In the silence between breaths, and the negative space between heartbeats, Hermione was aware of a sensation with startling clarity.
There was a warmth in her chest. A longing, a yearning.
Something fragile and hopeful seemed to lay there, entwined deeply within her. A tenderness that she had been trying to deny and avoid for too long — easily, since the stolen nights in the seaside cottage.
That even now, she tried to swallow back and rein in.
When the stark light of day broke and she would have to confront the reality of what she had done — slept with a married man and killer, the ruthless second-in-command of a fascist regime — how would she feel then?
Her heart plummeted at the thought.
But the fluttering in her chest remained.
Hermione screwed her eyes shut and bit her lip. She focused on the now, tried to keep herself tethered to the present, instead of lost in her thoughts.
A feeble confession had formed on her lips but died before being born on her breath, as it always had. Some part of her wanted to tell him, to find release and give words to feelings that had remained unspoken for so long.
But another part of her feared the terrifying reality that might follow; to verbalize her truth was to condemn them both, to force a reckoning upon them.
If she held her feelings to her chest and kept her secrets to herself, as she always did, a learned behaviour from childhood, then maybe that day of reckoning might never be upon them. Maybe they could have something, just this once, without tragedy befalling them.
A calm before the storm.
Hermione let out a quiet breath — of relief, or disappointment, she didn't know — and tried to familiarize herself with her surroundings once more.
The dense weave of the carpets beneath them had left a friction burn on her back and across her shoulders, that she hadn't noticed until now. At some point, Draco must've dragged or summoned the duvet from off her bed to cover them both. It was a blessed relief — she didn't think she could bear the awkwardness of being fully naked in front of him, now that the heat of the moment had passed.
As it was, Hermione was still tucked into Draco's side, her head on his chest. Her arm and leg splayed across his body, and his arm wrapped around her.
She counted her breaths still, eyes shut tight. Her heart hammered so hard in her chest that it was a marvel it hadn't burst right out, showering them both in blood and bone.
Hermione could feel a horribly manic giggle that wanted to explode out of her at the very thought of it. A terrible, grotesque, macabre water feature. Her chest, split wide open, like a carved marble fountain —
"Granger."
Hermione stilled as her heart skipped a beat.
"Whatever it is that you're thinking of, please stop," Draco sighed quietly. His words seemed to rumble through him, reverberating against her ear pressed to his chest. He shifted and his arm tightened for a moment across her back, before relaxing again.
She paused for a moment, thinking, before she responded.
"I can't," Hermione whispered back. She propped herself up onto an elbow to stare down at Draco. His muscled arm flexed across her back for a second, as if he didn't want to release her just yet, before he relented.
His eyes were closed, but he slowly cracked one silver eye open to stare up at her imperiously.
"You can't stop thinking? After that?" he whispered in the same hushed tone, a mocking lilt to his voice. "Good god Granger, hit a man where it hurts, why don't you?"
Annoyance flared instantly in her.
"No, I can't stop thinking," she shot back, sitting up fully. She yanked the duvet to cover her chest, watching as Draco's gaze sharpened instantly. Hermione glanced down to- … oh, the pervert.
"Hey! Eyes up here," she hissed, reaching a hand out to snap her fingers rudely in his face. Draco smirked, but opened both eyes to watch her carefully.
"And what, pray tell, is Miss Granger thinking about?" he asked quietly. The humour had gone out of his voice, and he looked suddenly tired. They gazed at each other in silence.
Hermione took in every detail of his face, truly looked at him closely. It felt indulgent, like a feast laid out just for her, but the meal had turned rancid in her mouth the instant it touched her tongue.
She drank it in like a woman starved anyway.
The exhaustion and lines, lining his mouth and under-eyes. His expression was one of a man bracing for the worst, and she saw in his eyes a reflection of the same uncertainty and hesitancy that must've shown in her own, like mirrored images.
A lump had formed in Hermione's throat.
"I- … I just think … things could go terribly wrong," she whispered, trailing off uncertainly. Her fingers twisted at a fold of linen in the duvet. "I think this might've," Hermione swallowed hard, "been a mistake."
The last words were uttered without thought and seemed to hang in the still air between them.
She wanted to slap herself at the fumble.
Draco stared at her for a moment, before letting out a disbelieving snort. His head dropped back onto the carpet with a soft thud, and his eyes rolled back up to observe the ceiling.
"Have things ever gone right?" he replied.
Hermione waited, uncertain. She had expected something mocking and teasing again, or even anger, but Draco's expression had become closed off. He seemed to be deliberating.
When the silence had stretched on so long that it had become nearly painful to experience, that Hermione wanted to reach out and shake him until an answer (a satisfying one) rattled around and popped out of his skull, he spoke again.
His voice was measured and quiet, but each word deliberate. As if he had carefully chosen them and weighed them.
"I think a lot about the mistakes in my life. Every decision gone wrong has weighed on me," Draco said softly. A wry smile twisted his lips for a moment, before it disappeared. His gaze was fixed upon the ceiling and for that, Hermione was grateful — she wasn't sure if she could bear to see his face right then.
"I think about all the choices presented to me and what I picked in the end. I go through them, I lay in bed at night and think about the life I could've had — if things had gone a different way. If I hadn't been born a Malfoy. If I hadn't been shackled to this life," he breathed. His voice had grown softer, until Hermione's ears had to strain to hear him.
"And I think about all the mistakes that led me here. All the choices I've ever made … I must've made, to lead to this moment, and I think I must've done something right, for once in my fucked up life, to be here with you."
Draco's voice was somewhat hoarse as he finished and turned to stare at Hermione. There was an intensity in his eyes that left her speechless; a hardness there, a granite glint that spoke of reverence.
He lifted his head off the carpet and half-turned, propping himself up on an elbow to face her fully. The muscles of his shoulders, chest and torso flexed in the dim light of the room, lit only by sconces. Hermione found herself entranced at the play of shadow and light across the expanses of skin.
"That's what I think," he finished blithely.
Draco paused for a second, and his eyes darted towards her chest, neck, and then met her own. His eyes had darkened slightly, and he shifted himself closer to her as he spoke.
"I also think you should let yourself enjoy the moment, Granger. Tomorrow isn't promised," he broke off for a moment and swallowed hard. "And especially not to us."
A sardonic smile ghosted across his lips for a moment, before his gaze turned serious again.
Faced with such a startling proposition and sobering thought, Hermione found that her worries, like racing mice, had scurried away. The whispering in her brain had faded into background noise for a blessed moment, as heat rushed to her face.
She licked her dry lips before responding.
"I- … Okay," she whispered back.
Draco gave her a dangerous smirk. It was her only warning before a millisecond later, the duvet was unceremoniously yanked out of her grip. She gave a startled gasp and made to protest, splaying one hand protectively across her chest while the other reached for the duvet, but Draco shushed her. He batted her desperate hand away and lifted her up easily, pulling her towards the bed.
"You have fantastic tits, Granger. Have I ever told you that? I must tell you more often," he murmured, spinning her around easily to push her down onto her back. Hermione flushed scarlet and opened her mouth to protest that this wasn't what she had meant and wasn't what she had agreed on and-
All thoughts left her, quite suddenly.
His larger frame, so much taller, was overwhelming. He was present, he was there, her thoughts were spinning wildly, her nerves were on fire. Every anxiety, every fear that had plagued her had evaporated with the blood rush that heated her skin, pooled like molten in her core.
His large hand had palmed her breast, twisting the nipple teasingly, while his other was tracing daringly down to the apex of her thighs, tracing out messages in a language she was still learning.
Hermione gasped as his thumb began to nudge and circle at her sensitive bud, teasing it out while never quite greeting it fully, and a finger pressed against her folds.
She tangled her fingers in his hair, pressed her lips to his neck and felt the pulse there.
Strong and steady. A thumping that reverberated out the reminder that they were both alive, and that today was a gift, but tomorrow wasn't promised to either of them.
She peppered kisses across Draco's neck and shoulders, pressed kisses to his jaw, and kissed Draco so fully on the mouth. Her tongue flicked across his bottom lip and traced out the words she couldn't bring herself to say.
It wasn't enough, and would never be enough, but she would settle herself and be content for now - because it was all that she had, and it would have to be enough.
"Are you awake?"
Hermione peeked up at his face from under her lashes, noting Draco's tell-tale flinch. His eyes were closed and his lips pressed together tightly for a moment.
"No," he whispered back, voice deadpan.
She bit back a smile.
"Will you tell me about your family?" she asked quietly. Her head rested on his shoulder, her body tucked into his side like pieces of a puzzle. She was warm and content — it felt like home.
It felt like the long, stolen nights in the seaside cottage, when she had asked the same question.
Draco opened his eyes and glanced down at her. His expression was slightly bemused. "I've told you about my family," he said evenly.
She couldn't shrug from her position, and settled for an indifferent flick of her head instead.
"Well, surely there's more you can tell me," she wheedled after a moment, testing the waters. "I saw,—" Hermione broke off for a second, before forging on again. "I saw that the title and estate, and obligations, were handed to you upon your marriage."
To Daphne.
The words were unspoken, but their presence was felt like an intruder upon the conversation.
Draco sighed heavily, and was silent for a few moments. His expression had not closed off, however, and Hermione felt a prickle of anticipation.
"I suppose … I could indulge you," he replied quietly.
This time, Hermione couldn't stop the smile from breaking out across her face. Draco glanced down at her and rolled his eyes.
"Don't get too excited," he said warningly. "It's mostly just paperwork and a lot of bollocks," he hedged.
Draco seemed to be thinking for a few moments longer, and Hermione was grateful for the silence — she could bask in the warmth, indulge in the comfort of laying there, waiting for another fantastical tale. The world had quieted, tunnelled, until it was only the two of them that existed, and they existed only in these fleeting moments.
"Do you remember … when I told you about the myths? Of us being descended from dragons?" he asked slowly, eyeing her beadily.
"Of course," Hermione breathed. She waited with bated breath and watched as a shadow seemed to flit across his face.
"The myth was half-truth, it seems," Draco replied. Doubt and disbelief coloured his voice, but he forged on. "One of my ancestors, an Abraxas or Lucien or whichever old greedy geezer — fuck if I know — wove some sort of cursed magic into the ley lines and wards of the estate, a thousand years ago. A Malfoy can choose, upon their death, to lock down the estate forevermore, like a dragon guards its hoard and perishes with it. The wards enclose the estate and it becomes a prison, suspended in an unbreakable stasis of ancestral magic — the strongest form of magic that exists. Nobody goes in. Nobody goes out."
A slow chill ran down Hermione's spine at his words.
"The Malfoys were not known for their generosity," he said darkly. "They never let anything go. Not their belongings, not their estate, not their servants."
Something was dawning upon Hermione, a cold dread that seeped in like rushing water.
"Not their spouses," she whispered. She stared at Draco in horror as his words from so long ago seemed to ring out and bridge the gap formed by time.
"My mother wanted to escape. But my father, he wouldn't let her. He- … he's obsessive. He has this, this anger and rage in him. He's intensely possessive of my mother. If- … if I had breathed a word of what happened to her, he would've gotten all of us killed."
Draco's expression was flat as he regarded her; he seemed to have been resigned to this fate, to have accepted it.
"Yes," he confirmed. "Not their spouses."
Hermione didn't know what else to do; words had left her. Slowly, her hand found his under the duvet cover, and she gave it a gentle squeeze.
"There are benefits to the ancestral magic too, I suppose," he began again, haltingly. "With the title and estate bestowed to me, some of the magic has activated — in times of critical need, in times of life and death, when the most basal instincts are activated … a monstrous transformation can occur."
Her ears perked at this.
"What kind of transformation?" Hermione asked eagerly, giving Draco's hand still clasped in hers a little jiggle to urge him on. She thought suddenly of Lupin. "Like you turn into a scaly werewolf?" she added teasingly.
He shot her a look of pure annoyance that did nothing to dampen her curiousity.
"I don't know, exactly," he replied irritably. "Lucius wasn't very clear on it, I don't think he knows either. Nobody in hundreds of years has ever needed it. Or, at least, it's never been triggered in them. It sounds like it's not exactly a willing, conscious choice either — the family tome makes it sounds like it's a horrific transformation. The very thing that'll save me might very well kill me."
He gave her a sardonic smile, and Hermione frowned as the words settled in. There was a heavy weight to them.
"The very thing that'll save you … might very well kill you," she echoed slowly.
"Yes. Some real excellent planning there. All credit to Abraxas or Lucien or Whoever-The-Fuck invented such a cursed and gormless type of magic to bestow to their heirs," Draco swore with a bitter laugh.
"Your family heirloom seems to be misery and trauma," Hermione breathed.
Draco snorted.
"Don't I know it," he mused darkly. He sighed and pressed a chaste kiss to the crown of Hermione's head, and she found herself closing her eyes to luxuriate in the comfort and warmth, cocooned safely in his embrace.
Hermione was hardly aware of drifting off into sleep, when the transition from wake to dreaming was so seamless.