Over the following weeks, Draco and Hermione fell into something of a routine.
Every Sunday evening they would complete their rounds together, sometimes in silence, sometimes chatting aimiably, gradually getting to know one another better. Hermione learned that Draco had a mean sweet tooth. She'd laughed so hard at his stories of trying to sneak into the mansion kitchens as a child to steal chocolate, cakes, sweets, even raw sugar, only to be foiled every time by his mother. Draco learned that Hermione's favourite book was Pride and Prejudice, written by a Muggle author. She'd leant him her much loved, very battered copy, and he would never confess to her about the tears that had prickled his eyes as Mr Darcey admitted his faults to Elizabeth.
Every Monday, they would work through another nightmare. They both remained exhausted, as each of them continued to battle new memories, new dreams that had been given the space to surface now that they had started to address their problems. But they also noticed that it was easier to fall asleep now, and that they were waking less frequently.
They grew more confident with the memory spell, more comfortable observing each others' distress. Draco watched Hermione erase her parents memories, watched her relive the moment they believed Harry to be dead, watched her stand at Dumbledore's graveside. In turn, Hermione watched Draco cowering under his father's cane, watched him writhe in pain on the bathroom floor from Harry's curse, watched him enter the Ministry to await his trial. Every Monday, after their sessions were over and before going to bed, they would sit on the sofa, side by side, holding hands in silence. It was with unspoken understanding that they took this time to gain comfort from each other.
Every Tuesday evening, they would sit together and discuss the memories that they had diminished the night before. They cried together, and reassured one another that it was working, encouraging each other to continue. And each would go to bed that night, feeling a little more confident in what they were doing together, for each other.
The nights in between these structured evenings were harder. To distract herself from her impatience to work on her nightmares, Hermione once again turned to reading. And, to her suprise, so did Draco. He had staggered through the entrance to their common room the night after they'd first shared their stories, his arms laden with books and scrolls. She'd laughed as he juggled the objects in his arms, cursing softly, and got up from her usual spot to help him. Together, they'd dumped the books onto their shared studying table, and he'd thanked her breathlessly as he wiped sweat from his brow. She beamed up at him, then looked down at the title of the closest book. Her heart skipped.
'101 Magical Cures, Healing and Reversal Spells'
She had looked up at him quickly, and found him watching her, his eyes defiant, ready to shout down any protests she might come up with. But none came. Instead of trying to fight him, like she might have done before they began this journey together, she just gave him a watery smile and headed back to her sofa. Once there, she had looked at him over the top of her book, watching through her eyelashes as he separated his books into piles, then grabbed the nearest one and sank down into his chair, already engrossed in the first page. She hadn't doubted him, but his commitment to his promise touched her.
It didn't take long for him to want to start trying some of the spells and methods he was researching. And so, another factor was added to their routine. Every Wednesday, Draco would collect the notes he'd made from various books, and they would sit together on Hermione's sofa as he waved both his wand and his hand over her arm, chanting various incantations and growing visably frustrated when nothing he tried made the slightest difference.
'Almost as stubborn as you, that thing,' he complained one night when he'd exhausted all of the spells from another of his books. His comment earned him a sharp jab in the ribs. But, true to his word, he hadn't given up. Just added the failed book to the growing pile of failed books, grabbed a new one from the teetering piles on the table and began over again. It was easier to throw himself into, now that he didn't have a constant headache and was getting more than 2 hours of broken sleep each night.
Hermione was starting to improve, as well. She had maintained her end of the deal and was continuing to eat three times a day. She regained the weight she'd lost, which made her distracting curves all the more obvious to Draco. The purple shadows under her eyes had reduced somewhat, and she started to walk more upright again. She had stopped taking the pain draft, instead opting to practice the pain relieving spell he'd shown her. When she felt her pain build, she would press her palm to her side, her neck, her thigh, her arm, and the purple glow would spread, the magic tingling below her skin and the pain easing. The more she practiced, the faster it went away. Three weeks after he'd first shown her the spell, she barely needed to wait 5 seconds for it to take effect. And gradually, she found that she could go for longer periods of time before needing to use it again. She was healing.
There was another change happening within their quarters. For some reason, they had started to find small ways to surreptitiously touch each other.
The first time it had happened, Draco had laid a hand on her shoulder as he leaned over the back of her sofa to read an interesting passage she'd been describing from her book on Arithmancy. She'd jumped, and almost jerked away in automatic reaction to being touched by Malfoy, but she'd reminded herself that he wasn't Malfoy anymore. At least, not how she'd known him. But he'd felt her flinch, and he had released her shoulder quickly, hiding the hurt her reaction caused as she looked up at him apologetically. He didn't try to touch her again that week.
Hermione noticed that he began to distance himself from her slightly after that. Whereas before he would stand close to her as they talked, or crouch by her sofa to show her a potential spell he'd found, or walk close by her side on their rounds, he was now leaving a decent gap between them at all times. And on the following Monday, after their session of memory work, he made no attempt to take her hand in his. Hermione's tired brain worked through all of this, and she worried. Worried that this could be damaging to the fine balance that they were working towards. Worried that he might think that she was just using him for the spells and the comfort.
This last thought had confused her slightly. That's what they were doing, right? At least that's what they had agreed. But when she looked at him, sat next to her on the sofa, looking worn out and a little guarded, she had realised that no, that wasn't all this was about. Not anymore. She had started to trust Malfoy, to rely on him. To need him. This epiphany caused her heart to race and break at the same time. She was confused by her feelings, but at least she knew that she didn't want him to think that she still hated him, after all this time.
So, she had silently taken his long, pale hand in her small, warm one, and had wound her fingers between his, holding tight. He had looked down at their hands for a long time before he looked up at her questioningly. She smiled shyly at him, and slumped back into the sofa, pulling their hands into her lap and playing with his knuckles with her free hand. She heard him swallow hard, and out of the corner of her eye she watched him wipe at his eyes briefly. And when he'd squeezed her hand, she couldn't deny the slight shiver it sent through her body.
Thus began the game. The game of finding any small reason, any excuse to make contact, to feel that indescribable electricity, that unspoken connection between them. Draco would offer his hand to her at the portrait hole, feigning an indifferent air of simply being a gentleman assisting a lady. Hermione would brush against him as they walked along the corridors together, always apologising and smiling up at him. He would place his hand softly on the small of her back as they both leaned over the study table, examining healing spells together. She would playfully swat at him when he teased her.
Over the weeks, the touches gradually became less inconspicuous, less excusable. His hand started to linger on her back, even after she'd straightened from reading the texts. She stopped apologising for bumping into him. Their fingers would meet more frequently as they passed books and notes between them. And with each touch, tension built within both of them, leading to prolonged glances, furtive yet appraising stares, and desperate evenings alone.
Hermione had been surprised at herself, the first time she had touched herself with the thought of Draco Malfoy's hands on her. But after that first intial foray, she found it almost impossible not to try and break the building frustration inside her every night, especially as the static between them grew with each touch. Gradually, her fantasies developed, and she started to imagine how it would feel to have those long pale fingers stroking her neck, winding into her hair, tracing patterns on the insides of her thighs, stroking her centre, delving deep inside her.
Every night she would try to resist, to push away the thoughts, but every night she found herself flat on her back in her bed, one hand in her already damp knickers, desperately seeking relief as the Draco in her mind spoke dirty words to her in that commanding tone of his. She would imagine him watching her as she played with herself, as she circled and pinched at her clit and her nipples, encouraging her, telling her what to do to herself for his pleasure. And every time she would rub herself to completion, her free hand over her own mouth to stifle her cries, her walls desperately clutching at nothing, her need only sated for a short time.
In the chambers across the common room from hers, similar frustration was growing. At the end of every day, Draco would step into his bathroom and turn the shower to a blistering heat, hoping it would distract him. He would step out of his clothes, trying to ignore the wet patches on his boxers and the relief he felt as he finally freed his almost constantly semi-erect member. He would step into the shower, and the water would distract him momentarily, but it wouldn't take long before his mind drifted back through the day, highlighting all of the times they'd made contact. He would think about how soft her skin was, how delicate her slender fingers were. He would see her eyes, dancing with mirth or mischief. Or brazen, taunting, defiant. Like she was daring him.
His resolve would break at the memory of that look. His imagination turned against him. He saw her looking at him like that as she knelt at his feet, and he could almost feel her hair between his fingers, his thick hard cock between her full, pink lips. He would stiffen instantly, almost painfully, as he imagined guiding her, telling her what to do, feeling her clench around him as he fucked her and called her Princess and told her of all the filthy things he wanted to do to her gorgeous body. He would brace one forearm against the tiles in front of him, resting his forehead against it, and grasp himself firmly, pumping up and down his length fast and hard as he imagined pressing her up against those same tiles, water spilling down her face, her breasts, her curves as he ploughed into her, making her cry his name. His first name. And at this, he would grunt, his hips snapping involuntarily, painting the wall in front of him with copious strings of his thick, white release. After a few long, deep breaths, he would rinse himself and the tiles with the shower head before pulling on fresh boxers and heading to bed, already semi-erect once again.
Neither was ready to address the thing that was growing silently between them. Both had been hurt, both feared rejection. But above all, both silently dreaded the potential loss of their partner in working towards their initial mutual goal, to rid themselves of their nightmares. And so, they carried on, pretending they didn't notice the other watching them, pretending they didn't feel it when the sparks between them became more insistent with each physical contact, pretending they didn't think of the other in their most intimate moments alone.
