Hermione's heart was still racing, and a wistful smile played across her lips, spurred on by a mixture of Draco's words and the things he'd proceeded to do to her after saying them. As she brushed her fingers across his damp chest, she felt the tickle of his own hands rubbing circles at the dip in her lower back for a moment before sliding out from beneath her, one last kiss on the top of her head before he slipped away.
He'd said the words again and again, as if saying them the first time had opened the floodgates. She'd felt his heart pounding beneath her palm, watched the expression of wariness on his face as he spoke, and knew all too well how hard that must have been for him. But, like a man finding water in the desert, he'd found what he hadn't known he so desperately needed saying them over and over—whispered into her hair as his hands explored her skin, brushed against her neck as he peppered kisses in their wake.
I love you.
Hermione felt a giddy grin slide across her features as she burrowed further into the warmth of the blankets around her, the sound of the water running in the shower echoing from the bathroom.
She'd already known it, of course. She'd felt it by the way he touched her after she said it to him for the first time. She'd seen it on his face when she freely took his hand in front of the lobby full of reporters at Mungo's. But now, to actually hear it for the first time, she couldn't get the smile off her face if she tried.
Her situation was different than his, of course. She had heard the words before—from her parents, from her friends—but never in this way, and it felt entirely different. She thought if she tried to cast a Patronus in this moment, her misty, blue moth may in fact blind her with its brightness.
A glance at the clock beside her confirmed that they only had a half hour before breakfast, so, deciding to follow him into the shower, she stood from the bed and pulled the sheets to make it when her foot slid on something in the floor.
The corner of a manila envelope was just visible beneath the bed, and as she plucked it from the floor, she realized it must have been what woke her on Sunday morning before Harry arrived.
It looked just like the one she'd received weeks ago, the same red Azkaban 'A' seal on the back and "INMATE CORRESPONDENCE – FOR LUCIUS A. MALFOY #32348" stamped across the front, but this time, instead of her name dead center, it read DRACO L. MALFOY.
The squeak of the water dial turning off made her cut her eyes at the bathroom door where Draco emerged, steam clearing out alongside him as he entered the room, a towel hanging around his hips while he used another to dry his hair.
The smirk he'd been wearing while his eyes raked across her skin fell from his face as they noticed the letter in her hands. She grabbed her pajamas from the floor, covering herself with a faint blush that was truly absurd given that they'd seen one another naked dozens of times at this point, but something about being the only one standing stark naked in the middle of his room in broad daylight felt just entirely too vulnerable for her liking.
She kissed his cheek, noticing the way the tension in his face returned the moment she slipped the letter into his hands, before leaving him alone to either open it or not.
"I'll go to the hospital today, you two stay here," Nicola said as she and Hermione washed dishes together after breakfast. Well, Hermione washed dishes; Nicola stood behind her, her sleeves cuffed as if she'd intended to help but then thought better of it, choosing to stand in watch instead.
Most of the others had ceased doing things by hand the moment that they stopped taking the suppression potion every day, but Hermione typically still did dishes the Muggle way. Excluding times when she was in a hurry, at home Hermione always did this simple task by hand rather than using magic, and the habit had just continued here at the Willows. There was something strangely calming about it, perhaps because it required little to no thought at all, just enough to occupy her hands and her mind.
And after coming out of the shower to find Draco dressed but continuing to stare down at the still unopened letter in his hands, Hermione really wanted to just turn her mind off for a bit and allow herself to get lost in the odd tranquility she found in the soapy dishwater.
"Draco, I know, needs the break, and based on the way you've washed that same plate for the last four minutes, I'd say you do as well," Nicola said, bumping Hermione with her hip as she pushed up beside her and took the plate in question out of her hands.
"He got another letter," Hermione said, "from Lucius." She relinquished the sponge in her other hand to Nicola as well and reached for the dish towel to dry her hands. When Nicola lifted her eyebrows at her, Hermione added, "It was from Sunday, before the accident. In the chaos, we didn't see it before, and it must've slid beneath his bed."
As Nicola finished the last dish, Hermione handed her the towel.
"Did he read it?"
"No. Well, he didn't before we came down for breakfast, but he took it with him to his session with Susan this morning, so maybe he will in there." Hermione shrugged.
Nicola sighed as she hung the dish towel on the hook beside the sink. Leaning against the counter behind her, she asked, "How is he?"
Hermione took a breath and considered the question. Draco had at least slept last night, and the dark circles beneath his eyes had faded considerably this morning. He still hadn't spoken to her much about the situation with his father, excluding that very first day at the hospital. She really hoped he was opening up to Susan about it because he obviously had convoluted feelings about the ordeal, and she knew his first instinct was to bury them all.
"I…I don't know," Hermione finally said. "He hasn't really talked about it. He's closed off about it to some degree. I think he's conflicted more than anything. Still angry at his father but feeling guilty now on top of it given the situation."
"And, how are you?"
"Me?" Hermione asked, taken aback by Nicola's question.
"Yes, you. It's taxing even if Lucius isn't someone you're close to. It's hard watching someone you love hurt."
"I'm okay. Worried about Draco, but otherwise, I'm fine. Angry too, but fine."
"Angry?"
Hermione paused for a moment, considering the best way to explain her thoughts on the atrocities going on inside the wizarding prison. "Draco told me about some of what he went through in Azkaban, that he honestly believed he was going to die in there. I believed him, of course, but I think a part of me thought it was just an expression. Now, knowing what happened to Lucius makes me realize how bad it must have really been in there." She sighed, feeling the beginnings of a rant coming on. "We fought this whole bloody war to stop Voldemort, yes, but it was also about equality and fair treatment, and apparently, the tide has turned too far in the other direction. Now we have those who are supposed to be on the right side torturing people in prison. It's ridiculous."
Hermione hadn't really allowed herself a moment to think about the situation in Azkaban really. It had still been there, nonetheless, gnawing at the back of her mind like a sore tooth, one you know you shouldn't be wiggling but you're helpless to it. A part of her thought it wasn't her responsibility, but another part of her, the one that she hadn't felt rising up in her in far too long, that piece of her said this was everyone's fight.
If you aren't part of the solution, then you're part of the problem.
The moment she breached the surface, giving herself the freedom to focus on the injustice of it all, what had been simmering now turned to a full-on boil, spilling over the edges and sinking into her mind.
"Do I think these people deserve to be in Azkaban? Yes. Even Lucius. But do I think they deserve to be beaten and abused? Absolutely not. That isn't justice, it's just the same shit we were fighting a year ago." Nicola leaned onto the counter behind her, crossing her arms across her chest and giving Hermione her full attention, spurring her to keep going.
"I'm so sick of fighting for things, but at the same time, I feel like someone has to stand up for this. Harry has already arrested three other guards for maltreatment and abuse, and the investigation is still ongoing, but is that enough? Will that change anything? I left the Auror office because I couldn't actually change anything at all, and I'm afraid that's the same boat Harry is in now. Even in the small department they carved out for me, my hands are still tied. I feel like having The Golden Girl at the Ministry was more a tactic to garner favor after they failed so miserably during the war. Every time I'd bring up some antiquated bit of legislation or try to initiate some sort of change, department heads would get this wistful smile on their face like, oh here she goes again, but they weren't at all open to any of it. I just want to march into the Ministry and demand action, but what would that do?"
Nicola shook her head with a scoff. "Nothing. It would do nothing. This is the scum of the earth you're talking about. They don't care about the people in Azkaban any more than they do werewolves. It wouldn't matter what you and I said about it, most of the population doesn't care either way because they aren't affected by it."
"Exactly!" Hermione said. "If only the Wizarding World had lobbyists!" The sound of her hand slapping across the counter rang out, and she realized just how frustrated she'd become in this short conversation. She felt flushed, and, self-consciously, she looked down at herself and realized she'd inadvertently propped one hand on her hip.
For the first time in a year, she felt like her old self again, riled up and ready to stand on behalf of someone who couldn't, even if those people were those she'd fought against in the war. Already her mind was scraping through the little that she knew about inmate rights in the Muggle world and comparing it to the bits and pieces of what she knew of Azkaban. Remembering the vast amount of information in the Hall of Records, she felt motivated all of a sudden, eager; she'd almost forgotten the feeling of excitement at the prospect of research and discovery that always accompanied a new quest for knowledge.
"The Wizarding World needs lobbyists," Hermione said again, more to herself than to Nicola, who was now staring at her with a slight smile on her face. If a special interest group could be created in order to bring these types of situations to the public eye, perhaps the Wizengamot would have no choice but to intervene. Ever since the war ended, they'd been bending over backward to paint themselves in a better light, going so far as to create an entire office just for her—well more to make it look as if they were doing something than actually doing something.
"I feel like I'm witnessing the birth of something momentous right now," Nicola said, breaking through Hermione's reverie and stopping her up short. Somehow, Nicola's words had frozen the train of thought in Hermione's mind, reminding her of one major factor that she was sorely missing when it came to advocating for marginalized groups.
"I'm going to need a lot of money, aren't I?"
Nicola gave her a knowing nod before saying, "If only you knew someone incredibly wealthy."
Draco's session with Susan lasted longer than normal, which had Hermione a bit worried, but when he emerged two hours later, she was surprised to find him looking incredibly relieved; the stress that had hung over his head like a cloud since the moment Harry shared the news with them now looked like a distant memory.
Hermione was curled up on the sofa, her feet tucked up beneath her and her head leaning onto the back of the couch at her side, reading To Kill a Mockingbird—she'd found the library at The Willows to be sadly void of books on law or human rights, so she settled on the first book she could think of with a theme that coincided with those topics—when Draco sat down in front of her.
Trying to quickly finish the page she was on before looking up, she asked, "How did it go with Susan?" or that's what she'd started to say. She made it halfway through her question, her eyes still glued to the yellowed pages in her lap, when her words were drowned out by a searing kiss that she hadn't at all been expecting.
He was leaning over her, his hands face down on the couch on either side of her hips and her back now pressed against the armrest behind her. Her eyes were wide, having been caught off guard, but quickly they fluttered closed as she dropped the book, reaching for his chest instead.
"Not that I'm complaining whatsoever," she said, when he broke the kiss and sat back down in front of her with the hint of a smile on either side of his lips, "but what was that for?"
He shrugged, stretching her legs into his lap before flipping over her book to read the title. "Do I need a reason?"
She shook her head with the same grin she hadn't been able to shake all morning, save for the time she'd spent ranting to Nicola. "Susan had good things to say, I presume?"
As he nodded, his lips pursed together slightly, his gaze settled on the fire in front of them, reflecting dancing orange light in his eyes. "Apparently, I'm allowed to be worried and also still be pissed off at the same time."
"Hmm," Hermione said thoughtfully, and something in her tone made him turn to look at her. "Sounds familiar." With her gaze still on the fire to her left, she could still make out his eye roll. "Maybe I should be a mind heal—" His hand snaked up her leg, pinching the inside of her thigh and cutting off her words as she laughed, trying to push him away.
"Is it safe to stay or are we about to get a live show?" Hermione heard from behind her, and she craned her neck to see Seamus sliding a deck of cards from one hand to the other, fighting back a grin and Dennis beside him looking sheepish.
Draco pulled his hand from between her knees and cleared his throat, straightening up on the couch in front of her.
Hermione asked, "If I said yes to the latter, would you leave?"
Dennis's face turned a shade darker, but Seamus only laughed. "Nope," he said, popping his lips on the p as he plopped down into the chair beside them.
Dennis looked awkwardly from Hermione's face to the open chair across from Seamus, but he never made a move to join them until she rolled her eyes and said with a laugh, "Dennis, I was kidding, sit down."
Seamus dropped the deck of cards onto the coffee table in front of them. "Fancy a game?" he asked, a smug grin on his lips as he looked at Draco. "I'll try not to pilfer all your money this time."
"First off, it would take you a lifetime to pilfer all my money, and secondly, last time you cheated." As Draco tapped her legs, she pulled them out of his lap and turned to face the table as well, but instead of watching, she opened her book where she'd left off—Atticus had just agreed to defend Tom—and allowed the voices around her to drift away as she returned to reading.
She was vaguely aware as she turned the pages of their verbal sparring as they played, and, based on the few times she'd lifted her head to watch, she realized that Draco was atrocious at poker. To be fair, she didn't fully understand the rules of the game, but she'd seen it played often enough to know that the dwindling pile of coins in front of Draco meant that he wasn't winning. Dennis's money still remained, but Seamus's growing stack of sickles and galleons indicated that he was certainly taking their money.
She shook her head as Draco kept trying, dropping in his ante and raising his bets every time even though he clearly had no idea what he was doing. After a while, she gave up on her reading altogether, the conversation around her completely drowning out her attempts at concentration. Seamus's booming laugh as he proclaimed, "Next time, mate," and pulled the money from the center of the table into his pile yet again had already resulted in her reading the same sentence three times in a row.
However, on the next few hands, with Hermione paying closer attention and being privy to the cards in Draco's hand, she noticed him discarding what she knew to be cards that would have helped him beat Seamus. She watched in confusion when he discarded two jacks, leaving two more in his hand.
"But how does that beat my full house thing?" Draco asked, motioning to his cards now lying face down on the table between them—three fives and two jacks.
"Yes," Seamus said as if he were talking to a child, pointing toward his row of eights, "but I have four of a kind."
"But I have five cards and you have four," Draco said testily, spreading the cards out on the table as if the problem was that Seamus couldn't count.
"It's the rules." Seamus shrugged, but the wide smile across his place was contrary to the look of contrition he was attempting. "Tell him, Dennis. I'm not cheating him."
Dennis stacked his cards onto the table, sliding them toward Seamus as he started to reshuffle. "Those are the rules. Maybe poker just isn't your game?"
"That's exactly what I said!" Seamus said with another laugh before noticing Draco's scowl and adding, "Nobody likes a sore loser."
Draco growled under his breath and sat up straighter, leaning forward onto the couch, and said, "Okay, one more."
"I don't know." Seamus's wide smile turned into a sarcastic grin. "At this point, I feel like I'm just taking advantage."
"One more, all or nothing." Draco slid his last remaining coins into the center of the table.
When Seamus's eyes landed on hers for a split second, she gave the best exasperated headshake she could muster, and Seamus conceded. "Alright. It's your money." He too slid his stack into the middle of the table, though it far surpassed Draco's measly three galleons.
When they both turned to Dennis, he shook his head, holding his hands up. "Nope, I'm out," he said, before leaning back to watch the game unfold.
Seamus smiled to himself as he dealt the cards, and despite the pair of aces in Draco's hand, he still huffed, his brow furrowed as he looked at the cards in hand.
"Since we're all in, we can just draw. How many do you need?" Seamus asked, dropping two cards from his hand face-down onto the table. Draco made a big show of sighing and shifting his cards around in his hand before dropping three onto the table.
"Three."
Seamus narrowed his eyes at him but dealt the cards without a word. Hermione leaned forward as Draco lifted the cards off the table, adding the three new ones to his current hand. Dropping her chin onto his shoulder, she saw he'd drawn the two remaining aces and a jack.
"What do you think?" Draco asked forlornly, lifting his cards for her to see.
"I don't know. Looks like a rubbish hand to me." She leaned back into her seat and started to open her book again. She was a horrible bluffer; she wore her emotions right there on her sleeve for the most part, but she didn't want to give anything away.
"Well, I'll give you the chance to fold," Seamus said, closing his cards up between his palms. His words came out innocently enough, but the smirk on his face told a different story.
"No, no. I'm all in now," Draco said, laying his cards face-down on the table.
"Alright." Seamus showed his hand, stretching his cards out to reveal five spades. "Flush," he said with a grin before nodding toward Draco's cards still lying concealed on the table.
Using the bottom card, Draco flipped it up, turning all the cards face-up with a flourish in one go.
"Quads. Ace high."
Hermione pinched her lips between her teeth as Seamus's mouth dropped open. Dennis's resounding laughter broke the silence around them, and Draco smirked at Seamus, still gawking, across from him.
"You totally played me," Seamus said. Hermione half expected him to get upset at Draco's obvious feigned ignorance of the game, but instead a grin slowly spread across his face as well.
"Maybe poker just isn't your game, mate," Draco said, pulling the pile of coins back toward his side of the table. "Stick to, what was it you said?"—he put one finger on his lips, contemplating the answer to his own question—"oh, yes, Go Fish."
Seamus chuckled. "I hate you so much," he said, shaking his head as he tossed the deck of cards into Draco's lap and stood, Dennis yelling, "Nobody likes a sore loser" at his retreating back.
"Forgiveness is an important part of the healing process," Walt said, clasping his hands in his lap as he looked around the circle at each of them. Hermione and Draco had taken Nicola's advice and stayed at The Willows all day, which put them back in the familiar circle of group therapy. Nicola, however, was absent, having gone to sit with Narcissa at the hospital.
"Most people don't realize this, but harboring any type of hatred, be that directed to another person or yourself, can be the biggest stumbling block to recovery. It's hard to move past something if you're hanging onto it out of anger or guilt."
Hermione swallowed, sliding her hands beneath the outside of her thighs, and willed herself to leave any memories of those who'd hurt her in the past where they belonged. She knew this was exactly what they were meant to be working toward—allowing themselves to see these moments without being consumed by them—but Hermione honestly wasn't sure if she was capable of true forgiveness toward those who'd wronged her during the war.
Her mind immediately flashed back to Bellatrix's vile grin, her stale breath and spit flying in her face as she spoke, and the white, hot pain of the never-ending reminder of who she was being carved into her skin.
"You think you deserve to walk among us?"
Walt's eyes stopping on hers before dropping toward her lap brought her out of her daze, awakening her to the way she was clutching her left arm, her right hand absently rubbing the word Bellatrix left behind.
"Many of you–all of you,—I daresay—suffered at the hands of individuals who were morally bankrupt, unwilling to ever make amends to you—"
"Unable to, really, now that most of them are dead," Seamus said, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back, the very air of indifference.
"You're right. However, this isn't at all about getting something from someone else—the apology or an explanation for someone's transgressions. You all do deserve those things, yes, but forgiveness isn't about the person who's wronged you. You may never even speak to that person again, particularly in a situation where they're all dead."
"I could never forgive the person who took my sister from me," Parvati said, her voice hard and distant in a way that Hermione hadn't heard from her often. "I don't even know who it was, but I hate them. Crabbe and Goyle"—Hermione noticed Draco shift uncomfortably at their mention—"the Carrows, Voldemort, I can keep going. They deserve my hatred, our hatred."
"I'm not saying that they don't," Walt said. Hermione wasn't sure how he was capable of it, but somehow Walt was able to sound both comforting and forceful at the same time, his words an attempt to assuage anger while also allowing you to feel it. "It's okay and perfectly acceptable to want to hate someone who hurt you or hurt someone that you love, but in doing so, you allow them to continue controlling you."
Parvati's jaw clenched, and Hermione noticed Draco's face was just as hard. She knew he must have been thinking about their recent conversation about his father that was entirely too similar to Walt's words.
"I want to stay angry at him… Even from a hospital bed, he's still controlling me."
Draco's gaze was fixed on the floor, and a quick glance around the room showed that every one of them wore a similar expression. Like Hermione, it seemed none of them were keen on the idea of allowing those who had hurt them to be forgiven.
"Forgiveness is about breaking that control they have over you. It isn't at all a way to condone or even forget the behavior of the person who hurt you. It isn't just saying the words either, it's more than that. It's a conscious decision to prioritize your own healing, to come to terms with what happened to you and move on from it. I know that isn't easy, believe me. I'm not asking you anything simple, I know that, but," Walt nodded seriously, his eyes piercing at each of them in turn, "this is something that is imperative for your road to recovery. You can't possibly move on if you aren't willing to let go of it.
"Now, that's all well and good, you say," Walt continued, "but how do we do that? Well, there are a ton of exercises or rituals out there as a way of letting go of the past. Setting things on fire, breaking things"—Walt glanced at Hermione pointedly, a small smirk on his face—"releasing balloons, the burning of sage, or chanting with crystals… we aren't doing any of that, don't worry"—Seamus's eyeroll hadn't gone unnoticed apparently. "What we're going to do is much less new-age. We're going to write a letter."
A letter? Maybe it wasn't as New Age as chanting and burning incense, but Hermione couldn't help but still be skeptical.
"First off, I want to say, no one else is ever going to see this letter, not even the counseling team. This is for you and you alone. I want you to write a letter to someone—or to many someones, if that be the case—illustrating how you were affected by their actions at the time and how it's continued to be a part of your life every day since. One aspect that may actually be the most difficult here is to try and shift from resentment to understanding and maybe even empathy."
Eyes shot up around the room as they all reacted to Walt's words, many of them giving him incredulous looks at the implication that they would need to empathize with Death Eaters, but Walt lifted a hand to stop them. "Again, I'm not at all saying that you shouldn't be angry with anyone who's hurt you, and I'm not saying that they deserve empathy. I'm saying it is easier to forgive someone when you try to understand their actions. Not rationalize or excuse their actions, but understand them. What could have led them to make the decisions they made, what kind of upbringing did they have to lead them down the path they were on. I want you to really dig deep—really define what it is you need to forgive them for, or yourself if that's who you choose to write to. It's going to require a level of honesty that you may never have had before, not in this circle and likely not even in your one-on-one sessions."
Once again, Walt allowed his words to hang in the air as his gaze fell on each of them, his blue eyes cutting just as deeply as his request.
"When you're done, you can do whatever you'd like with these. If you want to keep them to reflect on, that's fine. If you'd like to—"
"What if we want to ceremoniously burn them?" Seamus asked. "Really get a good bonfire going."
"Then I'll bring the matches," Walt said with a smile.
Dear Bellatrix
Nope, that wasn't what she was going for.
Dear Bellatrix
Hermione sat at the desk in her own room, staring down at the mostly blank page in front of her.
Staring probably wasn't the right word.
Glaring. She was glaring.
She'd been sitting here for most of the morning, willing the pen in her hand to write words but everything seemed ridiculous. The situations were completely different, of course, but after her grandmother had passed away, she remembered going with her mother to visit the graveyard once. She and her mother had sat on the ground, and the marble headstone in front of them reflected their shadows and those of the peonies they'd placed on her grave.
Her mother had urged her to speak to her grandmother as if she were listening, and she'd mumbled through a few words, more to please her mother than because she thought her gran was actually listening. She'd felt incredibly stupid… just as she did now, trying to write a letter to a dead woman.
At least she'd loved her grandmother. That and her mother's insistence had at least made her want to try; Bellatrix was someone she was glad was dead, someone who deserved far worse than the quick and painless death Molly Weasley had given her, someone who—
Knowing she wasn't at all doing what Walt had instructed them to do but not really caring very much given that no one was ever going to read it, Hermione began writing.
Dear Bellatrix Evil bitch,
My mind healer says I need to forgive you in order to move on and have a happy life again. Fuck that. My life is just peachy now, thank you very much. However, maybe by the time I'm through telling you exactly what I think of you and conveying just how truly thrilled I am that the world has been freed of you and your rotten snaggleteeth, I'll have a bit more room for forgiveness.
You tried to break me. You hoped that by carving this ridiculous slur into my skin that I'd somehow learn my place, but that didn't happen at all. You're gone, cursed into oblivion by a Weasley, no less—I'm sure that's just salt in the wound for you. I'd call it poetic justice, but for that to be true, she really should have tortured you a bit first… maybe sliced PSYCHO across your arm as well? I digress. You're dead, and I'm still here, hailed as a fucking hero in the world you thought I didn't even deserve to be in. Joke's on you, I suppose.
I was told to try and sympathize for you, to come to terms with whatever horrible upbringing led you to make the decisions you made. Well, I say that's bullshit. There were three Black sisters and somehow only you turned out as a complete and total psychopath. I stared into your eyes and I saw nothing there at all. Whatever shred of humanity that may have been in you at some point in your life was dead and gone by the time we ended up on that Manor floor together. I have no sympathy for you whatsoever.
That being said, I do forgive you. Not because I want to or even because I was told that I need to, but because I know nothing would piss you off more than to hear me say it. So, I forgive you. Also, fuck you, and I hope you burn in hell.
Oh, and by the way, I'm fucking your nephew.
May the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black forever be tainted by my filthy hands on his Pureblood cock.
Good riddance,
Hermione
She sat her pen down and read over what she'd just written. When she finished, a bark of laughter rang out in the room as she realized the absurdity of the letter and the ridiculous blush on her cheeks from that last line she'd written.
Wow, she thought. It wasn't a forgiveness letter at all, but truth be told, she did feel better. Even if it wasn't what they'd been assigned to do, she thought there was certainly something to be said for complete and total honesty, even if that honesty was rejoicing over someone's death.
Maybe at some point in her life, she would be able to think back on Bellatrix—and Greyback for that matter, though she wasn't even going to attempt that letter just yet; she was in a great mood, and she didn't want to risk ruining it now—and actually be able to muster a bit of forgiveness, but that day was not today.
She sat up, glancing over the letter in front of her one more time before pulling her wand out. She took a deep breath, holding it in for a second before exhaling through her mouth. With the flick of her wrist and a barely muttered "Incendio," a small flame appeared in the center of the paper, spreading outward in a line of bright orange that left only crumbling, charred parchment in its wake. Another flourish of her wand and the ash and remaining bits of paper disappeared from the desk altogether, leaving just a dark smudge on the mahogany, one that was easily wiped away by the sleeve of her trainer.
She smiled to herself as she stood. She knew there was a metaphor there, something about the ease of clearing away the stain of her trauma, but instead of focusing on it, she walked away from her desk in search of Draco. She hoped his letter writing had been just as productive as hers, a smile spreading across her face at the idea that maybe his had featured something equally as scandalous as hers.
She found him at his own desk, folding a letter up and placing it inside his shirt pocket.
"How'd it go?" she asked, folding one leg beneath her on his bed as she sat down.
He gave a noncommittal hum to accompany his shrug. "Well, it wasn't exactly fun. Yours?"
She contemplated this for a second before answering. "Mine actually was, but I'm sure insulting the one we're meant to be forgiving isn't what Walt had in mind."
"Why didn't I think of that?" He sat down beside her on the bed before lying back, his legs hanging off the bed at the knee as he stared up at the ceiling. "I'm going back to Mungo's tonight. I haven't been in two days, and I do feel better about the whole situation now. I think I really should be there for my mother. That being said," he turned his gaze on her as she looked down at him, "I think you should stay here and enjoy the party. I'm not much of a Halloween sort of person either way."
She suddenly realized that, with everything going on, she hadn't even considered what she'd wear. "Are you sure? I don't even have a costume or anything. I honestly hadn't even thought about it."
"I'm sure. I'm fairly certain I've never worn a costume… unless you count Death Eater robes, of course."
She winced, shaking her head at his gallows humor, as she turned to lay down beside him, copying his position. "I meant, 'Are you sure you don't want me to go?' Also, if that's your idea of a costume, you really aren't a Halloween sort of person."
"What? You don't think anyone would appreciate that? Mine have certainly been destroyed by now, but there's a good chance my father has some hidden somewhere around the Manor."
"If you show up in Death Eater robes, Walt may make you stay for another twelve weeks actually… or kick you out altogether."
"This therapy clearly isn't working for you," he said, emulating Walt's American accent.
"It isn't you, it's…us?" she suggested with a laugh.
"That's your American accent?" He couldn't contain his chuckle as he rolled over to face her. "That's atrocious."
"Luckily, I didn't intend on being Walt for Halloween," she said haughtily. "You, on the other hand, have a great American accent. Maybe you could be Paul."
The smug grin he'd been wearing at her compliment fell from his face, an unamused scowl taking its place.
Trying desperately to hold her smirk at bay, she rubbed salt in the wound. "I know how much you liked him after all. I'm sure he'd be flat—" Her words were cut off by a squeak of surprise as Draco rolled onto her, his knees bracketing her hips and his hands pinning her wrists on either side of her head.
"Awfully bold of you to casually bring up another man while you're lying in my bed." His eyes flashed dangerously, but the hint of a mischievous grin was just visible at the corner of his mouth.
"I'm not afraid of you," she said, lifting an eyebrow back at him. It wasn't a lie. The pounding in her heart had nothing to do with fear; there was something about this position, trapped beneath his hips and completely at his mercy that was a huge turn-on. Obviously, she couldn't let him win so easily.
"No?" He lifted her arms, restraining them both in one large hand above her head while his other hand started beneath the hem of her shirt. Heat pooled in her abdomen as his hand rose, pausing just beneath the elastic of her bra when he hesitated, the arrogant expression on his face faltering momentarily as he asked, "Is this okay?"
Her nod immediately brought his smirk back before he dipped his head, his lips sucking a spot just above her collarbone a bit more forcefully than his normal nips at her skin. That paired with the vulnerability of the position they were in—her complete relinquishing of control but knowing he would never take advantage of it—had her arching her hips into his.
"If I knew you were going to mark your territory, I would have said something before now," she said breathlessly, only vaguely aware of what was coming out of her mouth, but his palm on her breast and his teeth grazing dangerously against her throat immediately stilled.
Was that too far? she thought. She didn't think he was actually bothered by her bringing up Paul, but now, his attention stilling above her, she began to second guess. But when he pulled his head up to look down at her, his eyes were just as lusty as before, smoldering intently into hers.
"Is that what you are?"
Her brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"
"Mine."
His gaze was electric, sparking electricity straight through her, and she never wavered as she said, "Yes."
Just as she pulled him back down for a kiss, a knock sounded on his bedroom door. He huffed across her throat, dropping his forehead down onto the mattress just above her shoulder.
"Fuck, I hate it here," he muttered under his breath before lifting his head to yell, "Potter, I swear to Merlin if that's you—"
"It's not." Susan's muffled voice cut through the closed door.
At least it wasn't Harry, but it also didn't do much to alleviate his frustration. Begrudgingly, he stood and adjusted his trousers, but as he noticed her expression of barely suppressed giggles, he stopped long enough to mock her laughter at his expense. "Oh ha ha ha, I'm glad this is so hilarious for you."
His thin-lipped frustration only served to fuel her humor further, but she covered her mouth with her hands, knowing it wasn't nearly as funny as she thought it was.
He opened the door, shaking his head at her in the process. "This just came for you," Susan said, and though Hermione couldn't see her face, she could see the folded slip of parchment she slipped into his hand.
Hermione watched as he looked down at the paper in his hands and then back up at Susan once before unfolding it. Whatever it was must've been short, because it only took him a half a second to mumble a "thank you" before closing the door and walking back to the bed in a daze, the folded paper held limply at his waist in front of him.
He sat down beside her on the bed, running his other hand through his hair, as he dropped the parchment into her lap.
Sloppily written across the paper, clearly by a rushed hand, were only two words.
He's awake.