Part Two: 2003
"And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.
You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,
That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here."
— T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets, The Dry Salvages
—
January
tick tock
Inexplicably, Draco's life shifted on a spectrum closer to a dream than a nightmare. No longer did so much of his existence feel like a cruel joke, an obstacle of fate, or a gauntlet meant to be endured. Rather, it had taken on an unreal quality: something lovely, like gossamer or lace, wrapping what might have been unpleasant, unbearable, with hope. He liked dreams. They could be fantastical, unbelievable, and yet feel so real. Unbeknownst to his better judgement, Hermione Granger had become his biggest, boldest dream.
Watching her step through his Floo in a beautiful cranberry-colored dress and not her usual work ensemble, felt a bit like he'd yet to wake from a fantastic dream. In what conscious state did Granger—Hermione—have any interest in spending time in public with the likes of him? And not just anywhere, but at Harry Potter's wedding? Private as the event may be, it would still integrate Draco into the deepest parts of her personal life.
Their correspondence by owl had felt unreal, like an extended hallucination wherein Draco kept feeding treats to owls that delivered letters to no one. Perhaps he only imagined Hermione's responses in return: coordinating attire, rendezvousing time and location, expressing cautious, impossible excitement. None of it felt real, not even when she entered his flat looking like an entirely unfamiliar version of herself, who smiled at him without suspicion, tucking a distractingly smooth curl behind her ear.
The dream-like quality in his living room crumbled when he saw her scar, fully on display because of her sleeveless dress. Draco felt the blood drain from his face, panic he'd been unprepared to face in the weightlessness of a dream.
"I'm sorry. I know," she said, right arm crossing her body to cover the scar. "I wanted—gods this was probably a bad idea. But I, well. I decided to use your potion, but I wanted to do it with you. Should I not have? I'm so sorry."
He dropped his gaze, landing on her legs. He watched her calves twitch, kneecaps flexing, sliding over joints as her whole body seemed prepared to retreat, muscles poised to engage. The thought that she might not stay pulled him from an imminent spiral.
"You do not need to—ever—apologize to me for my inability to control my reaction to—it is my problem. Not yours. You should never have to—"
She sighed, stepping forward.
"I thought perhaps we could both use it."
She glanced down at his left arm, covered by his sleeve, mark beneath it covered by a concealment charm that left a dark shadow staining his skin: never fully out of sight.
"No. It's for you."
"I'm sure there's enough. I thought perhaps—"
"No."
"Draco, you shouldn't have to constantly wear long sleeves and flinch when someone so much as looks at your arm."
"I do not flinch—"
She raised a brow.
Panic and anger and guilt and shame roiled around inside his chest, a boiling sea bubbling out of control. He closed his eyes and took a breath, resisting the draw towards Occlumency. When he opened his eyes, he saw the potion in her hand. She looked nervous, worried, a finger tapping against the glass vial in a rapid, shaky pattern.
She wore makeup. Out of her norm. An effort.
This was meant to be a good day. A first date. A beginning.
"Hermione," he said, walking to her, only taking the briefest of moments to marvel at the ease with which he'd been allowed into her personal space. He took the vial and held her hand, guiding her to the sofa. "I made this for you in large part because—you beat her."
He sat beside her, angled so that his knees touched hers. He forced himself not to shy away from the scar, to face it just as she had. He unstoppered the vial.
"You won. You came to terms with it. You—could just live your life with it. I'm not"—he glanced at his sleeve—"I'm not there yet."
He turned her hand over in his, exposing her forearm.
"May I?" he asked.
She nodded.
He let her arm rest against his leg as he tilted the vial, letting several drops of the lavender liquid drip onto his fingertips. He set the bottle down and held his breath, too afraid to look in her eyes. He traced the letters, one by one, letting the potion bind, separate, and eliminate the dark curse clinging to her skin.
He heard her intake of breath as the magic worked, glowing purple, not unlike her runes. Most iterations before he incorporated her diagnostic spells had leaned towards blues and greens. But this purple, with her diagnostic magic, felt safe, felt like healing.
He risked a look up at her when the glowing faded.
"It didn't hurt," she said, eyes blurry.
"I would have told you if it did."
"I assumed, from your chest, that it must—"
"Those were bad versions."
Her fingers tapped against the underside of his wrist.
"What now?" she asked, focus latched on her arm. Without knowing what had just transpired, one would assume her scar remained unchanged. But the invisible curse had been evicted, forcibly removed from her person, from her life.
His chest clenched—almost painful as his lungs and heart and sternum all vyed to occupy the same, suddenly reduced space—at the idea that her diagnostic runes would stop identifying her as a vessel of dark magic. He stood.
"I have some scar paste. It will take care of the rest."
And it did. Not five minutes later, and her arm bore no signs of the scar.
"I'm not going to cry again," she said.
"It's—alright. If you need to."
She smiled at him, lips slightly parted as Draco tried to decide if that look of wonder could really be directed at him.
"I'm going to hug you."
His laughter burst suddenly, unbidden, from some disbelieving part of himself that had slipped back into a dream with her.
"You sound like Theo."
"He likes hugging you?"
"Mostly just announcing it. Evidently I project an air of disinterest in physical affection."
She hesitated. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.
"Is it?" she asked. "A disinterest in physical affection? I wouldn't want to make you—"
Merlin. His disinterest centered exclusively around the awkwardness of this conversation. He rolled his eyes, a strange, bold sensation clawing at his ribs.
"If it's from you, Granger, I can guarantee there's no disinterest. You may touch me whenever, and however, you like."
Her lip slipped from her teeth's hold as her face flushed. She stepped up to him, winding her arms around his torso, head pressed against his chest.
What a perfect fit.
She stood at just the right height; he could dip his head into her hair, suffocate in the scent of it, drop a brave kiss somewhere in the quagmire of it, twist his fingers in it.
His skin felt alive when they broke apart, buzzing and vibrating. So focused on how she'd somehow delivered such a thrum to his person, he barely heard her small laugh.
"You make me nervous," she said, and he didn't believe her for a moment. She shivered, a release of nervous energy he probably needed for himself. But something about it emboldened him. It seemed unbelievable that he might affect her in a similar way as she did him—with her hair and her lips and the story of her thoughts written across her face all day, every day.
"That's ridiculous."
"I agree." She cracked a smile. "Are you ready?"
He reached for her, letting his hand trail down her fresh, unblemished skin before threading his fingers between her own.
"Take me on a date, Hermione."
And, in an act of pure spontaneity bound to a sudden thrill of excitement, he winked at her, laugh welling, determined to have fun.
—
"You haven't given me any kind of impassioned speeches about playing nice with a brood of Weasleys."
They stood in the Burrow's gardens, having made an inconspicuous arrival, mostly avoiding introductions and wary eyes. Hermione would leave him soon to attend to her duties to the bride, whatever that entailed. Until then, they'd sequestered themselves in the magically blooming midwinter garden, sipping champagne and, to Draco's surprise, feeling strangely at ease despite the circumstances.
"Would you like me to?" she asked.
"Not necessarily. Just an observation."
"I've already told them all I was bringing you."
"And how did that go over?" he asked, casually counting the number of redheads in his line of sight: too many.
She rolled her eyes. "Not great. But not horrible. You didn't make an altogether terrible impression on my birthday. You'd earned a tiny bit of goodwill."
He almost snorted into his wine.
"I was nearly unconscious from occlusion."
She smiled, not saying anything, but he had a strong suspicion that if he tried anything similar during this wedding, she might hex him.
"When do you abandon me for the Weaslette?"
"You'll be fine." It wasn't an answer.
"Yes, the lone snake in a den of lions usually fares well."
"Not a lone snake." Hermione tilted her head towards a child emerging from a hydrangea bush, and the remarkably familiar looking woman wrangling him. She looked so very much like—
"Is that—my aunt?" His world felt unreal again, like a dream, to speak of an aunt and not have that mean Bellatrix. Draco had only ever seen his mother's other sister once in his life: during an unfortunate and accidental run-in at Diagon Alley. Coincidentally, it was also the only time Draco ever met his now-deceased cousin. He wasn't sure what he should feel now, seeing his first cousin, once removed, child of a cousin he didn't know, grandchild to an aunt he didn't know.
"I should have mentioned they would be here," Hermione said, her hand finding his arm. "I honestly didn't think about it. Harry is Teddy's godfather and…are you alright?"
"I—" Draco started, honestly unsure how to answer. He took a final sip of his champagne, downing the rest of it. He let the carbonation burn against his throat, a vitalizing kind of sting. When he looked back at Hermione, she watched him with wide eyes, an expressive umber with a wrinkle between her brows. "I think I'll talk to her—to them."
Hermione smiled. If it weren't the middle of the day—and in plain view of several sets of Weasley eyes that would likely slip something in his food if he did it—Draco would have kissed that lovely curve in her lips. He certainly wanted to. In that moment, he felt like he'd stepped into a different world, where he had long-estranged family he might talk to and a brilliant, beautiful woman staring up at him, like she didn't hate him and knew he didn't hate her.
What was all this? Unbelievable, honestly. He leaned down, close to the side of her face, soft curls brushing against his cheek as he spoke against her ear.
"You are so lovely. Have I told you?" Bold fingers found her waist, not exactly a hug, more like a tentative, unmoving dance. He permitted himself one small brush of his lips just beneath her ear. He felt her shiver against his fingertips. He hovered in place: a fixed orbit.
"That's not the last kiss I plan on giving you today."
He hadn't noticed that she'd wrapped her hand around his free wrist until her fingers tightened when he spoke. They stayed like that, unmoving, much longer than necessary for a simple exchange of whispered words.
There was nothing simple about this exchange at all.
This exchange had been lit on fire.
Unsuccessfully doused by reality.
Still blazing.
"I hope it's not," she said. He couldn't resist digging his fingertips into her waist, possessiveness ignited by her words. He pulled away to look into her eyes, close enough that if he wanted to give in and kiss her right then and there, it would have taken barely any movement at all.
"Go do your job, Granger. I'll be around when you're done."
"So, a normal day, then?"
He laughed and stepped away, requiring space lest he ruin any chance he might have at actually romancing her.
With distance, he could see she'd flushed a beautiful shade of pink. He could see himself losing track of all sense of time trying to discover all the things that made her blush. She let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head.
She met his eyes, mouth slightly agape, like she might say something, like there were words there to be spoken, but she swallowed them back. With a rush of pride, Draco gave into the impulse to smile, rather liking the idea that he'd rendered Hermione Granger speechless. She laughed again, another shake of her head, a deeper flush, and then she left, presumably to find the Weaslette. Because there was a wedding to be had. That was meant to be the most important thing happening, not the hostage situation happening inside his chest.
—
Draco had no experience with children. Apart from when he was one, he could scarcely imagine a time when he'd ever even engaged with a child, which made approaching an unknown four—five?—year old a sufficiently intimidating task. But as he watched Teddy tear through the gardens, carving a warpath through gardenias and gladiolas and geraniums, Draco saw the opportunity to introduce himself. Andromeda caught his eye from a distance, a knowing sort of smirk on her face: one he'd seen his mother wear in the past. She gestured towards where Teddy had run off, closer to Draco than to her, and apparently, an opportunity to connect.
Well, that seemed irresponsible. She didn't know Draco from an ogre, not really. But with a second pointed gesture and raised brow, reminding him so sharply of Narcissa that he almost did a double-take, he steeled himself and made his way towards a wildly overgrown rosemary plant.
The bush rustled.
Draco tilted, bending to peek under the plant, and found a pair of gray eyes staring back at him from beneath a shock of bright blond hair. Draco didn't move or speak, stunned by a mirror through time. Then the eyes changed, a golden brown. The hair changed too, morphing into a sandy dark blond.
Right. His cousin had been a metamorphmagus. And the magic evidently passed by blood.
"That's quite the trick," Draco said, hoping desperately that he didn't sound like an idiot. How were adults meant to speak to children?
"Your hair is fun," Teddy said.
Huh.
Draco's mouth twitched, a tug towards a self-satisfied smirk. He crouched.
"Thank you. I rather like it, as well. What—ah, what are you doing under there?"
"Hiding."
Draco snorted.
"Obviously. Care to elaborate?"
Teddy's attempt at parroting the word elaborate did not end in success: warbled syllables stuck on a stuttering 'b.'
"Sorry, it means explain. Why are you hiding?"
"Grandmother told me there would be vegetables."
"A horror."
Teddy's face broke into an enormous smile.
"And I'm bored."
"Understandable, weddings are dull."
Teddy's smile spread even wider.
Draco looked up from his crouch at the sound of a new voice, melodic and refined in a familiar, uncanny way.
"I cannot say I expected to see my sister's son at Harry Potter's wedding."
Teddy shifted further beneath the rosemary bush, finger lifted in front of his lips in a shhing action, eyes wide as if his hiding place hadn't already been found out. Draco offered him a conspiratorial wink before rising to his feet.
"Aunt Andromeda," he said. She had the same hard edges in her face that his mother did, slender with angles that could cut as quick and deep as glass. But her eyes were softer, less calculating. When she smiled at him, it steered clear of evaluation in a way his mother's smile rarely did.
"How are you, Draco?"
Teddy emerged from beneath the rosemary before Draco had the opportunity to answer, which conveniently saved him from weaving together a response to such a remarkably loaded question.
"Aunt?" Teddy asked, tugging at Andromeda's deep blue sleeve. "Did he call you aunt?"
Andromeda smoothed her fingers through Teddy's sandy waves.
"Yes, sweetheart. This is Draco. He's your cousin."
Teddy did not look convinced, tiny features narrowing and pinching in suspicion.
"I've never had a cousin."
"Technically you've always had one, sweetheart. We haven't seen him in"—her eyes met Draco's—"many years."
"Oh," Teddy said with a kind of settling, simple acceptance. In one large step, Teddy detached himself from Andromeda's sleeve and hooked his arms around Draco's waist in a sudden and unexpected hug.
Draco lifted a hand and, feeling ridiculous, offered Teddy a pat on the top of his head. Andromeda sniggered across from him in a way Narcissa would have deemed highly unbecoming, in private or public.
"Teddy, why don't you see if you can find Victoire? I believe I saw her mother a moment ago."
In a continuation of the whirlwind Draco had already witnessed, Teddy broke away, excitement stretching his mouth and eyes wide. And then he was gone, tearing through more flowers in search of someone named Victoire.
"It's difficult to keep him still," Andromeda said, eyes following Teddy's trail before landing back on Draco. A beat passed between them, sounding of what might have been a shared history, silenced by circumstance. "How is Narcissa?"
There were many things Draco might have responded with, ranging from very well thanks to a bit of a shut-in, but the stream of words that spilled from his mouth sought an inkling of familiarity, of family that might know and understand in a way few else could even begin to comprehend.
"Brought low, but not broken, according to her."
The grimace, the distaste, the disappointment: it was all implied. Placed at Andromeda's feet for her to pick up, and she did.
She nodded.
"I had hoped…" she said, trailing off. "But—I did not expect it. And you?"
"Closer to broken."
"Broken can be fixed."
Draco let his gaze wander, seeking chestnut curls and a cranberry dress.
"You're here with Hermione Granger," Andromeda continued, far from a question.
Draco nodded, strangely at ease with a woman he'd only met once in his life, whom he was meant to despise for her choices. Those choices looked far less damning up close, free of fog and fear.
"You know there's only one way loving a Muggleborn ends in our world, don't you?"
His halfhearted attempts to spot Hermione in a crowd ceased before Andromeda had even finished her question, eyes snapping back to her: blue like Narcissa's. The implied advice, on the surface, looked quite similar, too.
"This is only a first date," he said. "It's new—it's, hardly love."
She smiled with a kind of warm, pitying understanding that tensed Draco's back, muscles rebelling under scrutiny.
"I'm willing to forgo the obvious rebuttal that Harry Potter's wedding is much more than a first date sort of outing."
Draco pressed his lips together, biting back what he already knew would be unsuccessful objections.
"My point remains," she said. "It's relevant caution I received for myself once upon a time."
"Things were different then. My family—they can change."
The force of saying they, and not we, struck him in the silence after he said it. The tiny lift in Andromeda's brows told him she had heard it, too.
"But will they?"
"They—already have, some. A bit." A very small, almost imperceptible bit that mostly involved the exclusion of slurs from their vocabulary when speaking with Ministry officials.
"Enough?"
"They just need time."
"We all do, darling. Sometimes there's not enough of it. Not for everyone."
—
The ceremony was—fine. Draco probably ought to call it understated, if he were going for the most socially-acceptable description. Proletariat felt more apt. But he didn't linger on such distinctions as he let his hand hover at the base of Hermione's spine. His fingers ever-so-barely grazed the fabric there as she led him towards the happy couple.
She glanced back at him: a furtive, sneak of a look before she immediately redirected her gaze ahead.
"Is this where I get my speech about playing nice?" he teased, dipping his head to breathe the question in her ear. "I did manage to sit through an entire ceremony next to a Weasley."
She rolled her eyes, still determinedly looking ahead and away from him.
"Angelina is only a Weasley by marriage, and I heard you talking about Quidditch. I doubt it was much of a burden for you."
"Still a Gryffindor though, and you know how those upset my delicate constitution."
He savored her smirk, the tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth. He planned to learn how those smirks tasted, how they differed from her hidden smile, her grins, even her frowns and her grimaces. He would endeavor to know how each shape of her mouth felt against his own. And if he could just escape the constant cloud of Weasleys by birth, Weasleys by marriage, and Weasleys by association, he might take a shot at doing just that. But as it stood, he still suffered in the thick of it.
"Have you forgotten who your date is?" she asked over her shoulder, winding through a particularly thick hoard of red hair and freckles. Circumventing the space set aside for dancing, straight by the assortment of drinks and hors d'oeuvres, he followed her towards where the newly minted Mister and Missus Potter stood surrounded by friends and family.
He indulged in a single stroke of his finger along her lower spine, enough to pull her attention back to him. Not that he wanted to delay the inevitable of having to speak to Potter. That certainly had no bearing on his attempt at distraction.
"I haven't forgotten," he said. "I'm just immune to your especially offensive Gryffindor qualities at this point. It's a hazard of long-term exposure."
In the middle of the reception, he wished he could pull her close and not feel like a public oddity on display. Even under the cover of relative darkness as the sun set over The Burrow, the suspicious glances cast in his direction did not go unnoticed. She smiled up at him, another shape made by her lips for the catalogue he planned to build with his tongue.
"Yes, the exposure has certainly helped educate me on the fascinating intersection between sincerity and snark from a Slytherin."
He risked the scandal and reached for a curl; it's not as if the other guests didn't know he was her date. He just hadn't felt especially generous about giving them gossip fodder. He wound the spiral around his knuckle, counting just how long he could get away with it.
"Just," she reached up, grasping his hand and pulling it down. The curl stretched, then bounced as it slid off his finger. She kept his hand firmly in her own and it felt like he'd somehow tricked her into a compromise in which he got to hold her hand in front of all these people: only about half of whom looked like the sight unsettled their stomachs. "Table the snark? Just in case it tries to make an appearance."
He couldn't resist the laugh.
"You're saying I shouldn't greet the bride with an insult on her wedding day? Well—so long as I can greet her with an insult every other day."
Hermione's mouth pulled together, stifling the laughter he suspected she refused to reward him with. She released a deep breath through her nose and opened her mouth to say something. He preempted her.
"I'm not offended you had to say it at least once. Due diligence and all that," he said, a slight squeeze of her hand in his, encouragement to continue their path to the Potters. "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you got roped into a promise."
He leaned close again.
"Is that the case, Granger? Did an uncivilized herd of redheads bully you into promising you'd keep your exceptionally attractive, but unknown element of a date in line?"
"I can't imagine why they'd think that necessary."
"Nor can I."
She pulled him forward the last few steps required to come face to face with the bride and groom. Hermione broke from his grip and offered Potter a hug in greeting, leaving Draco standing directly in front of the she-weasel with nothing to do.
She raised a very ginger brow at him: a dare if he ever saw one. A trap, too. One he'd have to avoid if Draco ever planned on having another date with Hermione. He was saved from a dangerously tempted tongue when Hermione swept Ginny into a hug as well.
Draco gathered his courage, took what was likely too audible a deep breath, and stepped up to Potter. He extended his hand and, for a moment, felt transported in time, an echo of a scene he'd lived before: one without a happy ending. A handshake offered, a handshake rejected, a path set into motion that would define years of their lives, whole swaths of time. Draco forced his jaw to unclench and looked directly into Potter's green, bespeckled, infuriating eyes.
"Congratulations, Potter."
He half expected Potter not to accept his handshake, continuity maintained, a perfect echo, a cycle—broken with a quick grip, a single up and down movement, and the words: "Thanks, Malfoy."
Tempting as it was, Draco decided an emotional unravelling in the middle of Harry Potter's wedding wasn't the most ideal course of action, regardless of the small storm tearing his ribs to shreds by way of vindication, of closure.
Was this what moving on felt like? Was this how one grew out of one's past and into their future? If Draco ended up waking in his bed and discovering this had all been a dream, he would be extremely displeased with his subconscious.
Hermione's hand slipped into his, tugging him away from where he'd stared far too long at Potter. He looked at her, pride swelling in the apples of her cheeks. He saw it in the way starlight reflected in her eyes, in her grip on his hand, as if to say she did not plan on letting it go. He'd be happy to live and die by that look of pride, knowing that he'd pleased her.
Warmth filled him from the soles of his shoes to the carefully maintained charms in his hair. He led her to the dance floor; he pulled her close, and he danced with Hermione Granger like it didn't matter that his existence partially scandalized half the guests. When he spun her, he realized the storm in his chest had strengthened to a hurricane. And it had a name: hers.
—
"There aren't enough cushioning charms in the world to save my feet from the damage you've done, dancing me half to death."
He walked with her on his arm, a slow pace through the gardens, moon high in the sky as the celebration wound down.
"Can you blame me? What if this was my only opportunity to dance with you?"
Her hold on his arm tightened, just by a fraction.
"I highly doubt this will be your only opportunity."
"Oh?" he asked, stopping them somewhere in the middle of the herbs, fragrant with rosemary and lavender, a hint of sage and mint. "I suppose I was fairly well behaved. Surely that warrants another date."
"I might even go so far as to call you tame."
"Let's not."
He turned towards her, letting one arm slide around her waist, the other finding the side of her face, thumb brushing against the round curve of her cheek. It felt so easy, so natural, tangling himself up with her.
"This was nice," she said, quiet so as not to disturb the moon and the stars and the many reasons why the next few minutes could be a very bad idea. "Thank you for coming. I enjoyed spending time with you—especially, well, anywhere that's not the manor."
He smiled.
"Who'd have thought it, Granger?"
"I thought we'd agreed you were calling me Hermione, now." She pushed.
"I am, mostly. But some habits—I think of you rather fondly as Granger."
She smiled, too, so close.
"Who would have thought?" she echoed. "I wouldn't have."
"And you're alright with it?"
She swallowed, a nod, her gaze dipping to his mouth.
"Very."
He took a half step closer, the entire line of her body flush with his, cranberry-colored fabric cushioned under his palms. A pull.
His question was nearly silent, not even the herbs could hear him. Only her.
"Can I kiss you now, Granger?"
She nodded, an equally near-silent yes breathed straight through him. Draco resisted the shudder that shot down his spine as her hands skated up the front of his robes, far too light a touch for his liking, before they wound around his neck, threading through his hair.
He bent, already so close. Eliminating the distance between them required barely any movement at all. But he didn't close the gap completely, maintaining enough space between his lips and hers to trade secrets he'd never dare risk the rest of the world hearing.
He placed a barely-there peck at the corner of her mouth.
"I have a suspicion," he whispered against her skin, every ounce of his self-control screaming for more. Fingers pressing against her dress, heart hammering, breath heavy.
He shifted, dropping a kiss at the other corner of her mouth. His grip on her waist tightened, anchoring her in place as he felt her impatient movement start to swell, like she wanted more, too.
Good. She could want as much as she liked. She could wait, just like him.
"That you'll be my undoing," he continued. A greedy want of her clawing at his ribs, demanding to know her, to have her.
He moved again, another fleeting kiss at the center of her bottom lip. He swallowed the pitch of her frustrated sound, transmuting it into his own chuckle.
"Could I be yours?"
A breath and a blink.
"Yes."
Her agreement tasted like caramel apple, like satin ribbons, like waiting he barely knew he'd been doing.
He gave her his breath and took hers in exchange, bridging the last gap between them and savoring the spark that shot through his lips, his jaw, his neck, straight down his spine, to the very tips of his toes.
Kissing Hermione was nothing like he expected.
He expected warmth and lust and the familiar softness of a woman's pliant lips: lovely and pleasant and a stepping stone to more. He did not expect warmth that raged like fire, lust that cracked inside his bones, and lips that felt like the destination he'd sought for so long. If he only ever got to kiss her, that would be enough; he wouldn't mind in the slightest, not as he swallowed the sound of her delicate, satisfied sigh.
The garden: bursting with herbs and vegetables, fruit and flowers. The burrow: overrun with Weasleys, both natural born and married in. The sky: idyllically clear and sparkling with stars on a January night. The ground: solid confirmation that the world still had shape, form.
Her skin: prickling with gooseflesh, independent of the winter chill held at bay by warming charms. No, the sensitive flushing beneath his fingers—rising as he trailed his hand up her bare arm and buried it in her hair—belonged to him. He did that to her.
He smiled against her mouth as her hands pulled at his robes, bringing them closer together than was decent, even for a dark, secluded garden.
He pulled her bottom lip between his teeth, finally taking it for himself after so many months watching her do the same. Her whimper speared him, a jolt towards urgency, a spiraling loss of control as a new fog enveloped him, knowing nothing of war or Occlumency.
He groaned, the sound smothered by her mouth, as her nails dragged against the back of his neck, messing his hair. He flexed a possessive hand at her waist, exploring her ribs, sliding back to her spine, counting shivers with her vertebrae. He couldn't breathe, lungs desperate for air as every other instinct told him he could go without, that his only focus ought to be the sweet sounds he could draw from Hermione's throat.
His chest burned, lips on fire. He delved deeper, harder, more frantic: a taste of tongues and ratcheting tension.
He broke: a gasp of air and the words "Merlin, Granger," tumbling from his mouth. He followed the syllables with his lips, back to hers, then dipping to her jaw, her throat, dragging his teeth and tongue against the soft skin there. He nibbled, sucked, utterly overcome by a need to mark her, to claim her as his own, because fuck if he didn't want her for himself. Her head tipped back, offering a feast for him to explore and consume.
Her hands fell from his neck, skating across his chest. He could feel her breathing, heavy and labored against him, still pressed so close. He peppered more kisses along her neck, letting his own hand at her spine slip lower, kneading her arse and pulling her hips forward.
He matched the strangled sound wrenched from her throat with his own groan, mouth finding hers again, abandoning his attentions on her neck. He brushed his tongue against hers once more, nearly debilitated by the force of desire driving him to hold her so close that he could feel the expansion of her ribs against his own.
Part of him—a small, distant part—had wondered about compatibility, about how much of his draw towards her had been imagined, an effect of forced proximity over so many months. But this—this was certainly something. This felt very much like prophecy, delivered by Andromeda mere hours before. Something about where this would go.
The kiss slowed, a cautious descent from staggering heights, with nips and breathless praises. He brushed a thumb against her cheek, warm to his touch.
This path had a single destination. And, in his own version of prophecy: it would be his undoing.
thank you so much, as always, for reading! i hope you enjoyed! i can be found on tumblr and ao3 as mightbewriting (no 'i'), come hang out! it's a good time! i have a regular update schedule for this fic on ao3: every monday and friday at 4pm est. if you want regular updates, check this story out there!