May, 1999
Draco's wand arrives via owl minutes prior to midnight. No note, no confirmation that he has completed his house arrest. Just the simple black wooden box he'd placed it in a year ago, charmed to unlock itself at precisely midnight.
He supposes the Ministry officials don't want to acknowledge the fact that he's once again a free man (outside of working hours, of course; he has a bond to serve). Which is fine by him. He doesn't need the Ministry. An executive position at Malfoy Enterprises is waiting for him after the completion of his Ministry bond.
The first spell he executes is an Accio, and he grins maniacally as magic thrums through his veins. He catches his summoned Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook and flips immediately to the glossary, before proceeding to run through every single spell in the book.
Except for the Patronus. That is for another day (read: never).
The following morning, despite the three hours of sleep he'd gotten, he relishes the freedom of taking a walk amongst strangers again. After his year of solitude, even the thought of disdainful stares and harsh whispers seems perversely delightful.
In impeccable dress robes, wand readily accessible in a side pocket, arsenal of protective spells at the tip of his tongue, he makes his way through the bustle of the weekend crowd down Diagon Alley. He ignores the stares and dirty looks thrown his way as the crowd parts around him like he's bloody contagious. Despite that, he feels oddly optimistic. After all, it's been a good half hour and no one's thrown a hex his way.
It is pure curiosity that causes him to stop in front of Flourish and Blotts. He wonders what people are interested in nowadays. Maybe he'll even run into her.
Sucking in a deep breath, he steps into the bookstore, ignoring the suspicious gaze of the store manager and the wary glances of the patrons. Shoulders rolled back, he meanders along the shelves, pretending that he's looking for something on the shelves and not someone.
He really shouldn't be disappointed.
Statistically speaking, there are millions of other places she could be at that moment. Of course she wouldn't be here, the same exact moment that he is.
He exits the bookstore in a little under five minutes — to the palpable relief of the manager — a little more dejected than when he'd first set out. He's definitely not distracted by conjectures of where else she could be when he collides into the person trying to enter the bookstore.
Somehow, it happens to be the very person who, probability dictates, shouldn't be there.
"I'm so sorry," she gushes, "Are you alri—"
Her apology halts as recognition flickers in her eyes.
"No, no. Entirely my fault, Granger. I'm sorry," he blurts out without finesse, "For, you know, everything that happened. In school... During the war… Well, and this, of course." He clarifies dumbly.
Nice, he thanks his brain for the sudden bout of eloquence. The one apology he's mentally revised hundreds of times in his head for the duration of his house arrest. It seems he's just made an impromptu revision.
She seems just as shocked, and simply stands there without a word, mouth slightly agape.
He takes it as his cue to bolt, and spends the rest of the day dissecting what exactly went wrong.
Sighing, he chalks it up to the lack of human interaction in the past year.
July, 1999
"For the record, Malfoy, I forgive you," she announces, two months after his apology.
He looks up from his meal to see her fidgeting in her navy work robes, a tray in hand.
"May I sit here?" she asks, distinctly uncomfortable.
He glances at the crowded cafeteria.
"How convenient of you to forgive me when this is the only seat left, Granger," he comments drily.
She ignores him, places her tray of food carefully on the table, plonks herself in the seat across him, and starts eating.
He ignores her back, but is secretly relieved.
"I'm getting tired of getting side-eyed for 'hogging' a table to myself," he sighs, four days later, as he deposits his tray onto the table she's occupying, "Feel free to pretend I'm not here."
They spend weeks ignoring each other at lunch across the table; the up-and-rising Unspeakable with the lowly inter-Ministry clerk.
One day, he hears a soft scoff when he mutters about the substandard gruel the Ministry tries to pass off as food and looks up to see a small smile tugging on the corner of her lips. The next, she asks if he has seen the latest garbage printed on the Daily Prophet.
It takes them two months after that to acknowledge that lunch is a them thing.
December, 1999
He is re-introduced to her friends at that year's Ministry Christmas Party, months into their unlikely acquaintanceship. By then, they've found more commonalities than differences that conversations come naturally.
They both agreed that the setting is public enough that Weasley wouldn't get too violent.
What they hadn't accounted for is the fact that copious amounts of champagne would always be within reach.
Predictably, Weasley provokes him, to which Draco retorts with an inconsequential sarcastic remark, and the rest is history.
Before they embarrass themselves in a full-out brawl, she drags him back by the collar and side-along apparates him back to her tiny flat. She tends to his broken nose and admonishes him for being "just as immature as Ronald!" as she paces a hole in her cream carpet.
She's making him dizzy, and his mind fills with even more childish ways to either stop her or shut her up. They are alone (except for the ugly orange Kneazle that is curled up against his lap), so maybe she won't slap him.
He doesn't know. He's drunk, possibly concussed, and he should leave so that he doesn't do something stupid.
January, 2000
Hermione Granger breaks up with Ron Weasley three weeks later. It's an "amicable separation, and a source close to the couple claims that they are still good friends". The sudden breakup makes front page news, decorated by their personal milestones throughout the course of their relationship. It is all everyone can talk about for a week.
Curiously, the media had nothing to report about the actual relationship.
Draco knows all about maintaining the illusion of happiness. Too many of his Housemates wore that telltale melancholy in their gaze when they echoed articles from the Prophet about their perfect families. In their later years, it's become common courtesy among his housemates to not probe about Prophet articles.
Chicken casserole half-eaten, he sits at their usual table and scans for her through the crowd.
When he finds out that she has been calling in sick for the past two days, he apparates unannounced to her flat to see if she needs his help with a little Weasel-bashing.
She flings the door open and he is treated to the no-frills version of her, so unlike the image she portrays in public. Unguarded, she is all wild curls, bare-faced, navy cardigan over simple white tee and unflattering flannel pants; objectively the least sexy thing ever. And he just stares! He makes an honest attempt at words, but his dry throat doesn't let him.
Merlin help him, for his brain seems to be malfunctioning!
Her face grows red with embarrassment as she pulls her cardigan close self-consciously. She then slams the door in his face, screaming that she's fine, and to "Go back to work! I'll be there tomorrow!"
He hightails it out of her apartment building, berating his stupidity. Of course, his mind rebels and he spends the rest of the workday imagining how it would feel to come home to that version of her every evening. Well, maybe it's not her in particular. It's the idea of having a partner who doesn't need to put on airs for him. That's all.
The train of thought has him moping when he goes home to his empty wing in the Manor.
It's only remedied the next day, when he digs into the apple pie she's baked specially for him — for him! — to assuage her guilt of chasing him from her doorstep instead of inviting him in like a normal human being. Which is what he tells her with a pout. The second part. He's definitely not telling her that her apple pie is a cure for his sadness.
She simply rolls her eyes at his antics and proceeds to feed him some spiel that she has rehearsed for everybody. "Ron and I have been best friends since First Year, but we just couldn't find the spark in our relationship to make it something more. So we decided it was for the best to part ways."
She doesn't seem too devastated, so he doesn't press her for the real reason. She will tell him if and when she wants to.
Weeks later at lunch, she reveals to him the trigger for her breakup and he is utterly crestfallen.
She thinks she's falling for someone, and apparently it's not fair to the Weasel.
The pounding in his ears is incessantly loud, and he has to get away. Has to pretend she hasn't just delivered the most devastating news he's heard since the war.
He quickly fakes a smile and wishes her the best of luck, entirely missing the flicker of hurt on her face as he excuses himself.
February, 2000
It figures that the one time the Ministry is prompt in processing his request is when it'll get him out of their hair. His application for time off is approved the very next morning, and he leaves for a week away, from everything, everyone, and her.
Picking Paris is perhaps a bit of a Freudian slip; the City of Love for a bloke who secretly covets it.
With a pang in his heart, he wonders if she will be spending her lunch breaks with her mystery man.
Has she not been able to spend them with the bloke because of him? Has she been meeting him after work? Or is he a co-worker of hers?
He coops himself inside his family's townhouse the first couple of days, indulging in copious amounts of firewhiskey to stop his thoughts.
The third day, he's forced to leave the apartment to scour for food, having mistakenly dismissed the family elf the night before. Functioning on pepper up potion, he impulsively (and vindictively) chats up a pretty brunette and invites her to dinner.
Throughout their shared meal, all he thinks about is how her hair is too carefully curled and entirely the wrong shade of brown; how she's too accepting of his obnoxious comments about the wait staff; how her voice lacks that crystalline quality that encourages him to ask more than tell, just so he can hear more of it.
Extending the night in a hotel room is a terrible mistake, one trumped only by chatting the girl up in the first place. His only consolation is that he hasn't led them to the apartment.
He spends thirty minutes pretending it is her who is gazing up at him in wholly unflattering cotton and flannel instead of black lace, her whose skin breaks out in gooseflesh at his touch, her who he's worshipping with his tongue. It's not like he consciously wants to think of her, but his subconscious is a disobedient dick. Quite literally.
When he finishes, it is with a pang of self-loathing and her name on his lips.
At first, the nameless girl doesn't seem that greatly offended, considering how she'd definitely had a good time, and also the hotel room is ostentatiously expensive. She is however very insulted when he kicks her out shortly after.
Shame consuming him, he checks out of the hotel and returns to the townhouse without a backwards glance at the bed.
He begs his house elf back with an immediate raise, and doesn't leave the house for the remainder of his stay, choosing instead to wallow in self-pity and regret.
He isn't even in a bloody relationship with her!
He spends the two days after his return in his cubicle, trying to wrestle the mountain of work that has piled up in his absence. Not one of his colleagues had volunteered to cover for the ex-Death Eater. Not that he's surprised.
He's interrupted at eight in the evening on his second day back.
"Where'd you go, Malfoy?"
His gut clenches. He's missed her voice.
"None of your business, Granger," he drawls.
She does not respond to the jibe, and he assumes she has taken the hint and left.
Good. She really should stop wasting her time on him.
He sighs as he slots his quill into its holder and presses the heels of his palms against the sockets of his eyes. She's probably going to her mystery man right now.
"Are you alright?" she asks in concern, stepping cautiously into his cubicle.
She's still here?
"You're still here?"
She huffs, slamming a sky-blue thermos on his desk. "Well, obviously. You must be starving. Someone needs to feed you if you're not going to do it yourself," she stares pointedly at his still-overflowing in-tray.
His stomach growls in agreement as he reluctantly twists the cap open to the delicious scent of pumpkin soup from the Muggle cafe she knows he likes. She's even brought him a cookie for his sweet tooth!
The mountain of work takes him another two days to conquer, and she fetches him dinner both nights.
June, 2001
His two year bond with the Ministry ends, and the only thing he is going to miss is lunch with Granger.
He jokingly congratulates her that she's now free to spend her lunch hour with whoever she deigns worthy of the great honour, and she asks him if he would like to do dinners instead. For old times' sake.
He selfishly agrees before his brain can convince him otherwise.
One night, as they sit in her flat with Chinese take-out, he guiltily asks if the other bloke is okay with her spending that much time with him.
She merely shrugs and replies that anyone who doesn't respect her judgment doesn't deserve her time. Despite her nonchalance, she looks uncertainly at him.
He thinks that anyone who doesn't respect her judgment is a fool, and he tells her as much.
She brightens at the conviction behind his words, but he still senses her apprehension.
"You're unsure?" he probes.
"No. He… he's the real deal. I just—" she pauses, suddenly frustrated, "I don't know how I can make it clearer without spelling it out. For a brilliant wizard, he's unexpectedly thick in the head in that department."
He blanches as something clicks in his mind.
"Is it Potter?"
Of course it bloody is! It makes sense. A case of unrequited love. It's not that she doesn't want to spend her time with Potter. She can't.
"Wha— No! You're an idiot!" She smacks him upside the head. "I'm going to go watch the telly. You can clean up before you leave."
He banishes away the empty take-out cartons, but joins her on the sofa with ice cream.
"I'm sorry I'm a dolt. Ice cream?"
"Yes please. And admission is the first step to recovery," she announces as she accepts the bowl, fingers brushing his.
"Oh? And is there a cure for my apparent idiocy?" he asks, making himself comfortable on her couch.
She sighs with a dramatic "I'm afraid not", indulging in the raspberry ripple while he rolls his eyes and digs into the chocolate ice cream that she doesn't care for, trying not to smile.
They spend the evening going through the collection of her favourite shows, and he finds himself rather enamoured with Fawlty Towers.
That, too, becomes a routine, and they have dinner together most nights.
Then they sit at the telly, her in the various assortment of T-shirts and flannel pants she calls her pyjamas and him in his dress shirt and trousers from work, until one or both of them fall asleep. She is usually the first to succumb, always at the tail end of the Muggle news.
He's not sure why she doesn't just tell him that she's going to bed; that he should leave.
Instead, she simply scoots closer to lean her head on his shoulder as soon as the news comes on, and he counts the minutes until her breathing slows and her body softly sags against his. He then turns the volume down and lightly dozes with his head on hers, breathing in the scent of her jasmine shampoo, hoping that she wouldn't wake till he was ready to leave.
He would rouse in the wee hours of the morning with a crick in his back and she would still be asleep. So he would lay her down on her sofa, summon a blanket to cover her, and make his way back to his cold, empty bed.
He thinks that is the reason he stays.
August, 2001
He startles awake to her violent jostling one night. Her brows are furrowed and tears are escaping from the sides of her eyes.
He tries shaking her awake, but she just gets more tense and her pleas become more desperate. His name spills from her lips and it pains him that he knows exactly which nightmare she is reliving. Guilt consuming him, he pulls her close as he rubs her back and whispers soothing nonsense into her ear. Anything to calm her.
In desperation, he presses a gentle kiss onto her forehead and she eventually quiets and curls into him, her quivering hands grasping the fabric of his shirt, tear-stained face pressing into the crook of his neck.
He connects dots that were never meant to be connected, and concludes that she has been keeping him there so that he can see — first hand — the damage he and his family has done to her. The hot spike of tears stings at the back of his eyes and he doesn't fall back asleep.
The next morning, he apologises profusely for himself, for his family, for his aunt. It's closer to the version of the apology she should have received in the first place. And it's probably the final chance he has to interact with her. Even bleeding heart Hermione Granger has a threshold.
A deafening silence settles over them, and he's honestly shocked when she urgently grabs onto his wrist as he gets up to leave.
She mutters that she wishes she hadn't sprung it on him like that.
She explains that despite her Mind Healer's repeated warnings against her reliance on Dreamless Sleep, she hasn't had the courage to do anything about it. Not at the expense of reliving an even more gruesome version of the war.
Then their strange nightly ritual began. And she feels — felt — brave enough to not have to spike her tea with the potion. For the first time in years.
She is utterly terrified that she would never again sleep without the aid of potions.
By then, teardrops are running tracks down her face as she looks everywhere but at him, as if she's apprehensive about how he would judge her. As if he would ever judge her.
As her grip loosens uncertainly around his hand, he pulls her shaking form close, strokes her hair and reassures her of just how brave she is for even daring to try. The fresh wave of tears seeps through his shirt.
He never knew his heart capable of aching on behalf of someone else, and it scares him. But he shoves the fear into an imaginary chest (along with his sanity and self-preservation), locks it, and pushes it into a dark corner of his brain.
No, he does not understand where these feelings are coming from.
She returns from her next Mind Healing session with a parchment full of tips to help with her addiction, brown eyes brimming with melancholy but burning with determination.
Things often get worse before they get better.
They spend eight months running through the steps to recovery.
In those eight months, he comes to understand the integral differences between them.
Sure, he has his share of insomniac episodes; some nights he startles awake, some he stares at his ceiling until light streams in. But while he instinctively tucks his worst memories away into the far recesses of his mind, it is in her nature to overcome hers.
He watches by her side as she spends the eight months consciously doing just that. She relives her farewell to her parents; she relives the anxiety of being on the run; she relives the betrayal of her best friend; she relives her torture on the Manor floor; she relives the uncertainty of the Final Battle.
Repeatedly.
Every relapse takes a heavier toll on her psyche. And he just wishes he could divert some of the pain away.
May, 2002
They make a significant breakthrough into the ninth month.
It's his father's suggestion, actually.
"Perhaps Miss Granger needs to get away. From everywhere, everything, and everybody she's ever associated with; take a break from all her responsibilities."
She agrees to try, with one condition: that he goes with her. "Please, I can't do it alone, Draco."
The next day, he registers a portkey to New York and they leave the following week.
Because neither of them have been there, their itinerary is copied from some book called Lonely Planet. "It's basically a trip for typical Muggle tourists," she says.
They travel via the metro, picnic at Central Park, wait in line for the Statue of Liberty, and tour the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He marvels about how similar the Muggle world is to the Magical one, just... brighter with their fluorescent lamps and in constant motion with this thing called 'electricity'.
His favourite attraction is the New York Public Library, where she practically squeals with glee before dragging him up the steps to the entrance, her white sundress flowing with her enthusiasm. Every few minutes, she would excitedly whisper random factoids about the library, warm breath tickling his ear.
Once, to their collective horror, she accidentally brushes her lips on his earlobe and a groan slips out from the back of his throat, earning them disapproving looks from the patrons. She flushes a bright tomato red as she drags him away to continue their exploration of the library, pointedly refusing to look at him. She doesn't let go of his hand, though.
He, however, concentrates on not crowding her into the multitudes of book shelves and coaxing sounds out of her.
That night, they return to the hotel room they agreed to share, and her happiness drains as her anxiety returns.
They lie on their respective beds and fall almost immediately asleep due to the time difference.
He looks over at the digital clock on the bedside table between them: 1.08am. She's twisting and whimpering under her duvet.
Crawling out from the warmth of his bed, he perches on hers and takes a small clammy hand in his, tracing gentle circles on the back of her hand with his thumb, murmuring "It's alright", "You're safe", "I'm here" like a chant.
It seems to be a bad one that night, and he starts questioning whether it's really a good idea to bring her to a foreign place, away from the comfort of her home. Her face is scrunched in sorrow, and tears are streaming from the corners of her eyes.
Folding his torso over hers, he sweeps away the hair that's plastered to her face, damp from the perspiration, and presses a kiss to her forehead. It's the one thing he knows will calm her, although the guilt consumes him afterwards.
Her eyes fly open and he finds himself unable to tear away from them, fascinated in the way her unshed tears catch on her eyelashes and reflect the images from the telly they've left on, like a kaleidoscope.
His heart stutters, afraid of her reaction. Did she notice?
She tugs on his hand and scooches to the edge of the bed to make space for him on the single bed, lifting her duvet for him to climb under. "Stay, please." she implores, voice small.
He nods and slips under the covers, not knowing what to do with his hands. The bed is too small for two, and an arm is dangling off the side. There's just no space. Maybe he could transfigure the two beds together? Is that too presumptuous? Perhaps he should turn, but does he face her, or away?
She gives a nervous laugh and he feels her fidgeting through the mattress.
"Well this is a snug fit," she mutters.
He's not going to be able to sleep that night.
"I think I'll just..." he turns on his side, away from her, deciding it's considerably less awkward this way.
"Scooch closer. You're falling off," she pokes him on the shoulder to emphasise her point, sounding almost amused as he catches himself from rolling off the bed.
As soon as he settles into a more comfortable position, he feels her arm wrapping around his waist, almost possessively as she presses her head to his shoulder blade and sighs.
She probably just doesn't want him to fall off the tiny bed in the middle of the night.
As sleep claims her, he spends the night cataloguing the way her soft body moulds into his, the way her arm drapes securely across his midsection, the comforting scent of jasmine, and her soft puffs of breath on his thin T-shirt.
In the morning, she claims it is the best sleep she's had in close to five years.
That night, they transfigure the twin beds into a larger one. She promptly falls asleep on his chest and he passes out from sheer exhaustion, unable to care that she is pressed so intimately and so softly to him.
The next morning, when he peels the curtains back and the sunlight rouses her, she weeps. He rushes to her in worry but she smiles brilliantly at him through her tears, her hair sticking up at odd angles.
He smiles back at her as he attempts to pat her hair down, to no avail. His perplexed expression earns him a giggle, and his heart swells.
He moves in to her flat as soon as they return from the States. They deduce that she's afraid of waking up alone, and him being a constant presence in the house would put her mind at ease.
Naturally, they bicker about who should do the laundry, where the books should go, who cooks better. But at night, they lay on her magically-enlarged king-sized bed and talk about the past, the present and the future until one of them drowses off.
They know in the back of their minds that it's not entirely healthy to essentially be replacing one addiction with another. They're going to have to wean her off his presence slowly.
Preferably before he gets addicted to waking up beside her.
The inevitable talk happens sooner rather than later, after his four day business conference in Berlin.
She looks haggard, though she tries to hide it behind her welcoming smile when he steps out from the Floo.
That night, she crosses onto his side of the bed when she thinks he's fallen asleep and holds onto him tighter than she'd first done on their trip. His fingers twitch as he tries not to wrap his arms around her trembling form. He would let her broach the topic when she's ready, but his suspicion is solidified; her dependency on him is merely avoiding the problem.
He develops newfound respect for her when she sits him down the next morning, and confesses. Apparently, she's not slept more than two hours on the first two nights he's been away, and only managed to rest after downing a vial of Dreamless Sleep on the third.
So they go through the steps to recovery again, which takes an excruciating six months.
But she looks increasingly vibrant as her reliance wanes, and it strengthens his resolve as he moves to his own bed in the spare bedroom.
Some days, he wakes up with her in his bed, her hand in his. But who doesn't have the occasional nightmare?
December, 2002
That year, she drags him to The Burrow for their Christmas Eve luncheon.
He is still surprised that no one, Ron Weasley included, seems too bothered by his occasional presence anymore.
Potter pulls him aside after lunch.
"Malfoy, please make up your mind, or stop wasting Hermione's time," Potter says as his fingers rake through his already-messy hair, clearly frustrated.
He frowns, not entirely comprehending. "What are you ta—?"
"Oh for the love of Merlin! I see the way you two look at each other. It's nauseating, by the way. You obviously care for each other. What on earth is stopping you from taking the next step? Is it her blood status? If it is, I swear, I'm going to-"
"She's in love with someone, Potter," he interrupts. Doesn't Potter know?
"And?" Potter taps his feet impatiently.
"That's that, actually," he replies, annoyed that he had to admit that there is someone else she has her sights on.
"Wait. You think she's in love with someone else."
"Did I stutter, Potter?" He scowled.
"Have you ever seen her with someone else?"
Has he? Maybe it's someone from work? He's honestly been skirting around the issue; pretending the elephant in the room doesn't exist.
"You're blind, Malfoy. Blind!" Potter throws up his hand in defeat, and stomps out the room like a petulant child.
So there isn't anyone, anymore?
He doesn't dare dwell on the alternative. Shouldn't dwell on it. Should he?
December, 2002 / January, 2003
She is his date to his mother's first post-war New Year's Eve party. He'd briefly considered bailing, to avoid the prospective brides and droll sycophantic politicians. He changed his mind when her invitation arrived shortly after his.
She steps out of her room that evening in a simple but elegant burgundy gown with a fitted bodice, her hair swept into a loose braided bun. His heart pounds and his mouth dries as she approaches him. She's beautiful.
She tucks an errant curl behind her ear and peers shyly up at him, "I wasn't sure about this gown. Is it too much? Ginny said—"
He touches her shoulder to interrupt her self-conscious babbling. "You look very lovely."
He beams as she blushes prettily.
He guides her to the fireplace, hand on her back, grazing scorching smooth skin instead of fabric. Oh! He sees exactly why she's apprehensive about the gown now. His throat constricts as her breath hitches audibly, and he has to imagine his father's deep scowl and his mother's intimidating glare if they don't turn up.
She is easily the most beautiful woman at the party, outshining all the Pureblood girls who spend their every waking moment dolled up, and he spends the evening showing her off to his co-workers from Malfoy Enterprises when he has absolutely no right to.
His mother pulls him aside after all the guests have arrived.
"I can see why you like Miss Granger, darling. She's eloquent, well-mannered, and can hold her own. Your father seems taken with her as well."
"We're not like that, Mother."
"Well, whyever not?"
He doesn't… know, anymore.
He excuses himself and finds her standing next to the ice carvings, engaged in a discussion with Cassius Parkinson, Pansy's father. To the casual observer, it looks like a polite conversation. But he sees that she is tapping her fingers along the vertical seam of her dress in the way she always does when she's restraining herself.
To his surprise, his father interrupts and directs Cassius away to another conversation.
He joins her, offering his hand for a dance. She places her hand daintily in his and lets him lead her to the dance floor.
She places her hand on his shoulder and looks up at him. "Did Lucius Malfoy just rescue me back there?"
"I think he actually rescued Parkinson from your wrath," he teases with a smirk.
Her hand leaves his shoulder temporarily to give him a light smack but his reflexes are faster. He catches her hand, and brings her knuckles to his lips before guiding her hand to the back of his neck. "I wonder who's going to rescue me?" he pouts at her as he closes the distance and encircles a warm hand around her waist.
She chuckles before he leads them into a waltz.
Casting a heating charm to combat the frigid December night air, he shows her to the garden close to midnight, leading her to the area that "Reminds me of you". She laughs as they near the half dozen jasmine bushes that were a recent addition.
They sit shoulder to shoulder on the wooden swing under the nearby sycamore tree and watch as the fireworks light up the sky in the distance.
"Happy new year, Draco," she says as the colourful lights dance across her face.
"Happy new year, Hermione," he replies, and her eyebrows shoot up in surprise at his use of her given name. While she has been using his for months now, this is the first he's called her by hers.
Inhaling a fortifying breath, he cradles the back of her neck gently, giving her a chance to push him away. When she doesn't, he leans over and presses a kiss to her forehead. The first when she's lucid, he thinks guiltily.
He observes her silently, his forehead on hers, their breaths merging.
Her face tinges adorably pink as her eyes scrunch close and she chews on her lower lip, obviously anxious. He pulls back reluctantly, and is about to apologise when her eyes fly open, her hazel gaze determined. She places a warm palm on the side of his face, and the apology is trapped in his throat. Instead, his thoughts run wild and he fantasises about the impossible as her eyes flit over his features, lingering on the bow of his lips.
Then… nothing, but also everything.
His mind ceases to function as her soft lips tentatively brush his, trembling ever so slightly, and he feels a wave of protectiveness overcome him; he just wants to protect her, even from himself, even when she screams at him that she doesn't need protecting.
He wants to extend it as an open invitation, if she would just let him.
The fireworks in the distance have stopped but the incessant thumping of his heart continues to ring in his ears. His hands cling desperately onto her arms and he draws her closer, in case she changes her mind.
His head tilts, and he slides his lips against hers, his hand shakily covering her smaller one that is still cupping his jaw. He sighs in relief as she melts a little in his arms, and he tastes the champagne on the tip of her tongue.
When they break reluctantly apart, her hazel eyes are unusually bright.
"Granger?" he asks, eyebrows furrowing as he catches a stray tear in its track with his thumb, "Don't cry, Hermione."
She leans into his touch and slightly shakes her head, blinking away the tears, the brave lioness that she is.
He decides to take a leaf from her book, and boldly recaptures her lips. He tries to show her just how long he's wanted to do this; just how needy he is for her; just how much he wants her. And she returns every kiss in kind.
February, 2003
"Granger, I'm ready."
He's not.
She peers at him from atop her book, and nods nervously, sliding her bookmark between the open pages, stowing it away. Her fingers touch his and he instinctively turns his hand to hold hers.
"It's going to be alright, Draco" she says with conviction that has no basis except for her endless optimism.
"You don't know that," he retorts drily.
"They'll be like they always have been. But if things get difficult, we'll just have to claw our way through."
"One, snakes don't have claws, Granger," he reminds her, index finger in the air to emphasise his point, "And two, we're walking into the proverbial lion's den. I'll be torn to shreds!"
"Such a drama king, this one," she rolls her eyes, "Would a kiss make it better?"
He nods with a smirk, tapping a finger on his lips.
She pecks a kiss on his cheek and quickly steps away, snickering at his disappointed glare. He roars in indignance as he yanks her back into his warmth and traps her against him, his arms around her waist. He plants a proper kiss on her lips, nipping at her bottom lip in warning, earning a giggle against his lips.
He rolls his eyes, exasperated. He has no claws against her.
They side-along apparate to the Burrow as a couple for the first time, and she intertwines their fingers as they amble down the cobblestone path.
"Oi, George! Pay up! They're holding hands!" Ginny hollers as soon as she spots them.
The crack of apparition brings George Weasley in their path, studying them in disbelief. "Bollocks! You're two months too early!" George whines, throwing his hands up in defeat. He disapparates to his smirking sister and reluctantly levitates a weighty-looking pouch of coins into her outstretched hand.
So that was why Potter was so eager to give him a push in the right direction that Christmas Eve.
"Whatcha say, Ginny?" Ron Weasley's flaming red hair pops out from a window on the second floor.
"Look!" Ginny shouts back, dangling the bag of Galleons at him gleefully before pointing at the new couple.
"Right on!" the redhead disappears and a shout comes from within the house, "Oi Harry! We won! What do you mean what? The one with 'Mione!"
He glances at Granger beside him as the excited voices fade, and notices the furious blush colouring her face.
"We could still leave…?" he tries.
They don't. But they do survive the evening.
April, 2003
"They're staring, Granger."
It is their first public excursion as a couple, and their reputations certainly don't help in being inconspicuous.
She looks blankly at him from across the table, "You knew they'd stare, Draco."
"Yes, but they're staring at you, too!" he frowns at her nonchalance. He's used to the disdain by now, but she doesn't deserve it.
"Of course they're staring at me. I'm the Golden Girl," she smirks and he feels his lips tug into a reluctant smile as he not-so-sneakily dips his spoon into her pistachio ice cream and earns a literal slap on his wrist.
He doesn't even like pistachio.
June, 2003
He wakes up in the wee hours one Saturday morning to find her in his bed.
It has been months since her last nightmare, and he feels honestly conflicted. He pulls the duvet tighter over her, arms winding protectively around her waist as she snuggles into him with a small smile. He's genuinely missed waking up to her softness.
Hours later, he rouses with the sun in his eyes, gentle fingers lightly brushing his hair from his eyes.
"Morning," she whispers with a shy smile.
"Morning." He can't help but return her smile, threading his fingers in her chaotic curls to lightly massage the base of her scalp, "Did you want to talk about it?"
Her smile falters infinitesimally, but she shakes her head. "This one is… new. But obviously, it wasn't real; you're still here."
Why wouldn't he—
Oh.
"You're not getting rid of me that easily, Granger." He smirks, but brushes her lips with a gentle kiss, reassuring her where he knows words cannot. His heart thumps as he realises just how important to her he's become.
"Show me, Draco," she whispers, the golden flecks in her eyes dancing in determination, masking the vulnerability underneath, "Make me yours. Because, I really want you to be mine."
He stifles a groan as blood rushes. It's unfair, really, how much power her words hold.
She straddles him and presses her soft body flush against his torso, claiming another kiss as her shaky hands simultaneously give away her nerves and set his skin alight.
It would be yet another milestone she's initiated, he muses. Not for lack of interest on his part; he's spent many private moments in the bathroom because of her.
And here she is, granting another unspoken wish of his.
Even though she's nervous too.
He covers her trembling hands with reassuring palms, stilling her exploration, and breaks away from the kiss to study her, wondering if he is still dreaming. Her heavy curls have tumbled over her head; a curtain that shields them from the outside world. He smirks as he tries futilely to tuck them behind her ears to see her properly. The smirk splits into a grin when she rolls her eyes at his plight. She leans slightly back, gathers them in both hands, gives a little twist and tosses them over one shoulder.
Catching her by surprise, he props himself up by the elbows and presses his lips firmly to hers, teasingly sucking on her bottom lip.
She's blushing again, and he finds himself entranced, captivated by her dilated pupils, the black overriding her usual brown; the way her tongue darts instinctively to soothe her lips; the way she gravitates to him and seeks his warmth.
And he can't help the bout of affection that settles over him.
He's fucked before they've even begun.
He trails his lips across every inch of her warm, pink-tinged skin. Down the column of her neck, down to her collarbones, basking in the way she gasps and eagerly arches closer to allow him access, her clothed thighs squirming over his hips, core grinding onto his member.
None of his fantasies could ever compare to this. To her.
Articles of clothes are eagerly peeled and abandoned. His breath hitches as she peppers careful kisses, feather-light, along the jagged sectumsempra scar. His heart thunders at the way her pliant body moulds intimately into his, fitting so perfectly.
He guides her hips over him, and they groan as her heat engulfs him, ignites him. Unhurried, she begins to move above him, and he can't stop his wandering hands as they trace her curves, memorising her by touch alone.
Her hesitant mewls quickly turn into uninhibited moans and whispers of his name, warm breath merging with his own. Her eyes roll back on his deliberate strokes, and she struggles to keep her eyes on him.
He loses any semblance of control when she digs her fingernails into his sweat-drenched shoulders with frantic cries of "Right there! I'm so close! Yes, yes, yes, Draco!" and she shatters. He follows quickly after, whispering her name against her lips.
And the way she gazes reverently at him in their afterglow, forehead pressed against his, as if he is her everything?
He flips them over with a growl as she squeals in surprised delight.
August, 2003
It's something stupidly simple: the way the afternoon sun hits her wild curls, casting a golden halo around her as she's curled up on the couch with a book, her brows furrowed in concentration.
That is the exact moment when he realises that he's in love with the biggest swot in the universe. Has been, for quite some time, actually.
His chuckle alerts her to his presence, and her expression turns into one of amused puzzlement as she cocks her head at him.
He crosses the room and pulls her from the couch, leading her away from the sun's rays.
No. Still undeniably in love.
He gathers her into an embrace, pressing a kiss atop her head as her hands are wrapped securely around him, instinctively rubbing soothing circles in his back. It's strange how much he simultaneously wants to hide his vulnerability, and to show her how much he means what he's going to say. He trusts her implicitly, but she can just as easily break him.
Reluctantly, he pulls away until she can comfortably see him, and he draws on the small reservoir of courage that she has rubbed off on him through the 12 years they've known each other.
He briefly considers waxing poetic about how her passion inspires him, how her intelligence challenges him, how her mere presence comforts him, how a simple touch brings him to life. But instead, he settles on a more direct approach. She's always appreciated succinct honesty.
"Hermione," his voice cracks with anxiety at the concern on her face. He gulps and extends a shaking hand to gently cup her jaw, anchoring himself to her. "I love you. I've loved you for quite some time now. I've just never realised what it was, and I'm truly sorry for making you wait."
He watches as a myriad of emotions flicker in her bright eyes and he knows even before she says it. Should have known, actually.
"I love you, Draco," she manages to choke out with a laugh before bursting into tears of exaltation and relief as she leans into his touch.
"To think, I was jealous of your mystery man for so long," he mumbles, swiping away some of her tears with his thumb, leaning down to brush their lips together in a chaste kiss.
"You know it's you, right?" she smiles teasingly up at him.
"One of your friends may have tried to clue me in. But I was too much of an idiot to believe him then."
She sighs dramatically, "I've come to accept that. At least you're my idiot, Draco Malfoy."
Lips quirking, he tips her chin towards him, and dips down to fully capture her lips, tasting her residual tears and tracing her smile.
He inhales the familiar jasmine scent, and finds that somehow he's still falling.
A/N:
Obscure references made to floorcoaster's We Learned the Sea, and ToEatAPeach's Apple Pies and Other Amends. :)
Credit to LadyKenz347's Sweetly Broken for inevitably influencing some of the editing choices I made to this fic regarding addiction and recovery. Any inaccuracies on dealing with addiction is my own fault.