For the second time in a month Hermione wakes up in Malfoy Manor. This time, of course, she just happens to be naked.
Like last time, Draco sleeps peacefully beside her, his breath deep and even in her ear. She takes a moment to admire the predawn light on his pale skin – the way it makes him look like porcelain, smooth and breakable at the same time.
He's beautiful, she thinks. Beautiful and strange and hers.
Hermione briefly considers waking him for another round – their sixth? Seventh?
Instead, she carefully extracts herself from his arms and grabs one of their loose bedsheets. She finds her wand in a crook of the sofa, aims it at the sheet…and then groans quietly as the sheet transfigures back into its original form. Draco's tattered button-down is not what she was hoping for, but it will have to do.
She casts a soft Reparo on a few of the rips, slips her arms through those of the oxford, and then uses a Sticking Charm to close the front of the shirt. Hermione eyes the other sheets longingly, but they're wrapped too tightly around Draco to be transfigured without waking him. She pulls on her knickers – which apparently landed on the fireplace tools last night – and tiptoes barefoot from the library.
For some reason, the Manor corridors no longer confuse her, and she finds her way to the kitchen within five minutes. She's expecting an empty room in which to cook, just like the last time she woke up here. But even though the sun hasn't fully risen today, the kitchen is packed to the rafters with house-elves. Some are chatting over cups of coffee while some are preparing today's meals for the Malfoy family.
"Maevy!"
Hermione waves to the little elf standing by the stove. Maevy, who looks like royalty in her forest green suit, turns toward Hermione and lets out a sigh that could only be described as relieved.
"Oh, Miss! Maevy is so glad you're still here. So very glad that Mister Draco and Miss made up."
Then Maevy takes a long, hard look at the witch's clothing. Or lack thereof. Hermione, for her part, has the good sense to realize that she's almost starkers in front of all these superbly dressed elves. With a self-conscious wince, Hermione tugs the hem of Draco's shirt farther down her thighs. It's a belated attempt at modesty, but, well…it's all she's got.
Maevy exchanges a meaningful glance with the house-elf next to her.
"Has Miss…worked up an appetite, then?" Maevy asks innocently, and the other elf stifles a laugh.
"Actually," Hermione says, ignoring the rash of elfish titters that now spreads around the kitchen, "I was hoping you'd let me cook breakfast? For myself and Draco?"
Maevy opens her mouth to answer but another, deeper voice cuts her off.
"Are we doing a full English then, Granger?"
Hermione spins around with an unabashed smile.
There he stands, leaning against the cabinetry with his arms folded across his scarred chest. He's wearing his re-transfigured black pants and nothing else. That makes sense, she supposes, since his ripped oxford is currently occupied.
"Hello there," she says, folding her own arms across her chest and cocking one of her hips to the side. "Ready for breakfast?"
Draco drinks in her suggestive stance until he can't restrain himself any longer. He makes a guttural noise in the back of his throat and reaches her in two broad strides. Before she has even a second to react, he's wrapped her in his bare arms.
"Why would I want food," he whispers in her ear, "when you look so tasty?"
Hermione giggles, grabs his hips, and yanks them further into hers. "First breakfast," she whispers back. "Then round number seven."
"Is it really only seven? You better eat fast, then – we're behind schedule."
Draco must see her blush, because he presses a small kiss to one of her heated cheeks. "Gorgeous, Granger. Even in my clothes."
"I rather like this shirt," she says with a sniff. "I think I'll keep it."
"As long as you promise to wear it and nothing else."
"What about my knickers?"
"Those are wholly optional."
"Oh? And which of us will exercise the option?"
In answer, Draco leans forward to kiss her deeply. She kisses him back and feels herself becoming more aroused by the second. Her hand has just started to swipe down his stomach, toward the button of his pants, when the giggling of elves stops her.
Only at that moment does she realize that they have an audience of at least eight. Her cheeks flush yet again, but Draco doesn't seem embarrassed in the slightest.
"Um, ladies?" he says to the elves, not bothering to pull his mouth from Hermione's. "Could you give us some privacy?"
A chorus of snickers echoes throughout the kitchen, followed by the cracking of Apparition. Only Maevy remains. Hermione can tell it's her, from the way the house-elf clears her throat in irritation.
"Should Maevy just send Mister and Miss's breakfast up to the Smaller Library, then? After all, we do prepare food in here. Maevy would like to keep this room sanitary, if you both please."
A laugh bubbles out of Hermione's throat, and she glances down at the little elf tapping an impatient foot beside them.
"I'm sorry, Maevy," Hermione says, and she means it. "I think we're in that 'carried away' stage right now."
Maevy sighs and makes a dismissive gesture with her tiny fingers. "Thank you for stating the obvious, Miss. Now, shoo."
Draco doesn't wait for further instruction. He keeps his arms wrapped around Hermione's waist and immediately, they pop back into the library where a steaming hot breakfast is already waiting for them.
Slowly, incredulously, Hermione's head swivels from the breakfast tray toward Draco.
"Did you…did you just Apparate us here?"
Draco shrugs, but there's a proud gleam in his eyes. "It's the second of May."
Before she can fully comprehend what he said, Hermione kisses him ferociously, just as proud of his newfound freedom as he is. Then his words sink in, and her heart plummets.
"The second," she whispers, and she suddenly finds that her legs don't feel steady anymore. With shaking knees, she plops gracelessly down onto the sofa. Draco watches her, uncertainty lining his features until it hits him. He drops at her side and takes one of her limp hands into his.
"This day is especially bad for you, isn't it?"
Hermione nods, fighting a wave of nausea. "Last year, I was so upset I stayed up until dawn baking. It was…sort of the unofficial start of the PTSD Pastry Tour."
"Also the night Weasley broke up with you?" he guesses. When she nods again, Draco sighs. "I know I have fewer reasons to hate this day than you, Granger…but I do. I fucking hate it. I felt that way, even before our sentencing. It feels like everyone who died in the War died today. I know that's not true, but…it still feels like it."
"I know exactly what you mean," she says. "Mad-Eye died at the start. And Dobby died that…that day I left here, over Easter holidays. But I think about the two of them most on this day. Then there's Tonks, Lupin, Colin Creevey—"
"Charity Burbage," he adds. "Severus Snape. Vincent Crabbe. Fred Weasley."
She shoots him a look, and he winces.
"I liked the twins," Draco explains ruefully. "Even though I never let on. They were funny in a distinctly unfunny time."
They don't speak again for a long while, Hermione staring blankly at the fireplace and Draco smoothing his thumb across the back of her hand. Then she makes a small, hopeful noise.
"I…think I may have another idea. Kind of along the same lines as the Pastry Tour. If you're open to it?"
He pulls his gaze from their hands and raises one eyebrow, which Hermione takes as an invitation to elaborate.
"Here's what I'm thinking: what if this day didn't have to be so awful? What if we made it a celebration of sorts?"
"A party?" Draco asks in a flat tone.
"That's one way to look at it," she hedges. "But maybe we should call it…a group-wide reconciliation, instead. A chance for us all to get together and just talk. Face the PTSD head-on."
Now both of Draco's eyebrows rise. But Hermione is just gathering steam. She keeps going with an excited little glow in her eyes.
"We could hold it at the Leaky. Tonight. Merlin knows the pub will be aching for the business. It's a Tuesday and the second of May– a double whammy, if you ask me. I could owl Hannah Abbott – she knows the owner – to get permission for us. Then you and I could owl all of our classmates. You'll take the Slytherins, obviously, and I'll take the other houses."
Draco snorts. "What, Granger? You don't think the Hufflepuffs will come running when I beckon?"
"Draco, your mother told me that the colour yellow literally makes her want to vomit. I assume the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
"Touché," he concedes.
Hermione studies him for a moment. "How will you handle it? Being around alcohol tonight, I mean? Because we can totally hold it somewhere other than a pub. My flat's too small, obviously, and Harry's place is big enough, but he won't give up the location. I think the Manor would freak too many people out, unfortunately. So a park, maybe? Or a…a public square or something?"
Draco shakes his head and runs one hand through his hair – loose, how she likes it best.
"We're going to hold it at the Leaky, Granger, and I'm going to drink sickly-sweet pumpkin juice. Lots of it. So much that your parents will likely have to remove all my molars tomorrow morning."
She grins broadly. "I'm sure you'll still look sexy with a full set of false teeth."
"Speaking of sexy, how will we handle 'us' tonight, Granger? We're so new, and I'm not sure the whole of Hogwarts is ready for a Malfoy-Granger pairing just yet. Weasley's head practically exploded when he found out. Granted, all the hot air inside it probably didn't help. But still."
Hermione elbows Draco in the ribs, but dammit if he has a point. There are only a handful of their classmates who know about them, and not even those select few know the full truth yet.
"How about we play it cool?" she suggests. "We arrive and leave together, but we steer clear of each other the rest of the night. Just to give people time to grieve and heal, before we hit them with the shock of their lives."
Draco nods his approval. But as she loses herself again in tonight's plans, Hermione doesn't see the disappointment that slips over his features. What she doesn't know – what she doesn't see, written all over his frown – is that Draco wouldn't play it cool tonight, if it were up to him.
The frown is gone when she glances back up at him.
"Let's eat our breakfast and then start owling our invitations," she suggests. "I'm sure if we get right to work, we can send them all off before noon so everyone can—"
"Oh no you don't, Granger," he growls in interruption. "Not until we finish round seven."
Draco lunges at her, finally destroying what's left of his oxford shirt. If her thrilled giggle is any indication, Hermione doesn't mind the delay. Not one bit.
After round seven – or eight, if you count the unbelievable things Draco can do with his tongue – they agree that someone needs a bath, even if they don't agree on which of them needs it most.
For a delicious moment, Hermione considers his offer to join him in his shower upstairs. But she declines with a sad shake of her head. As much as they'd like to, neither of them can stay in tattered clothing all day. Draco performs the reconnection spell to his fireplace (rather sheepishly, she thinks), and then Hermione Floos home for the fastest shower and change of her life.
When she arrives back at the library, he's waiting for her on the sofa, looking far too good in his jeans and black blazer. He must feel the same way about her appearance, because his eyes drift along the line of her bare legs up to her short, grey skirt. His gaze stops at her green jumper, and a slow smirk spreads across his lips.
"Did you have to rob a Slytherin for that top, Granger?"
"Oh, this? It's just something I had…lying around."
"Or something you transfigured?"
Without looking at him, Hermione strolls over to where their breakfast still waits. She takes a small, deliberate nibble of toast.
"Well, Draco, let's just say you shouldn't perform Finite Incantatem on this jumper unless you like the colour red."
Draco laughs loudly and pushes himself up from the sofa. He joins her at the sideboard and the two of them tuck into their meal, occasionally trading bites of food for kisses.
Eventually they've had their fill, so Draco summons a few of the EverInk quills he keeps stashed around the library. Hermione sinks into the sofa cushion next to his. Draco, however, shakes his head.
"Too far away," he declares. Without further explanation, he pulls her body with him while he leans back against one arm of the sofa.
"You'll choke on my hair," she warns, but she settles her shoulder blades upon his chest.
"C'est la vie, Granger. I've suspected I would die this way since I was eleven."
"You thought you would willingly get this close to me when you were eleven?"
"I didn't say that. I just said I thought death by your hair was a strong possibility."
"Death by my hair? Really, Draco?"
She feels his shrug against her back.
"After what we did on the floor this morning," he says, "it won't be an unhappy death. That has to bring you some comfort, right?"
In reply, Hermione just wiggles further into his lap. Thus positioned, she summons a stack of blank parchment. On the top sheet, she scrawls a generic greeting and the details of their get-together. Then she uses her wand to duplicate this template onto each of the other sheets. With a satisfied hum, she hands a wad of papers over her shoulder to Draco. He takes them, lifts the weight of her hair to one side, and plants a loud thank-you kiss on her neck.
"You see?" he says. "Your hair almost smothered me. Just now."
Hermione rolls her eyes. But she reaches back to trace her fingers over his cheek before she sets to work addressing her invitations. Draco begins his own as well, moving from Greg and Millie to Theo, Blaise, Pansy, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Marcus Flint, and Adrian Pucey. He throws in a few more names for good measure but, given the number of his former housemates who are dead, in hiding, or incarcerated, Draco finishes far sooner than Hermione.
Once done, he leans over her shoulder and pretends to inspect her work.
"Doing alright with those illegible runes you call handwriting?" When she merely grunts, he smiles. "Very articulate, Granger."
She sighs and stretches out her cramping hand. "It's just…I'm trying to decide whether or not to invite professors and the older Order members. I'm thinking…not. Not this year, anyway."
"I can write those," he offers. "If you change your mind."
She shakes her head, and Draco laughs. "What is it, Granger? You don't want me adding my signature to your invitations as well?"
Hearing the strained tenor of his voice, Hermione angles her head to give him a light kiss.
"Of course not," she says. "We actually want people to come tonight, don't we?"
He laughs again, this time in the genuine way that makes her heart race. He doesn't lob a follow-up quip at her, so she turns back to her parchment.
As she scrawls more invitations, she feels his left hand drift down toward hers. At first, Draco just brushes his knuckles back and forth along her hand. It's a simple, absent-minded movement on his part – a subconscious way to stay connected to her while she writes. But after a while, his index finger begins to stroke her second finger from the left, tracing the spot where a ring might one day go. It's an inexpressibly intimate gesture, and she very nearly transfigures their fresh clothing into another set of bedding.
"I love this," she blurts out. "Being here like this with you. I…I want to do this every free minute we've got. If you'll let me."
Silence descends over the room and, for a full minute, she's certain he's going to push her off his lap and run. But Draco surprises her – thrills her – when he pulls her closer and whispers into her ear, "I do, too, Granger. I really do."