April

tick tock

The third room they tackled in the guest hall ended up being quite the cunt, in Draco's professional opinion. It took almost a full day just to get the door open, and Hermione didn't take kindly to Draco's occasional—hourly—suggestion that perhaps if they called Theo, he could get them through.

He wasn't sure if professional boundaries or personal pride kept her insisting that Theo's skill set wouldn't be required. Draco considered it a success that he even got her to admit that: yes, Theo could probably handle the wards if they needed to call him. Which they didn't, according to her.

Draco spent most of his time failing to produce a Patronus while he waited for her to break the wards on the door. He'd been painfully—embarrassingly—optimistic that memories of her mouth on him, scorching rational thought from his brain, would be more than enough to conjure a corporeal Patronus.

He managed one pitiful wisp of white light, lasting as long as it took for his frustration to consume him again, shutting down his happy thoughts. When Hermione asked if he was trying a new memory, embarrassment kept him from admitting he had been, and that it involved the cacophony of beautiful noises she made when she came.

For two weeks, he'd sustained himself on the memory of their post-movie evening together: an appetizer against the sofa, a main course in his bed. They'd spent hours tangled up together before she reluctantly pulled herself away, a beautifully sated smile on her face as she kissed him farewell and returned to hers. Between then and now, he stole precious moments with her when he could, but they'd spent most of their time in a frustratingly professional capacity.

He had no intentions of sabotaging his chances at continued intimacy by admitting to how frequently he thought about her mouth—even for the purposes of casting a Patronus—while she did her work.

"You sound frustrated," she said, back turned to him.

Obviously. Yet another Patronus attempt had fizzled and died in an underwhelming show of dim white light.

"You do, too," he snapped: nastier than he should have been.

He heard the telling click of a door handle turning, brushing against the strike plate.

"Not anymore," she said. Triumph overtook her posture: from slightly hunched and tensed to standing tall and loose. But the door only represented the first step of many.

When he moved to join her, ready to enter the room at her side, she arched a brow at him.

"Don't you dare say a thing about how Theo could have done that faster."

He smirked.

"Wouldn't dream of it. I only intended to compliment you on your brilliance. Excellent work." He ducked and kissed her cheek despite her eye roll and disbelieving chuckle.

They paused at the threshold.

"It's empty," Draco said, staring into a room devoid of any furnishings. Unease prickled at his skin, sliding beneath it.

Hermione didn't seem to find the emptiness that greeted them all that alarming.

"Considering how many rooms there are here, I'm honestly amazed this is the first that's empty. How many bedroom sets and sitting rooms can one household have?"

She cast her runes and frowned: red light engulfed them. Draco cast his own to confirm.

"I presume this means we aren't looking for dark magic stuck to a sofa?"

She let out a breath.

"No. Probably more wards, security type stuff. It's not entirely unexpected considering all the trouble the door put me through."

Draco's family owned an abundance of furniture. He'd taken a whole flat's worth out of storage to furnish his new place. He had trouble seeing his mother allowing for a single unfurnished room to exist. It unsettled him, incongruous with his understanding of the manor and his mother.

"Do you feel the intuitive magic?" came Hermione's voice beside him, pulling him from his staring contest with a sunbeam bisecting the room, illuminating the dust motes that acted as the only inhabitants of the space. She continued, "My runes are pointing me towards the center of the room, drawing me to the source of the threat. Do you feel it too?"

He felt—something. A nebulous tug in that direction, a red rune that attracted his focus more than the others. But he couldn't separate that feeling from his unease about the lack of furnishings.

Not even a bookcase.

Or a desk.

Or a piano: didn't they have six or seven of those laying around?

"I—can't tell," he said, attention torn between the glowing runes in front of him and the empty space beyond that. "Something about this room—"

"It's eerie, yes."

"Glad I'm not the only one," he began, just as she lifted her foot to take a step. "Hermione, wait."

She glanced back at him. "I know," she said. "But the best I can do is follow the runes."

"There should be furniture."

"That's what has you worried?"

"Every room in this manor is furnished."

She lifted a brow, suspicion and amusement twitching at the edges of her mouth.

"I mean this in a very affectionate way, I promise. But I sincerely doubt you've been in every room in this manor."

He scowled at her. Of course he hadn't been in every room. There were several in his parents' wing he'd never had reason to enter. Besides, those were theirs, private. But that wasn't the point.

"I know my mother, Hermione. I know how she maintains her home."

"Listen to your runes, then," she said. "Are they providing you with any other warnings or suggestions?"

He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together.

"I just think we should be cautious," he said, feeling like a repetitive idiot. He'd said that to her before, in the first room. They'd sprung a trap because he delayed her work. But then again, he'd given a similar warning the first time she wanted to work in this hall, too; she'd ended up in St. Mungo's on that occasion.

She smiled at him and reached for his hand.

"I really appreciate that you're concerned for me. Risk is part of my job. At a certain point, the best I can do is use the tools the Ministry has provided."

"That's not reassuring. The Ministry is staffed by imbeciles."

She opted to ignore his insult against her employer. Instead, she squeezed his hand and then let it go, finally taking a step towards the center of the room.

It happened in an instant. She stumbled back—into him—tiny cuts littering her hands and face: anywhere her skin had been exposed. As if glass had exploded right in front of her, slicing and shredding her skin. She hissed, wand already poised to heal her wounds. Draco dragged her out of the room by her shoulders.

"It's nothing," she said in a rush when she caught his eye.

He must have looked murderous, manic. He could feel the blood draining from his face, the hard line forming at his brow. Fury at an empty room, at her for putting herself in danger.

"I told you something was off, I—" he forced himself to stop, torn between concern and anger: concern for her wellbeing, anger that she'd put herself at risk.

"This is nothing," she repeated. "A small repellent curse, illusionary in nature, they can misdirect the runes sometime, but they aren't especially dangerous." She'd already healed one hand completely, switching her wand into her left hand to tackle the other.

He stopped her.

"Let me. Don't use your off-hand for healing magic. Don't you know that?" He knew his words came out sharp and snappish, but he quite literally had her blood on his hands. His fingers smeared it at her wrists, holding her steady as he cast several healing charms to mend the tiny cuts. His mouth ran dry, robbing him of the ability to swallow against a tightness at the back of his throat. "This is not nothing Hermione, you're bleeding."

"It's a small curse," she said again, stilling as he healed her hand, then her face, flesh stitching itself back together: pink and raw, then white, then fading back to her normal skin tone. "It wouldn't have even done anything to you; they're usually blood specific."

If he hadn't wanted to vomit before, he certainly did now.

"It's okay," she continued. "It could have been significantly worse. Really, this curse is only a minor inconvenience."

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the droplets of blood, five of them, that had dripped onto the stone floor. He could see his right hand hanging limp in his periphery, more red—her blood—spilled in this place.

"I'm sorry," he said. For so much.

"It's alright. Draco, it's not your fault. I probably should have been more cautious, as you suggested."

"Not for the curse. I mean—yes, for the curse. For being angry at you for triggering it. But also for—all of it."

He slumped against the wall, sliding to the floor. Evidently, a couple good orgasms could quell his conscience for two weeks and no longer. The reality that he'd never truly apologized to her made itself known: a shift in temperature, in tone, in his entire ability to process the scene around him.

He wiped his hand against his trousers, blood blending into black wool. If he didn't know to look for it, he'd have no idea her blood had been absorbed into his pant leg, invisible against the dark fabric. He could carry it with him, and no one would ever know.

Guilt returned in force, a roar behind his eardrums.

Hermione crouched in front of him, stealing into his field of view. She shifted to her knees, reaching for him with a tentative hand, but he leaned away from it.

"Please don't, Hermione. I really don't deserve—any kindness from you."

"Draco, what are you—"

Despite the snitch-sized ball in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him of his words and his oxygen, he spilled.

"I never apologized to you. For everything." He glanced wildly around them, at the impersonal stone walls that constituted his family legacy. He shrugged his shoulders, head falling back against the stone behind him. Anything he might say felt like far too little, far too late. "I just—I'm sorry. For hating you. For hurting you. For—all of it. I should have said so, ages ago. A year, at least. But I didn't. And I—I need you to know that I am sorry, I truly am. I don't want there to be any question. Any doubt." The words nearly strangled him, so lifeless and painful inside his throat, scraping and sticking at his flesh.

He kept his eyes closed, head resting against the wall. His heart felt like it might beat out of his chest and run away with the memory of what had felt a lot like happiness with Hermione. Something he wouldn't have again. Not after she realized how long she'd let him get away with being an unrepentant villain in her story.

She'd let him touch her. Intimately. He should never have—his throat felt like it might seal shut.

She didn't say anything. Quiet dragged out the space between them. Behind closed eyes, it felt like the silence had pulled her away, either literally or figuratively; he had no idea.

Finally, from much closer than he expected, she spoke: "An apology isn't always enough."

He felt like the granite floor beneath him had cracked open, a pit to welcome him into a new cold reality without her. How many minutes had passed since he'd managed to conjure a tiny bit of light based on her beautiful mouth, on how it felt to touch her, be touched by her? No more, never again. His chest ached, something seeped from between his ribs.

Then her hand touched his knee.

He jerked his head up, eyes flying open. He didn't know her to be cruel. If she meant to do this, she needn't torture him with her touch.

"If you'd apologized then, a year ago—I don't know that it would have been enough."

She pulled her lip between her teeth as his heart stammered painfully, a thud in the center of his chest. The potential of her words, the hidden hope in them, hit him straight in the solar plexus, nearly knocking the wind out of him. His diaphragm seized, holding his breath hostage.

"You've shown me. You need to know that. I forgave you a very long time ago, Draco."

She scooted closer, knees between his legs. When she touched his chin, he still didn't believe her. He had to replay her words inside his head several times, a loop of understanding he did not deserve.

"I know you did," he said, realizing he had to say something, even if none of it felt right. "But that doesn't mean I deserve it. You're too kind, Hermione. Too forgiving."

She sighed, a sound hovering between the lines of sadness and annoyance.

"Why are you thinking about this?" she asked. "I thought we've been—enjoying ourselves? I've been happy, I've been—"

She broke off from whatever she planned to say. Instead, she leaned forward and kissed him.

She never kissed him during the workday.

She only occasionally allowed him to sneak one for himself.

And never beyond the closed parlor doors.

But she kissed him all the same, in the middle of the guest hall corridor. She kissed him so thoroughly, with such intent, that he nearly forgot his own name, his own past, and all the reasons why those things should be a barrier to this very act.

When she pulled away, this beautiful impossibility of a woman, she pulled him out of his own head by doing what she did so very often: asking a question about scheduling.

"You're still coming with me to the bookstore tomorrow, right?"

He gave her an appreciative squeeze with his hand, which had found its way to the back of her neck as she kissed him, running his fingers along either side of her spine.

He found the guilt. He found the shame. He packed it up and flaked it away, hoping he might lose it amongst the rubble, allowed to forget.

—

One surprising side effect of dating Hermione Granger was the amount of time he found himself in the muggle world. He hadn't been opposed to it in theory; he'd dabbled while living abroad, but he now found himself experiencing it nearly every week. The muggle world didn't know who they were, wouldn't judge them for spending time together, for their hand holding or fleeting kisses. There would be no photographs, no newspaper articles that found their way back to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

They could simply exist with each other, even if it meant without magic.

Not to mention the galleon to pound exchange rate worked incredibly well in his favor.

Truth be told, Draco didn't mind it so much. There was a disorienting quality to it sometimes, and he didn't enjoy feeling unprepared or ignorant. But for the most part, dating in the muggle world wasn't unlike dating in the wizarding world—with what limited experience he had before Hermione.

She dragged him to a cramped corner bookstore on a Saturday in April, insisting that he would love it, but looking wary as she introduced him to the place all the same.

"Do the Flourish and Blotts proprietors know you have a secret muggle bookstore on the side?" he asked, leaning against a shelf and watching as she browsed the nonfiction section.

He wondered if he'd ever tire of the look on her face: lips parted slightly, occasionally moving as she mouthed the titles to herself, brows furrowing and smoothing in her critical assessment of the things she saw, acknowledgement written in her features.

He'd never known a soul with as expressive a face as Hermione. Every thought. Every idea. She wore them without realizing it. Watching it had become his new favorite exercise in nonverbal communication, trying to figure out what each twitch at her brow and wrinkle of her nose might mean.

"If Flourish and Blotts is interested in an exclusive relationship with me then it ought to specify that, and perhaps consider appealing to all my interests. They stock exclusively magical books; there's so many more I'd like to read."

She ducked past him, flashing him a smile as she turned the corner into a new section. He followed, enjoying every moment in this quiet, mostly-empty muggle bookshop, flirting with his girlfriend.

"Besides," she said, pulling a book from the shelf and scanning the back cover, somehow capable of speaking and reading at the same time. "I like this little bookstore. Flourish and Blotts is always so busy."

"I'm not convinced the owner is even conscious over there," Draco said, taking the book from her, meeting only the slightest bit of resistance. She certainly didn't like sharing her books, even when they weren't hers yet, but he wanted to satisfy his curiosity about what had caught her attention.

"He's awake," she said. "He just has a drowsy look to him."

The clerk looked one long blink from an upright nap. Draco rolled his eyes. He flipped the book over in his hands.

"A biography? Who is Amelia Earhart?"

"A muggle," she said and Draco couldn't quite tell if she meant to be facetious, but she continued. "She flew airplanes—remember Theo telling you about them a couple of months ago?"

"I thought you two were joking—"

"She disappeared while trying to circumnavigate the world. I've been—" she stopped, biting at her lip, expression closing off.

He moved closer to her, ducking out of the barely conscious shopkeeper's sight. He'd be lying if he pretended a series of salacious thoughts about getting Hermione off in a bookstore didn't cross his mind. Surely she'd thought something similar at some point in her life. She liked books and libraries and bookstores more than anyone he knew.

"You've been…" he prompted. She looked up at him, a nervous flicker behind her eye, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. Maybe she'd been thinking about salacious things, too.

He stepped even closer, one hand finding her waist, savoring her tiny intake of breath as he pivoted them, positioning her against the shelves. She reached for the book in his other hand, taking it back.

"I've been working my way through the biographies here. In alphabetical order." She looked past him—beyond him—as she spoke, clutching the book to her chest. "This one is next."

He almost laughed, but her look of embarrassment stopped him. Her words had come out slow, halting, like it had been truly difficult for her to will them into existence. He didn't say anything. Instead, his eyes flicked to the shelves above her head, taking note of the titles he saw, scanning the gap where Amelia Earhart had once been.

"That's—" he started.

"Don't make fun of me." Declaration caught between indignation and insecurity. So, she hadn't been thinking about doing any unsavory things in a bookshop with him. Unexpectedly, her surprise confession only made him want her more.

"I wasn't planning on it."

She rolled her eyes, making a halfhearted attempt to push past him; Draco didn't move. He ducked his head, breathing in her ear the way he knew she liked. He felt her shiver before he spoke his first word.

"How long have you been working on this, Granger?"

Another shiver, stronger. One of her hands found his chest, a finger trailing down the front of his shirt as she sighed.

"A little over a year, maybe? I discovered this place shortly after I broke up with Ron. It—seemed like a good hobby to occupy all my free time." She'd loosened, no longer unnecessarily embarrassed for a hobby she enjoyed. As if anything about Hermione and her love of books could be embarrassing. He'd decided long ago that it was one of her more endearing qualities.

She tilted her head slightly and lifted her finger from his chest, tapping a title near the side of her face.

"I've been looking forward to this one for a few months now. Only three more after Earhart."

Draco read the spine, "And who is TS Eliot?"

She made a little gasping noise, as if scandalized that he did not know.

"He's a writer, a poet. He writes—beautiful things."

"And because you're working your way through these biographies alphabetically, you've denied yourself of reading the one you want?"

"I've enjoyed the others, too," she said with a small shake of her head. "There are so many interesting muggles that we know nothing about in the wizarding world. But—yes, I'm looking forward to Eliot, especially."

"How long? Three books plus the flying lady; how long will that take you?"

She shivered again, eyes darting down to where his fingers had slipped beneath her jumper, drawing circles with his thumb against her skin.

She locked eyes with him, a pause as she considered.

"Maybe two weeks—I have a few other things to read as well, so I won't be able to devote my time exclusively to—"

He chuckled, halting her words.

"Have you not looked at the one on this"—he tilted his head to read the title—"Einstein person? It must be close to a thousand pages long. Hermione, you are a very impressive witch, but not even you can read that much, that fast."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "And here I was thinking you wanted to kiss me."

He leaned closer.

"I do, very much."

"Your odds of doing so drop dramatically when you antagonize me."

Closer still.

"Are you certain that's the case? Sometimes I think you enjoy it when I rile you up."

She licked her lips, a tiny flick of her tongue as she drew breath.

"How do you do that?" she asked. Her voice had dropped, barely a whisper between them.

"Do what?"

His nose brushed hers.

"Look all—handsome, and like you'd do anything to touch me."

"Probably because I would."

She whimpered, head tilting back. He let his lips touch hers, just enough, just for him, before pulling back.

"I suppose I can't kiss you, then."

"What?" she asked, voice propelled much louder than necessary, failing to properly adjust out of the whispered words they'd been sharing.

"Well you see, I'd like to antagonize you some more. And if that means no—"

She pulled him to her, stealing a kiss as he smiled against her lips. He wasted little time, arms encircling her, only tangentially aware that they were barely out of sight. He pushed her back against the shelves, gently, so as not to jostle them. He let his thigh rest between her legs, pressed against her as she released an almost imperceptible noise of pleasure, searing it into his skin.

"There's no way"—he broke from her mouth, dipping to her neck, dragging his teeth along the vertical tendons in her throat—"that you're getting to Eliot in the next two weeks."

A puff of frustrated air coasted by his ear.

"You are impossible. And childish." Her voice caught when he dipped his tongue into the hollow at the base of her throat.

She said one thing, but her body arched against him regardless, a beautiful curve of her spine, pressing her chest against his as she rocked—just enough—against his leg; he knew she must be fighting off her own pleasure.

"Doesn't feel very childish to me," he said, hand dipping beneath the hem of her jumper, skating up her ribs.

She pulled away. First, pressing herself against the shelves but, in finding nowhere to go, leaning to the side, disentangling herself from his lips and limbs. She cleared her throat.

"We are in public." He supposed she intended to sound scandalized.

She only sounded breathless.

He stepped back, giving her space, brow arched as he crossed his arms, savoring her fluster.

"Care to wager on it?" he asked.

"Wager on what?"

"Eliot."

She laughed.

"What, that I can't get to it in two weeks?"

"Precisely."

She picked up the biography on Earhart she'd apparently dropped, brushing the cover as if to sweep away a layer of nonexistent dirt.

"If you win?" she asked. Her tone went flat, like she could barely bring herself to entertain such a notion.

He considered.

"You lift the moratorium on workday kisses."

"No, Draco. That's unprofessional."

It was worth a shot.

"Fine, I get to complain as much as I want about my Patronus progress, and you can't stop me." She made an unamused sound. "And if you win?" he continued. "What do you want? Anything at all."

She didn't answer at first, thoughts crawling across her face. Anticipation crept up Draco's spine when she glanced up at him, an amused glint flashing from her eyes. She smirked.

"The sofa."

"Excuse me?"

"The hideous one. That tufted velvet green nightmare of a sofa. I have a rather sentimental attachment to it despite how atrocious it is."

He couldn't help himself; he took a tiny, half-step towards her.

"Because of all the ways I've touched you on it?"

She pressed her lips together, averting her eyes as her chest flushed pink. She cleared her throat and ignored him.

"To summarize, if I get to Eliot in the next two weeks, the sofa is mine. If I don't, you get to complain and be a prat while I'm working?"

He chuckled, offering his hand.

"Since you clearly have no idea what you're getting into, betting with a Slytherin, I'm willing to extend the timeline indefinitely. Whenever you get to Eliot, the sofa is yours."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "Sounds like you don't even want to win, in that case."

He pointed at himself. "Slytherin. And you've already admitted that you find me very distracting." A pause, a smile. "What do you say?"

She made a show of rolling her eyes and shaking her head, curls bouncing around her as she did. But she took his hand all the same. He pulled her in for another kiss.

"Felt like something we should seal with a kiss, don't you think?" he asked.

She gave him that you're impossible smile again and led him to the register.

He looked forward to being able to complain about his nonexistent Patronus as much as he pleased.

The next day, he returned to the shop, having put the exceptional galleon exchange rate to good use, and paid heftily for the owner to stock as many biographies as he could find between Earhart and Eliot.

thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed this chapter! follow me on tumblr and ao3 under the pseud mightbewriting (no 'i') for fun times and my regular update schedule.