March
tick tock tick tock
Draco had no idea what was happening around him. Intellectually, he knew he sat in the main dining room at his family manor, taking breakfast with his parents as they engaged in occasional conversation about all manner of inconsequential topics, so long as those topics steered clear of Hermione.
Draco, however, couldn't get her off his mind. Between every sip of his tea and every attempt at spreading jam on his toast, he could still hear her breathing, heavy and stuttering, as he'd done everything in his power to delay the inevitability of joining his parents for breakfast.
In an effort to survive what was meant to be a mundane meal, Draco diverted his thoughts from images of his morning with her. He made an attempt to eat, reaching for his fork.
His unbuttoned cuff sidetracked him all over again, hoping his mother wouldn't notice his dressing oversight.
He'd woken that morning with a face full of Hermione's hair, wild curls escaped from her nightly plait and tickling at his cheeks, draped across his neck, invading his lungs with their scent. He rolled from his back to his side, pulling her against him as he buried his face in the cloud of vanilla, amber, and spice that clung to every coil. He found the juncture between her neck and her shoulder with his mouth, planting a kiss through her hair as she made a sleepy sound, stretching against him.
Morning noise always felt intrusive in such quietness. The air felt different, heavier, settled, like a blanket meant to dampen sound as they slept. Draco whispered when he spoke, not wanting to disturb the lovely quiet that morning offered them.
"There's nothing I want less than to pull myself out of this bed and go meet my parents."
Hermione attempted a sleep-addled response, arching her back. Under the cover of early sunrise and expensive burgundy sheets, Draco let his arm tighten around her middle, pulling her flush against him as he sampled the skin at her shoulder with his tongue. Slowly, lazily, she managed coherent speech.
"You could stay and have breakfast with me instead?"
She whispered, too. Soft sounds for the soft mattress and silken skin.
Draco groaned quietly against her shoulder blade, loving the suggestion and hating that he couldn't take it. He lifted his head, slotting his chin behind her ear, conveying his regret with warm breath and wandering fingers across her abdomen.
"I'd have to give them more notice"—the cheeky fucking witch shifted her arse against him—"they don't handle surprises well. And we're almost making progress."
Her chuckle broke some of the quiet peace in their room.
"Like the surprise that you aren't supervising me anymore?" He released a low growl, dragging his teeth in a line down the side of her neck. Her breath caught, stunting her words. "Or that you still have an elf following me everyday?"
Her cajoling wouldn't work. She knew he was working towards it, that he would tell them, that it required time and delicacy. An early morning lustful haze—with her warm body pulled so close against him that even the slightest motion from his hips shot delicious pleasure coursing through him—was neither the time nor place to rehash such a well-tread disagreement.
Draco inhaled through his nose, against her neck, pressed close to her ear, drowning in her curls. She breathed, too. A slow pull from the still air around them, cautious, as if everything else in the world waited in stasis for what they might do next.
He skated his hand upward, beneath her loose cotton shirt: from soft stomach to sturdy ribs to the swell of her breast. His name slipped from her lips, a quiet whine that rang through the silence with impossible volume, straight through his skull. He had no control over the way his hips responded to that sound, canting forward and grinding against her.
With the pad of his finger, he trailed a light touch along the curve of her breast, coming to a halt at her nipple. He traced agonizingly light circles around it as he memorized the sound of her breath, hissing on the intake when he finally rolled it between his fingers.
"I have to get ready for work, too," she said, head thrown back, neck completely exposed as she arched against him and made absolutely no attempt to move.
He rolled his hips against her again, lost in a sort of mindless fog that consisted exclusively of her warm skin and breathless noises, back pressed to his chest. She rocked against him in kind.
He rolled her nipple again, tongue tracing the shell of her ear.
"Did you have to get ready right now?" he asked
"You're the one with the earlier obligation."
He hummed into her neck, hand dropping from her breast, traveling a familiar path back down her stomach, slipping easily into the front of her knickers. He kissed the corner of her mouth as she twisted towards him, a hand gripping at the back of his thigh.
"I can always make time for you," he breathed, ripping a whimper from her throat, silence shattered as he slid a finger—then a second—inside her, finding her wet and wanting and ready. She followed her whimper with a gasp. Her hand at the back of his leg flexed, clawing, then vanished.
He had barely a moment to mourn the loss of contact before he realized she'd started shoving her knickers down. His attempt to voice his agreement—a gods yes, he wanted to breathe—came out as a broken groan. He buried his face at the back of her neck as he did the same with his pants: inconvenient barriers pushed just far enough away that he could replace his fingers with his cock, driving into her with one deep thrust.
Draco panted, air gusting out of him as the room warmed, space contracting, everything of consequence in his life tangled up in those sheets. He curled his arm beneath Hermione's shoulder, palming her breast and pinning her in place against him. Even the space created for their lungs to expand and contract created too much distance. He needed her heat, needed to burn, needed her flesh searing him.
She expelled tiny puffs of noise, carried on wisps of air. He could see a flush creeping up her neck, imagined it blooming across her chest. He loved her like this—he loved her every way, but especially like this—rendered mostly incoherent as he had her quick and hard and fast in what little time they had before the real world imposed its will on them.
This brief moment, before he had to face his parents, before she had to face her job, could simply be theirs and theirs alone. A moment of peace and passion crammed between busy schedules and competing priorities. With the sun barely risen, they could hide under their covers and devour every second they had left.
He sucked at the skin on the side of her neck, nearly incoherent himself with every drag and pull inside her, snapping hips and choked groans. She pushed her back against him—an unspoken plea for more—chest rising and falling, a frenzy growing as their formerly quiet room filled with pants and fucks and whispers of adoration. He worked his fingers in quick, desperate circles around her clit, demanding her pleasure before he gave into his own. White light flashed behind his eyelids as she came around him, a ragged voice repeating his name like an incantation.
He groaned against her, into her, spilling and falling and shattering all at once.
They stilled, breath heavy as the silence blanketed them again.
Draco pressed his lips to her shoulder, her neck, her jaw, the spot behind her ear that forced her to flex against him, drawing another groan from his throat.
"I love you," he said, so quiet she might have to decipher his words from the feeling of his mouth against her ear. Or perhaps she could simply sense it, a language unique to them, meaning conveyed through touch and the silences between inhales and exhales. He said it again with every breath, every kiss, every trail with his fingers across her skin: I love you, I love you, I love you.
She sighed, leaning her shoulders into his chest, limbs melted and lazy. She turned her head and kissed him, offering so much of herself for him to take. "I love you," she said, miraculously managing emphasis on every syllable as she spoke against his lips.
She sighed again: less sated, this time.
"You have to be at the manor in fifteen minutes."
Draco opted to ignore such an inconvenience, burrowing into her curls instead. "But you're much more fun."
"You'll tell them soon, right? I'm starting to worry too much time has passed…"
He burrowed deeper into her hair, murmuring an assenting sort of noise as he rocked against her, very seriously considering the logistics of sneaking in a second round before he had to leave.
He didn't end up crawling out of their bed until five minutes before his parents expected him, which left barely any time for ironing charms and hair-smoothing potions and, evidently, the buttons to his cuffs.
He looked up from his wrist and met his mother's gaze. Of course she'd noticed his missed button. She probably noticed that slight wave to his hair that day, too. Determined not to draw any more attention to himself, Draco picked up his butter knife and a slice of toast.
His morning with Hermione had been magnificent, the best imaginable way to start his day, perhaps a new routine he could cement in his life: one with far better intimacy than the perfunctory, awkward conversation he forced himself to sit through with his parents.
Hermione couldn't be a part of this routine, not yet, at least. So she'd made her own, probably scheduled it into her overwrought planner. Fuck Draco's brain out while he's still sleep addled and pliable? Check. Nearly make him late for his daily breakfast with his parents, appearance slightly disheveled? Check. Occupy his every waking thought thereafter? Check—ongoing check.
She was a deviant, delicious, wonder of a witch. He smirked, thinking of how she'd react to his assessment that their morning romp had been entirely her doing.
Narcissa's head tilted, a barely-there movement to convey her curiosity. Treacherously, he wanted her to know—not the explicit details, gods no—but he wanted her to know, and accept, and appreciate, the enormous part of his life that Hermione had laid claim to. The part of his life that they steadfastly ignored at every meal together.
Draco drew a deep breath, holding the air at the bottom of his lungs as he steeled himself. He could do this, he had to do this. The opportunities he'd been waiting for—seamless, tactful ones—didn't seem to exist. He needed to make his own.
He set down his toast, only half-buttered, with the rest of his uneaten meal.
"Mother. You might have noticed—"
That I've been happier.
That my cuff is unbuttoned.
That I have so much to say, but never do.
But anything he might have said died somewhere beneath his voice box as Tilly appeared with a crack, announcing the arrival of a Ministry Representative. Draco swallowed against his pulse, eyes darting to the clock. Hermione had no reason to arrive for another fifteen minutes. Surely she wouldn't waltz in early and announce herself after all the time and effort he'd expended searching for the right way to reintroduce the idea of her to his parents.
Instead, a man walked into the dining room mere seconds after Tilly's announcement. Cheap robes, a generally disgruntled disposition: Lucius's case representative had arrived, interrupting breakfast as he so often did.
Draco couldn't do it again, couldn't stand with his parents as they faced the Ministry, unrepentant, only to have gross unprofessionalism flaunted in their faces. The whole of it made Draco slightly sick to his stomach. He dropped his serviette on his plate and rose quickly, announcing his departure, and left the room before either of his parents could command him otherwise.
—
Blaise had his feet propped up on the edge of the desk, and Draco couldn't bring himself to care. Theo did a fine enough job fighting the good fight for all of them, insisting that Blaise respect their furniture. In Theo's absence, Draco just rolled his eyes, letting Blaise do as he wished.
"We could try running it out of the flat," Draco said, reviewing the parchment in front of him. "We wouldn't necessarily need a dedicated space, and I'd do all the brewing, anyway. If you're investing some of the startup costs plus advertising, we can negotiate a share in the profits."
Blaise pulled a cigarette case from his breast pocket and shook it questioningly towards Draco. He declined. "Hermione hates them. Have one if you want; I'll scourgify the room later."
Blaise pulled a cigarette from the case and lit it. With the tiniest smirk he said, "Theo insists scourgify doesn't get it all out."
"Well. Theo's neurotic about cleanliness."
"And you're delusional if you think we're going to have any profits to negotiate if we just buy some potions ingredients, brew some stuff, and take out some advertising space."
"Is that not how one starts a mail-order potions business?"
Blaise scoffed, agitating Draco, hackles raised.
"What incentive would anyone have to switch from the shops in Diagon to a mail-order service, especially one with your name on it? Attracting customers won't be easy."
Despite that dour prediction, Blaise looked utterly unconcerned: head tilted back as he took a drag from his cigarette. The slightly ajar office door creaked further open and Draco's heart dropped, half-expecting Hermione to find Blaise smoking in their flat, despite the fact that it was still the middle of her workday. Crookshanks sauntered in instead.
Blaise blew a ring of smoke across the desk and dropped one of his hands to dangle beside his chair. Infuriatingly, the cat walked right up to Blaise's hand and pushed his head into his waiting palm.
Draco narrowed his eyes, first at the cat, then at Blaise. "He likes everyone."
Blaise arched a brow. "Of course he does."
"Besides, the incentive is that they wouldn't have to go to Diagon Alley at all. A customer can simply mail in an order without having to leave their home."
"Apparating takes almost no effort and they can get what they want without having to wait for an owl to deliver."
Draco scowled, mouth tight. He folded the parchment in front of him in half, then in half again, and again, and again, until he couldn't possibly fold it another time. Only then, did he speak.
"Why are you trying to talk me out of our business plan? Are you backing out?"
Draco nearly leapt across the desk and throttled his almost-maybe-former-friend when Blaise rolled his eyes.
"Of course not. These are smart things to consider when starting a business—"
The door creaked again—this time with force—and Hermione burst across the threshold. Crookshanks scampered, slipping under a gap in the front of Draco's desk and winding himself between his feet. Considering the look on Hermione's face, Draco probably shouldn't have spared a moment to feel pleased that the cat ran to him.
And that look? On Hermione's face?
Fury.
"You didn't tell them."
Distinctly worded and spoken as a statement, not a question. She had her hands on her hips, standing in the doorway. Blaise hadn't moved from his reclined position, but looked moderately alarmed, even by his standards.
He dropped his feet from the desk and stood.
Draco shook his head, holding up a finger to halt Blaise's imminent departure.
"I might need a witness."
He'd not seen this temperature-shifting, heart-stopping sort of fury from Hermione since they still used each other's surnames—honestly, probably not since the time she'd slapped him.
"Yes, you might need a witness, Draco Malfoy. You didn't tell them."
He couldn't quite decide if the flush crawling up her neck and the clear effort she made not to stomp her foot made her anger adorable or all that much more terrifying. Considering the impressive magic he knew her to be capable of, he settled on terrifying.
"Our breakfast got interrupted this morning," he said, standing from his own seat, gaze volleying between Hermione, to convey his contrition, and Blaise, to convey that he was under no circumstances allowed to leave him alone with such a furious woman. "You were right, there's never going to be a perfect time. I'll tell them tomorrow, I promise."
He tried to sound reasonable; he was reasonable. This could be a reasonable conversation. He'd spent too long looking for the right opening, he knew that, but that didn't mean he hadn't tried, didn't mean it. She had to know that.
Her laugh echoed in his eardrums, sharp and quick and entirely unsettling. Blaise took a step towards the door, but she stood in his path and didn't even seem to notice him.
"Oh, there's no point telling them now, Draco. They know."
"They know?"
His body betrayed him, a bombarda's worth of anxiety battering his ribs. He shouldn't have cared that much, been so afraid for the implications.
Blaise inched closer to the doorway, a lean in his posture as he seemed to consider the space required to simply slip by without interrupting.
"I've been decommissioning your parents' wing for the last week. They're supposed to stay away but—well, I ran into your mother."
Draco swallowed, wishing his brain hadn't turned to slush inside his skull, incapable of complex thought and coherent speech.
Hermione continued, blowing out an angry breath. Worse than the anger, though; he could see the disappointment, almost glassy, in her eyes. "She seemed very confused that you weren't around. It was"—she faltered, lifting and dropping her hands as if to say she didn't know—"difficult to explain why Topsy was there. So I, well—I explained that we'd decided we needed more clear lines between home and work since we moved in together. You can imagine how well that went over."
Hermione finally seemed to notice Blaise standing near her, methodically checking each and every one of his pockets, steadfastly refusing to look at either of them.
"And what did she—my mother—what did she say?" Draco cleared his throat. He felt ridiculous, suddenly, upon realizing he still stood behind his desk. He took a step around it, towards her, but froze when Hermione lifted a hand to tell him to stop.
"Draco." He'd never hated his name as much as he did just then, when spoken with such venom, such disappointment, such fury, from such a lovely, lovely mouth. "You didn't tell them we've been living together." Some of her anger seemed to bleed from her pores, exhaustion taking up residence.
He opened his mouth, closed it again, opened, failed to speak.
"I thought they knew that part," she said, quieter. "I assumed they did when you said you told them we were together over Christmas."
"I hadn't asked you to move in yet. So I didn't—that part didn't come up."
"Or in the three months since."
The space between his desk and the door, between the two of them, grew wider, deeper than he'd ever seen it. He couldn't bear it, and in two deep strides, he stood in front of her. As much as he wanted to reach out and touch her, to wind a curl around his fingers or trace constellations between her freckles, he settled for proximity.
"I'd wondered why you were having such a hard time bringing up the fact that you haven't been supervising me anymore," she said. It looked like she was staring at one of his shirt buttons, just beneath his collar. "But now it makes more sense. You hadn't told them the bigger thing."
The worst part, the feeling that settled so sickeningly in his stomach, was that he hadn't even been aware of that particular fault. He'd been so singularly focused on the issue of his supervision that he'd accepted the omission about their living situation as a sort of given. And all this time, she'd thought they knew.
"I don't know what to say," he admitted, hating how raw his voice sounded. "I was trying to find the right time."
Blaise made a relieved noise just beyond Hermione's shoulder as he pulled a key from the interior breast pocket of his overcoat. The next moment, the air pressure in the room shifted, a tiny gust of wind swirling around where Blaise had been standing a moment before.
"Ah," Draco said. "That'll be one of Theo's portkeys."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at the space where Blaise had just been, confusion and wonder etched in her features. She shook her head, casting off the distraction as she turned back to Draco.
Her anger seemed to redouble, a flush creeping up her neck again, and not the kind of flush he preferred to see on her.
"Were you ever going to tell them?"
His stomach turned. That felt unfair, uncalled for, a jinx she knew would land with force.
"Is that really a question you're asking me? Of course. I told you I would. I promised I would."
Maybe it was simply a delayed reaction to being shouted at—or what a Gryffindor might call righteous indignation, or a defense mechanism—but proper anger exploded from his chest. "I told you this was real, it's always been real for me. And I told them about you, didn't I? But not everything has to comply with your timelines, Hermione. It can't all end up on a schedule." He shoved a hand in his pocket, desperate that she not notice how hard it shook. "I can't just—brute force telling my parents something like that. It just—it takes time, finesse."
"And I have no finesse?"
"Generally speaking? No, not really. And I love that about you." He couldn't bear the tiny step she took away from him, the drop in her features, the war that anger fought with distress across her face. "I do. You're an open book and I never have to question your motives. I trust you. Do you have any idea what a relief that is?"
His anger bled out quickly, tapped straight from the vein. Her face softened as they stood so close, yet so far apart.
"No other part of my life is like that, Hermione. They're not like you. But I promise, I am trying. Even if I'm doing a poor job of it."
Her hands finally fell from her hips, limp against her sides.
"Well"—a breath—"now they know."
—
They stood in silence just long enough for the rest of Draco's annoyance, formerly pure anger, to mix with his guilt, his sense of failure, his disappointment at having disappointed her. Finally, Hermione released a tight breath, eyes, mouth, and brows all turned down as she processed everything they'd just said—too much, if Draco had to make an assessment. She gave him space, asking for her own, muttering something about finding a book to read.
Draco holed up in his office for the next two hours, trying and failing to review the business plan that Blaise had so thoroughly skewered before Hermione's interruption. It wasn't that it was a bad plan; Draco knew that, but Blaise seemed insistent on pointing out every last potential flaw, every point where they could fail. He needled away at Draco's attempted optimism, deflating him with every word. Strategy looked a lot like pessimism under a different name. As much as Draco appreciated Blaise's business acumen, sometimes he needed his friend, not his potential business partner.
He shoved several parchments, cluttered with ingredient and potions lists, into his desk drawer and stood. The sun had started to set, suffusing his office with a warm orange glow that—if Draco allowed himself the wandering thoughts—reminded him strangely of his time with Hermione at the manor: the glow of yellow, orange, red, and purple light coloring so many of his memories with her.
He stood and drew the curtains closed.
He found her in the living room, darkened east-facing windows already void of light. He'd missed sunset with her; he didn't have many opportunities to share them. Missing this one felt heavy, weighted against him.
She sat on the green velvet sofa, eternally her pick if given the choice. It was a silly, stubborn habit: her insistence on loving the thing, staking her claim to it, even with its unsavory past as a Malfoy family heirloom. Crookshanks slept in a tightly-wound ball beside her as she sat cross-legged, book open in her lap.
"I owled my parents earlier," Draco said as a way to announce his presence in the room. He leaned against the wall, just barely free of the corridor. "I told them I wouldn't be at dinner this evening."
Hermione looked up from her book, expression neutral, body still.
"Don't they require more notice than that?" If Draco didn't know any better, he might wonder if she'd learned Occlumency despite her personal dislike for that particular brand of magic. Her words came out even, non-accusatory, but they stung all the same.
"I think of all days, the short notice tonight was probably expected."
Her cheeks twitched, a forced smile and an attempt at acknowledging the discomfort between them.
"Can I take you out?" he asked. "Is there a film you want to see?"
"You hate movies."
"Well, I want to apologize. I want you to be happy."
"They make you sick."
"I don't have to watch it. I'm plenty entertained watching you."
"We don't have to stay in muggle London all the time. Your parents have known about me"—a pause as she cleared her throat—"to at least some extent for a while now. We could spend time together in the magical world, you know."
"Yes. Of course, wherever you want to go."
A fearful, intrusive thought wondered if she thought he meant to hide her. It certainly looked like it, if he thought about it like that. He'd dragged his feet finding a way to tell his parents the extent of their relationship and the lines they'd drawn for themselves. He took her on dates almost exclusively in muggle London, but only because that was where they'd started, where they spent so long. It was easy, simple. It didn't come with judgmental stares and impolite implications about him using Unforgivables on the fabulous, ineffable Hermione Granger.
She closed her book.
He hated fighting, didn't know how to do it. But this was very clearly a fight, not a disagreement. His chest ached. A desperate desire to convince her how much she meant to him tore through his bones, cracking him to bits. He was trying. Always trying. Usually failing. But trying nevertheless. He needed her to try, too. They could do this.
He arched a brow at her, an offering in familiar expressions, a tone they knew how to navigate.
"Which book is that?" he asked, seeking safety in old conversations.
"Einstein. I've been on it for ages." She set the book aside and gave Crookshanks one long stroke from the back of his ears and along the length of his spine, a spiraled motion. "Magic has rotted my brain a bit; I'm struggling with all the muggle science. This isn't an abridged version."
Draco made a thoughtful noise, crossing one ankle over the other as he leaned against the wall, transfixed by her beautiful face in the most inopportune of moments.
"I wonder why that little bookstore of yours would stock something like that."
The fact that she chuckled nearly crushed him with relief. He'd never known the sound of a person's laugh could be so intimately tied to his lungs, his heart, his soul.
"Ha-ha, you're very funny," she said with a roll of her eyes. "But if you'll recall, they had this one stocked the first time we were there, before all your meddling."
"Meddling? What meddling? Regardless, I don't recall. I was rather distracted by a beguiling little witch."
The whole conversation felt like a two-way apology in many, many more words. A roundabout way of meeting each other in the middle after making several painful stops along the way. There was hope in that though, the meeting in the middle. He didn't have to prostrate himself, stretch to meet her at one end, and he wouldn't ask that of her, either. What he had with her was too warm, too comforting, too wonderful to resist finding equilibrium as soon as possible when thrown off balance.
That desire to find peace didn't ease all his worry though, couldn't melt all the tension in his shoulders. He saw the same in hers as well.
Hermione sighed, still scratching Crookshanks behind his ears.
"What if we tried to get along?" she asked, eyes fixed on her cat.
Draco remained against the wall, watching her, cautious, seeking calm waters in a choppy sea.
"Get along?"
"With your parents. We could—I don't know. We could have a dinner or something? Try to be civil?"
She looked up at him, brows drawn tightly together as the grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked the seconds between her ask and his answer. She continued instead.
"I just—Draco. I feel like we're—well, we're kind of stuck together, all of us. Aren't we?"
His arms, which had been folded across his chest in what was probably too obvious a defensive posture—literally holding himself together as he held his breath, searching for the right things to say if such words even existed—dropped, falling to his sides.
He grew warm, a trickle of adrenaline coating his veins as an overwhelming fondness crashed over him, dunking him beneath the surface. Choppy sea, roiling waves, battered shores. He dragged himself to land and found her there, suggesting with such pure, delightful innocence that they were stuck together. As if there was anything else he'd rather be.
He heard her breath catch in her throat as she inhaled; she had to have seen the shift in his posture. He wasn't sure he'd ever wanted her more than he did in that otherwise inconsequential moment. But the gall of her, the unadulterated audacity of her implication. It lit his marrow on fire.
"Come here," he said, finding his voice very low, very quiet, very serious—somewhere between a request and an imperative.
Quietly, carefully, she stood. She stopped in front of him, and Draco couldn't help himself, hands winding through her hair, twisted up in her curls, cradling her skull as he bent his head, forehead resting against hers.
"We are very, very much stuck with each other." Her hands came to rest at his belt, fingers hooked through the loops as they stood close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off of her skin, the warmth of a star just for him.
"In fact," he continued, utterly lost to the intoxication of having her so close. He could count her freckles and catalogue the colors in her eyes: every earth tone imaginable. "I'd dare say I'm beholden to you, indentured, a servant to your every whim so long as you will have me." He leaned closer, lips finding hers and feeling of home.
It didn't answer her question. It didn't address whether or not they could all find a way to coexist in a peaceful, productive way. But it laid bare his values, the most important of them.
"I don't want to go to a movie," she said, breathing her words into him. I don't want to fight, is what she meant. He knew, because he could read between her lines. He'd studied her face and her words and every last bit of her that she allowed him to learn. He knew what she meant to say and what she said were two very different things. And he heard both.
"I don't want to, either."
It responded to both her sentiments, meeting in the middle.