to motion toward the bed behind her.
Just as she started to sit, Draco said, "I'll stand, thanks," and she immediately stood back up. Draco stood by one of the bedposts, his arms folded across his chest, and Hermione was thrown off momentarily by the surrealness of the situation. Draco standing barefoot in the middle of their room, both of them in their pyjamas—her shirt inside out actually, she just realized—and Harry fidgeting in front of them. Only Susan looked calm, but then again, Susan always looked calm.
When the silence began to choke her, clawing its way down her throat, she almost shouted, "What is it, Harry? You're squirming, and it's making me incredibly anxious."
"Sorry, umm, there's been an accident," Harry said. He was still looking at Hermione, and her heart instantly sank like lead into her stomach. Her mind ran in a thousand different directions at once. But as Harry's focus turned to Draco, she remembered that Harry had been here to see him, not her, and she followed his gaze to Draco, who stood exactly how he'd been standing before, his face completely expressionless.
"With your father."