She glanced over her shoulder at the doors, carefully closed and warded to alert her if anyone snuck in. She knew he wouldn't, he wasn't even in the Manor, but —
— she didn't want to be disturbed.
Didn't want to ruin the surprise, or get his hopes up, or —
or dash your own.
Returning to the books open and spread across the surrounding worktables, Hermione surveyed her progress. She'd been working on the project for weeks, stealing away to the library in every spare second. Which was difficult, when strapping and curious blonds lurked around every corner and showed genuine interest in her activities. Frustrating. She'd also used her final days at the Ministry, instead of finalizing her reports and properly cleaning out her office, to sneak down to the Department of Mysteries and make copies of every conceivably useful word. She found she cared more about what lay in the future than neatly wrapping up her past.
And all those records, when combined with Malfoy's weepably comprehensive collection, had given her what she needed.
She thought. Probably. She was mostly sure. Could be sure — if only she had time by herself to work on it. Time between meals, and kisses, and nights out. Between the cottage, and his birthday, between Harry's wedding and autumn's cold snap. Between all that had happened in the months since spring. But progress had been made. Hermione was so close, she could practically taste it. Feel it, in that beautiful space.
That space, that perfect place, she'd quickly grown to love. A fantasy come to life. Rainbow lights on the carpets and a cloudy blue ceiling and dark shelves stretching in all directions. A roaring fire keeping it all warm. A place meant for solving problems, for learning. For . . . fixing what was started.
As she worked, though, she found her mind — when she needed it sharpest — drifting.
Drifting back to May. To the day they'd left the cottage. Wherever you go, I go. The cave. Wherever I am, there you'll be. In hindsight she suspected that it had been harder on Draco, that she'd moved so quickly. They'd apparated each other to the hidden place between the light pole and the trash can. He kept a very firm hand on her elbow when he escorted her across the street. And there he'd stayed, pacing among the Muggles, while Hermione went inside. She'd even poked her head out of the window while she packed, confirming that he remained, that the bright blond was on the pavement below. Waiting.
Pack she had, like a fiend. Toiletries, notebooks, her jewelry box. Tales of Beedle the Bard, the blanket Ginny had given her for her birthday, a random assortment of jumpers and knickers and pajamas and dresses and shoes. Her green robe. The photograph with her parents. Round-cheeked with bitty teeth and her hair in ribbons.
When she'd gathered what she needed, she stopped. Hermione Granger, weathered knapsack over her shoulder and stuffed with the essential items of her life, paused at the door and turned back to survey her flat. Afternoon sun filtered through the thin white curtains, casting the living room in a peaceful glow. The light flickered with the movement of the treetops outside. Pretty. A view she treasured, a sight she'd been so proud of, a place that had supported her through some of the hardest years and loneliest times of her life. It was tidy as ever, set to rights and emptied of many of her favorite things. Smiling at the orderly state of it all, she shut the door. Goodbye.
Draco practically crashed into her when she stepped out of her building, brow furrowed. "Are you alright?"
"Yes." She let him take her knapsack. And her hand.
He pretended to stagger beneath the weight. "Gods, does this have every fucking book in it?"
"No," she laughed. "I'll have several more trips to make. But I brought the essentials. Enough to get me through a week or two before I come back for another load."
"I wish I could help you. I could send the elves if you'd like." He sounded pained, guilty. "Or maybe you should put it off. See how you feel. In a month or two you might regret —"
She stopped him among the stream of Londoners, none of whom noticed. "I want to do it myself," she said. "There's a comfort in it. I want to sort through it all, keep what I need and give away what I can. It's not every day a witch leaves solitude behind. I think if I take my time I may even enjoy this transition."
"You love that flat."
The way he said it — he loved her flat even more than she did. It had been a place, for him, of refuge. Well. He has your arms now. And she intended to follow him with those wherever he went.
"I told you it was an easy trade," and she leaned into his side.
"Do you want to go anywhere else first?" he asked. "Diagon Alley? A walk in the park?"
But she didn't. "Just the Manor." And moments later, there it was. She stood before the gates, iron serpents twisting in the sun — Sanctimonia Vincet Semper — and made sure she didn't frown while Draco opened them. When she walked through she kept her eyes on the house, white and stark against the green of the lawn. Pure. But if that was the price for the man beside her, well — he was worth it.
They had walked up the long drive slowly. Draco clutched her fingers in his as he opened the front door with a creak. The foyer was empty, silent. He seemed almost ashamed of it as he set her knapsack down. "What shall we do first?"
"I suppose I should find places for my things. And I imagine —"
He turned in a circle, frowning at the high ceilings and fabulous moldings.
"Did you miss it?"
"I missed things about it. The cellars and my bed and —"
"Master!"
"Kirby."
The elf fell upon them, eyes wide and watery, welcoming them both with shock and delight. He was so engaging, so enthusiastic, that Draco seemed to forget that he was upset. They were chatting about Narcissa — "your mother remains in Provence, she sent an owl just yesterday to say she's going to spend the summer" — and the house — "we've just done the spring cleaning, you shan't find a speck of dust or I'll be flayed!" — and Draco's freedom. "So good to have you home, sir."
"Yes," he agreed, staring at Hermione.
"And will Miss Granger be needing a room made up?" Ears wiggled.
"No," she answered softly, staring right back. "I shan't."
When the elf had flitted away with plans for meal preparations — "all your favorites, Master, and none of us will hear any different!" — Draco led her by the hand.
Led her on a tour of the house that she'd seen mostly through his memories. Through the ball and dining and morning rooms. Through the cellars, which smelled pleasantly of well-aged things, and avoiding the kitchens lest he be distracted by a chorus of welcomes from the elves. Through the parlors — and when they got to his favorite she stopped. Circled the room. Hermione took a seat in the middle of the couch, his favorite sofa, a lovelier world in the late afternoon. Draco smirked and took up a position by the mantle.
"Accio whisky," he said, and filled the tumbler.
Lifted it in her direction, a silent cheers, and sipped —
and his eyes glinted over the glass. He watched her with hunger and satisfaction and something in him changed.
Looking at her, he was a man — one who knew what he wanted.
A man who would take his witch through his house, to his room when he was ready.
Who would put her on, in, his bed.
A man who knew what to do with her, how to get her wet and willing, how to make her body feel unspeakable things.
Hermione shivered under his gaze.
That was exactly what he did.
She'd never forget it, smiling in the library at the memory as she scratched her notes out on fresh parchment, her quill flying as fast as the ideas.
That first night at the Manor he'd led her from the parlor, her hand in his big one, his steps sure and swift and confident. She felt his desire in his walk and his posture and his swagger and she'd hurried, eager, to keep up. When they walked down the long hallway to the door at the end, when he revealed the space she'd seen from his mind — a massive fireplace beneath his family crest and a silly-big portrait of his parents, a bed out of dreams, and windows overlooking the grounds — she laughed while he kicked the door shut behind him.
"Do you hate it?" Draco had asked, coming to stand behind her after he clicked the lock.
He leaned into her body, running a finger over her neck. Kissed its path.
"It'll just . . . take some getting used to." Due to the size, and the grandeur, and the location.
"You can change it." His mouth was on her ear, the hot air fanning what his eyes in the parlor had already ignited. "Change anything." His hand was on her hip. "Pick a different room, burn it all down." It was — she was — already burning, twisting her body so he'd have all the access he wanted. "I don't care."
"I like it, Draco. It's beautiful."
He'd nodded into her skin, reacquainting himself with the place he liked to mark. And when everything was tingling, he dragged her to the bed, stripped her clothes off, and remade his bruise.
He'd meandered down her body and tasted her while the sun shone down — bright light on white sheets, and his bright hair in her fingers while he worked on her. While she came, back arched and thighs over his shoulders. Then he returned to her head, his arms around it and his face against her temple. His cock found its place, and slid true. "Do you feel that?" he whispered. "How it fits?"
"Yes."
She couldn't quite say more as he lay himself over her, as he adjusted her legs and relaxed in her arms and rested his chest against hers. Hermione wrapped herself around, a tool for his pleasure and therefore her own. His movements were slow, and when she lifted her face toward his for a kiss his eyes were open.
How he must feel —
When he came, when he shuddered into her, one hand pressed firmly on her belly and the other propping himself up, she watched as he bit his lip, as he fought to stay quiet. As he fought the natural contortion of his face.
He covered her carefully with the duvet. He tucked her in.
Stretched out beside her.
Hermione rolled into him, her head on his shoulder in the place beneath his jaw.
She laid her arm across his chest — touching him — and Draco held her hand.
He played with her fingers, and she marveled at it.
At the pressure of their skin, a new warmth between them, and his neat nails and the loveliness of the room.
Their room.
Hermione appreciated his offer but she didn't want a different room. She'd seen how he dreamed of her in that one. Seen what it meant to him, his eyes flashing the first time he laid her down in his bed. She'd watched in real time as Draco made himself a memory —
Her quill scratched terribly across the parchment, black ink splashing.
Boggarts have been known to strengthen
Damn the gods, that wouldn't work. She crossed out the spell she'd been drafting and wrote a better idea beneath.
— and she hadn't wanted to interrupt it. Him. So she'd changed things over the summer, yes — but slowly, letting herself live in it first. Making sure she wasn't doing it just to throw her weight around. Draco's words had echoed back at her in those early days —
"You could have asked anything of me — anything — and I would have done it."
— she didn't want to abuse the privilege.
The first and only thing she truly insisted upon was an easy sell.
"Malfoy?"
"Hmm." They'd been having a lie in on a Saturday morning. She was sipping her coffee, a book propped in her lap. He dozed on his stomach, head flopped on his arm. When on his home pitch it turned out Draco was perfectly comfortable taking up the vast majority of the bed, and his appendages sprawled brazenly. Hermione had contemplated going to explore his library, but wanted to wait for him to wake up and get her hot and bothered first. It wasn't every weekend she found herself in bed with a man who smelled of sleep and looked like him. "You don't have to call me that anymore," he said sleepily.
"I'll always call you Malfoy. Especially when I'm cross."
"What have I done now?"
"Draco," she corrected. Not cross. "I do have something to change."
He didn't even open his eyes. "The awful painting of me and my parents from when I was ten?" It hung over the mantle, their lips curled and brows haughty. Who is this Mudblood intruder? in their expressions.
"Um. Yes?"
"Consider it gone. I've meant to bin it for years." He threw a possessive arm heavily over her lap. She barely had time to move her mug out of the way.
"I'm surprised that, ah, prior ladies didn't mind it."
His forearm flexed, a pleasant weight on her middle. "No one else has ever been here."
Oh. Hermione smiled triumphantly. Perhaps she needn't wait for him to wake up. Setting her book aside, she reached for his body.
Draco smirked, his voice rough from sleep. "Liked that, did you?"
"Mmm hmm." She pushed the sheets aside so she could see his back. Kissed his neck, making a mark of her own. And his shoulders.
He was awake then, rolling over and pulling her on top, pushing her pajamas off, broad warm hands running down her spine and over her breasts and through her hair. "Pretty."
"Which part, specifically?"
"You, in my bed, in the morning."
"Our bed."
He played with her until she was thoroughly mussed and decidedly unbothered, and had forgotten all about the ugly portrait. In any event, it was gone by Monday, replaced with a lovely grey-sky landscape of the moors.
She soon came to realize that was how he dealt with things. Draco seemed so surprised and appreciative of her constant presence in his life that he never argued with her. He preferred to concede whatever point she raised and then kiss her senseless.
In fact, sometimes she tried to provoke him just to feel the tinge of butterflies she had gotten, before. Before, in her flat or in the cave, or on the street outside the builder's house in Hutton-le-Hole. "You argue with me frequently, on all manner of topics," he'd said. Which was true, Hermione did.
But he didn't.
"I think I'd like to cut my curls short," she said one day in the bathroom. He stood beside her, applying his woodsy cologne and fiddling with the collar of his shirt. One of the most entertaining parts of spending so much time together was that she got an inside view into the care he put into his appearance. Draco was quite dedicated to being put together at all times. Sometimes she thought he fussed with his hair more than she did with hers.
He jerked his head and glared at her. "Why in Merlin's name would you do that?"
She shrugged. "It's so long."
He moved to it, running his hands up to grip the back of her neck, drawing her close. "And?"
"Might be good to have a change."
"No."
"Malfoy! It's my body."
He scowled. "Fine." But something passed across his eyes and his expression changed a moment later. "You'll be fit as fuck no matter what. I'm just used to you this way. I'll adjust."
Then he pulled her into his arms and showed her how fit he thought she was.
Hermione wasn't actually going to cut her hair — she was overly fond of how he tugged it when they were in bed together and how he played with it when she rested her head in his lap. How his eyes lit up when she emerged from the bathing room and her curls were fresh and shining. She had simply wanted to see how he'd react. It was odd, a bit — in the life she'd dreamed of, believed in, she always assumed they would argue more.
"Was I annoying tonight?" she asked a few weeks later. They were walking to the apparition point from a dinner out. It had served as Draco's reunion with Blaise and Theo. The conversation had been light at first, carefully un-Serious. Hermione found herself filling some of the quiet, asking Blaise about his business ("Good, yeah. I recently met with Longbottom, bloke knows his stuff.") and his fiancée ("You'll like her, I'll bring her along next time.") and Theo about his travels ("None," he'd said politely. "Haven't had the urge these past few months.").
They all seemed subdued.
Until Theo caved. "You heard anything from Potter, Hermione? About the charges against Carrow and . . . his associates? Or, um, their sentences?" He drained his drink and licked his lips nervously.
Draco sighed. "Let's leave that for another time, mate. She's not an auror —"
"I have to know, Malfoy. What to expect." Theo glared at him. "Must be nice to have her here with you, in your bed each night. I've no such comfort."
Hermione interrupted, a hand on Draco's thigh beneath the table. Let her talk. "Harry resigned, as you know. But I've heard, yes. Carrow will get several years —" Theo closed his eyes and tilted his head back — "and so will Macnair and the Karkaroffs. But, ah," she glanced at Draco for approval and he nodded slightly. "Tony Dolohov is expected to be released soon. Time served. All he did was blow up a couple of tents."
Theo blinked rapidly, green eyes jumping between her and Draco. "Soon?"
"By the end of the year, I expect."
"Oh." He shifted in his seat. "I see."
Blaise poured him some more wine and lifted his own glass. "Shall we toast to the future, lady and gents?"
Draco joined, trying to be supportive. "To the winds of change and nights yet to come."
"Thank you for having me," Hermione smiled.
Three glasses, waiting for Nott. He looked among them, shoulders sagging with visible relief. And then he lifted his too. "To Draco Malfoy, though he won't agree. Without him, this would be a very different story."
"Here here," Blaise said, and they clinked before Draco could argue.
He seemed to be replaying it in his head while they walked. Contemplating how annoying she'd been. Quiet for long enough that she thought he was going to say yes, Granger, that's the last time I bring you out with my friends. But eventually he bumped her with his shoulder. "No."
"You must feel like I talked too much."
"Saved me from having to do it."
"Perhaps I got too chummy with Zabini."
"Nah, he's besotted with his American." He shuddered.
"I probably shouldn't have been so brazen with Theodore about Dolohov —"
"You were perfect," he said, in that tone that indicated he was at present less-than-impressed with her intelligence.
"But —"
Draco stilled her, aligning her so she was directly in front of him — forced to look up into his face, which was incredulous. "You seem like you want me to be annoyed."
"I just thought —" She paused. "I never seem to irritate you anymore."
He blushed, perhaps the ruddiest she'd ever seen his cheeks. "Whenever I've seemed irritated, it's because I was ashamed of myself — not upset with you."
She snorted. "You put on a pretty good show."
They kept walking, but she could sense that he was troubled.
In bed that night he pulled her to him and she said she was sorry, but she was having her witch times.
"Can I . . . help you?" he offered, guileless. "In case you haven't noticed, I have a very large tub just a few feet away and I've been hoping to put it to use."
"Will you let me return the favor if I get in it?"
He hid his face from her, suddenly interested in their surroundings. "You're the one who doesn't feel well."
Another excuse. "I don't need help tonight." Always an excuse. "Not like that. Tomorrow, maybe. But . . . you can hold me."
Hold her he did. He ran his fingers lightly over her abdomen, low where the cramps stung, until she fell asleep.
In the morning she found a bundle with a note on the sink. I expect these back. On loan, only. He'd left her his old joggers — her favorite joggers — and his jumper with the little silver snake.
When he found her wearing them, feet curled beneath her and sipping a hot tea, he leaned back, arms crossed, and evaluated her carefully. Eyes narrowed and lips pursed.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Memorizing."
"You'd better, because these are mine now." Flirty. "You can see them once a month, when I need them."
He didn't argue.
It began to worry her, their lack of conflict. She asked Ginny about it when they met at the dress robes shop. Ginny, who was engrossed in the wedding and the move to Hogwartsand whether she would fall pregnant slightly before or in the immediate aftermath. Gin, who glowed with vigor and happiness and hopes.
"Gin, do you and Harry fight?"
Ginny laughed as she turned her body in the mirror, examining the fit at her hips. "Of course we fight. We fight, like, once a day." She thought for a moment. "Well, we disagree. I guess we don't really fight, depending on how you define it. But I'm sure we will, when we're exhausted from babies and work. Everyone fights."
"Malfoy and I don't."
Whirling around to stare at her, Ginny frowned. "You fight all the time."
"Not anymore. Not since Lucius died and I moved into the Manor."
"I don't understand. Not about anything?"
Hermione sighed. "Nothing. When I want to play chess, we play chess, when I'm tired, we sleep. If I say I'm working late he says fine and waits up with dinner. I told him on a Friday morning that I thought it might be nice to have a getaway, and he Floo'd us to Milan that very afternoon. When I mentioned I needed more space for my things he emptied the closet of his clothes by the next night. It's — I don't get it."
"I attribute all that to being posh, friend. Have you tried insulting him? That's when it gets tricky." Ginny turned back to her reflection, eyebrows raised knowingly. "Tell him you don't like something he did in bed, watch his hackles rise. You'll get your fight then."
But Hermione did like everything he did in bed. Draco worshipped her. Spent hours on her, making her come with his hands, his tongue, his cock. In fact, there was only one thing he wouldn't do . . . .
Of course. I never would have let you do that, he'd said.
"Thanks, Gin."
Her reminisces were interrupted by the tinkling of the ward she'd set and the arrival of an elf. An elf staggering beneath an enormous tray. "Time for tea, Miss."
"That's kind, Kirby, but I'm —"
"Going to eat, Master Malfoy's orders. 'Don't let her forget while she's rummaging about in the library,' that's what he said."
She smiled while he arranged it, helping by moving some of her heavy texts out of the way.
"He'll be home soon, Miss. What are your plans for the holiday tonight?"
"It shan't concern you, Kirby. Remember? You're off."
Ears twitched. "The others are, but I'll —"
"Be gone. Away. Visiting family or friends or simply resting." He frowned, unconvinced, so she switched tacts. "Draco and I — we want the Manor to ourselves."
His eyes grew so big it was a struggle to maintain her composure. Her authoritative expression.
"I see," he said slowly.
"Goodbye, Kirby."
She had work to do. Turning back to the books — her task more urgent as the hours slipped away, as the time until Draco returned grew short — she flipped to the next page.
The magic of compulsive caverns is linked to the blood of the family —
Hours later, sunlight fading from the lovely tall windows, the pressure a weight in her chest, gods it has to work, she found it.
The spell she wanted.
Squealing, Hermione wrote it out.
Words —
Lovely words, old words, simple words.
— the words she hoped he'd . . . . She slammed the tome shut, and reshelved the dozens of books as quickly as she could.
And just in time.
He had returned.
She hurried out into the long hallway, past the bitterly quiet portraits — several of the more disobedient ones permanently muzzled — and rushed toward —
He climbed them two at a time, met her at the top of —
the stairs.
Draco opened his arms and so did she and they collided there, in the center, the heart, of the house.
"Granger."
"You're later than I thought." She lifted on her toes to kiss his cheek.
His lips.
"Shall we go and have a drink?" she offered. "I'd love some champs."
"Of course." His eyes sparkled, looking her over, comfortable in one of the sweet lounge sets that kept mysteriously appearing among her knickers. Cute, and tight in the right places, and soft. "I have a lot to tell you."
When they were settled on his favorite sofa, her feet in his lap and drinks in their hands, Draco spread his legs and leaned into the cushions and shook his head. "It's going to be harder than I thought."
"You didn't think you'd win him over in one go, did you?"
His expression distinctly conveyed that . . .
"Well — yeah. A bit."
"Draco, that's ridiculous. Of course not. It took a decade and a half for him to learn what he learned, to absorb the views that made Harry refer him to you. It's not going to dissipate in a day."
He frowned, looking sour. "I really thought my little speech was good."
It had been good. He'd let her read it, after she nearly resorted to begging. But he insisted that she not look at him, and that she not speak any part of it out loud. He paced while she held his strong slanted script, her heart pattering and her fingers trembling.
"What do you think?" he asked. His face was turned away.
"Would you like the good or the bad first?" Honesty. Transparency. Openness. Candor.
He turned on his heel and trod his path across the fine carpet. "The bad." One two three four —
"You dive into the substance very quickly. It comes off a little strong. If I may," she suggested gently, "you might want to lead with something personal. Perhaps an anecdote about your own upbringing, about your father."
Five six seven eight, turn. "Which one?"
"Lucius was hard on you about school, right?" Pansy at the Burrow. He was dreadful to his son, and Draco never even saw it. "That's something he can probably relate to, too."
"Hmm." One two three four. "What else? Tell me fast, Granger, I feel like I might be sick." Five six seven eight, turn.
"It's wonderful," she whispered, so softly he stopped and came to stand before her. Looming, worried and watching her closely. "Really, Draco." She blinked up into grey eyes, crinkled at the corners. Cheeks tinged pink. "The way you explain your past, your prior beliefs. The way you talk about Voldemort and his influence — and how you came to realize he was wrong. That his ilk was wrong. That Alonso Carrow was wrong." She handed his parchment back to him and he tucked it into a pocket. "The way you share your opinions on the Ministry without pandering. You acknowledge its flaws but also its import. The things you said about me and my parents."
I met a witch. And her family.
He'd brought yellow roses. Her mother had nearly swooned. Her father had clapped the handsome newcomer on the back, eyes flitting delightedly between him and his daughter.
I've seen her blood, and I promise you it's as red as ours.
Her scar, her witch times. His bath, his pool.
Her magic is just as strong as mine. Her magic is a wonder, a bridge between worlds. A gift from the fates who know better than us.
She dashed a tear from her cheek.
Hurting her was the worst thing I ever did — and in the atonement, the fix, I found a new path. A better one. Away from Lucius, far from the past, out of the dark.
"You think it'll work?" he'd asked. "Truly?"
"If that fails," she'd assured him, "tell him girls prefer wizards who won't end up in prison. That'll get him thinking."
Draco's fingers on her feet interrupted her reverie, working the muscles until she cooed. "— but the Crabbe lad was very skittish. When I saw him last year he was brimming with swagger, puffing his chest and challenging me about Carrow." A fucking child. Pretending to be Big, to be Grown.
"Feeling the weight of a world he doesn't even know yet," she supplied, remembering Draco's thoughts.
"Exactly."
"But you helped him learn it, today."
He sighed and sipped his whisky. "I tried." Balanced it on her leg. Hermione wiggled her painted toes, appreciating the scene. She reclined against pillows, her feet in his lap. They were comfortable, and close, and the fire was warm. They lounged on his favorite sofa in his favorite parlor. They had the house to themselves.
A sudden thought. "What did Harry say about it?" Harry, who had set it up.
Harry, who had asked for Draco's help.
"Potter thought it went well. Talked to the boy after, said he seemed different." Draco shrugged. "I'm to take him out for butterbeers after the winter holiday. Keep at him."
"That's lovely."
He glanced at her sideways. "I'm not sure it'll make any difference. His beliefs are entrenched. He hates the Ministry, thinks Professor Potter's corrupt and out to get him, sees a conspiracy around every corner —"
"For now," she smiled. You hold a unique position — bridger of worlds. "But I believe." Enough for them both.
"Hmm." He stared at the flames. "What did you do today?"
"Some reminiscing, actually." Hermione lifted her champagne to her lips. "Thinking about the past year."
"Tell me."
"About your birthday, for starters."
Staring at him, at his sharp, defined cheekbones and full lips and pale lashes — The harsh countenance of a man. The strong, lean body of a man. Narrow, grey eyes, older than his years — she recalled it.
She'd been determined to make it special, but it had been less than a month after his release. Just a few weeks after they returned from the cottage. A Monday, and she'd been back at work.
Work, which had been in an uproar. With Harry resigned, with Fowler Kennilson fired, with gossip running rampant, her Department needed her. She couldn't well skip it. She was winding down, to be sure — but she hadn't quit yet.
"I'm sorry," she'd said that morning, emerging from his bathing room in the dim of sunrise as she pinned her hair up. His bathroom — that ridiculous bathroom, gaudy and spacious and with so much counter space dedicated to Hermione's things. Their toothbrushes, together. She attached her earrings while he looked on and stepped into her highest heels. Her most flattering pencil skirt peeked out from under her open robes. A simple blouse that happened to button just above her cleav—
Draco had scrambled to sit up in bed — blinking, mouth open. That will get him panting. "What are you wearing?"
"This old outfit?" She glanced down at herself. "It's rather conservative."
"Throw on a pair of glasses and you'll have fulfilled a fantasy I didn't know I had." He didn't sound happy about it, exactly. "Will I get to unwrap you tonight?"
"I think we can arrange that." Hermione felt intensely guilty. Would it really be so bad to play hooky and spend the day together? But she had a meeting with Kingsley about Harry's replacement — "I hate to leave you, but I promise I have something planned."
He'd shrugged. "I rather dread my birthday. I'd be just as happy to ignore it."
"Well, we're not." She leaned over him and brushed their lips together, brief and promising. "Do something today you enjoy, alright? Quidditch with Theo or have lunch at your club."
"Hmm." He thumbed his mouth where she'd kissed it as he watched her go. "I'll look forward to tonight."
Hermione's big surprise had been two-fold, when she rushed to the Ministry Floos at the end of a terribly long day, determined not to let the exhaustion and mundanity of work politics ruin their night.
First . . . .
Narcissa met her in the foyer at exactly six o'clock. Returned from France for an evening. I cannot sleep in the Manor, she'd written. But she'd agreed to dinner.
"Miss Granger." She inclined her head gracefully, extending a hand for Hermione to clasp. "It's good to see you."
Draco appeared then at the top of the stairs, looking down at the witches in his life. And Hermione felt a little nervous, a little worried. He'd not smiled. If anything, his lips went tight. "Mother."
"Happy birthday, darling," Narcissa said. "I was invited," like she needed an excuse.
"We'll dine together," Hermione chirped, realizing suddenly that she'd been so focused on arranging the reunion at the appointed hour, she'd not considered what came after. The conversation. The tension.
But it wasn't her tension.
It was the tension between a mother, a widow returned to a house full of memories, a witch who had decades left and no idea, yet, how she'd fill them — and her son.
So Hermione excused herself. She had to change — she had a sundress that she knew he'd like, it flared perfectly at her waist and the straps crossed her collarbones — and pretend that the elves needed her supervision for dinner preparations.
She met them at the long table, an hour later, and she'd obviously missed something. Narcissa was at the foot, wiping her eyes, and Draco, at the head, looked vaguely ill. He stood and pulled out a chair — the chair at his right hand. He didn't comment on her dress. Didn't seem to notice Hermione at all, really, while he stared at his mother.
"Am I interrupting?"
"No," they said together.
So they shared a meal — his favorite hotpot — and good wine. Hermione asked Narcissa about France, and the house there, and Narcissa asked politely about Hermione's parents and whether they ever intended to serve meat again.
"I doubt it," Draco snapped.
After that, he barely spoke. He focused on his food.
Hermione itched to reach for him. But with his mother watching over them, picking at her plate, she restrained herself.
Finally, with a sigh, Narcissa set her napkin aside. "Miss Granger, have you ever heard the story of my son's birth?"
"You've not told me," Hermione said. Draco's fingers twitched around his glass. "I'd love to hear it."
"It was a hot day — the hottest of the summer." Narcissa glanced at the portrait of herself with Lucius, still over the fireplace. "I was resting in the garden, enjoying his kicks. He was always meant to be a Quidditch player."
"The best," Hermione agreed.
Draco snorted and drank.
"His father didn't know it, but I was experiencing the labor pains. I didn't want him to worry."
"That was kind of you," Hermione offered.
"I knew he'd be frantic when it was time." Narcissa dabbed at an eye, remembering. "And he was."
Silence descended. Narcissa stared at Draco. Draco looked at the ceiling —
Hermione laid a hand over his. Brushed his Dark Mark with her fingers.
— and then at his mother. "How did he find out?" he asked.
Narcissa smiled through her tears. "One of the elves snitched. There I was, enjoying a peaceful morning with a tea and sunshine . . . ."
By the time they said goodbye, in front of the Floo, Hermione risked an embrace. It was a sort of half hug, and Narcissa awkwardly patted her shoulder. "Thank you for having me."
"It's your home, Mother," said Draco crossly. "Stop acting like I've thrown you out. Like you've been replaced or you're an intruder. You're welcome here, always. Your rooms are untouched, your gardens await."
Narcissa sniffed and nodded. "I appreciate you saying —"
"I mean it," he snarled.
And pulled her into his arms. A firm, unyielding, smothering hold. His mother froze, stiff —
Breathe, Hermione.
— and relented. Manicured hands clutched at his back. Her face buried in his shoulder. Her tears on his shirt. "My darling," she whispered. "I miss you."
"You can even fuck with the paths," he said, a tremulous entreaty in his voice. Malfoy never begs for anything. But he was. "You can rearrange them to your heart's content, curving them every which way. Or tear them up and fill them with thistles."
Narcissa gasped. "I'd never." She looked up into his face. Laid a hand against his jaw. "But I'll keep you to that upon my return."
"When?" he asked softly.
She glanced at Hermione, who tried to smile in a way that erred on the side of enthusiastic accommodation instead of awkward grimace. It must have worked, because Narcissa promised her son. "Soon."
When she'd left and Draco had stared into the empty fireplace for a few moments, hands on his hips, Hermione decided it was time for his next surprise.
Second . . . .
She came up behind and hugged him tightly. "Have you ever had sex on your birthday?"
He laughed. "No, come to think of it. Dreamed of it, a time or twelve. Nothing a boy wants more from the age of fourteen to, oh —"
"Twenty six?"
He turned in her arms and smirked down at her. "Sounds about right. And have I shared my views on sundresses with you?"
"Sundresses?" She trailed her fingers along the low neckline. "I didn't think you noticed."
"Oh, I fucking noticed," he said, low and hungry. "The moment you strolled into that dining room I considered strongly whether my mother would mind if I dragged you atop that table and —"
"Stripped me?" She drew his fingers to the straps. To where they tied. "Wait until you see what's under this. I think it's time to run a comparable."
He took the hint.
Led her to bed, where he stood her in the middle of their room and circled her slowly. Tugged one knot loose — admired the full effect in another agonizingly slow arc — and then the other.
Shoved her hand away when she tried to take it off. "No."
"I'm ready to proceed," she whined.
But he made her wait, made her suffer. Undressed her so slowly she thought she might have some kind of mental orgasm just from his stare. He practically purred when he saw what was beneath —
Lingerie.
White, transparent, and lacy. The set lifted her tits and adorned the top of her arse with a bow.
Draco stripped himself down, at the sight of her, and knelt at her feet. Teased her cunt with a finger while she gripped his shoulder and begged for more.
"I'm the one who's meant to kneel," she yelped, when the first waves started. "That was part of your surprise."
He crowded her over to the bed and lay her on her stomach. Kneaded her backside and her thighs and bit where that silly bow ended. "I want to play with you. And if this is sweet I want sultry next year." He spread her legs wide with strong hands.
Next year.
It was the confidence in it that she loved. Next year.
Perhaps the sexiest thing he'd ever said.
Jolted from the memory, Hermione returned to the present. To his sofa, in his parlor. To her feet in his lap. To his lips, twisted like he was remembering too. They were snug between a crackling fire and an ostentatiously large fir. Their first Christmas tree, dripping with ornaments and ribbons and candles.
"When will your Mother arrive?" she asked.
"Early afternoon. I warned her the elves are gone and that you'd be cooking. She's not to say a damned word except to shower you with praise."
"I thought you said I could 'fucking cook.'" She lifted a brow and Draco blushed.
"You can, but I don't want her — anything — spoiling the day."
"I appreciate that. It'll be nice. Harry and Gin and Ron should arrive by four."
"Forgetting Parkinson?" he smiled. "I hope you won't mind Theo and Dolohov."
"What's the over under on how long it takes them to sneak off together?"
"An hour," he snorted. "Are your parents ready to laugh at my jokes on Boxing Day?"
She couldn't argue with that. They would laugh, uproariously, at every word he said. It was obnoxious really. Hermione knew she'd be stewing with her wine on their couch by supper and listening to them carry on in the kitchen like they'd known each other for years.
"They like you better than me," she sniffed.
"Never." There was something sad in it.
"Draco? What's wrong?"
He vanished his drink. Moved her legs so he could stand and pull her up. "Let's cobble together bits and bobs in the kitchen and then head to bed."
She glanced at her empty wrist. "I'm not hungry. You eat, though. I have a few final gifts to wrap and then I'll come find you."
Her bare wrist, which troubled her as she hurried to her office. It wasn't finished, not quite yet, but she knew it would be her favorite room when it was. If only it hadn't cost her her watch, somewhere along the way. It had been missing for weeks and she could only surmise that it had fallen off amidst the construction.
She remembered the first morning she noticed, as she read once more over his first gift. The parchment, which she rolled tightly into a scroll.
It was her last day at the Ministry. She'd glanced down to see the time and realized — it was gone. Hermione had been frantic, retracing her steps through the elevator and the lobby and all the way back to the Manor. To their room, where the elves had already made the bed.
"Kirby! Have you seen my watch?" she'd yelled, tossing the sheets and blankets wildly.
The elf had appeared instantly and simply shrugged, apologetic but unstressed. "You'll find it, Miss."
But she hadn't found it, and had lamented to Draco that evening over glasses of wine in their favorite parlor. They were meant to be celebrating, but she couldn't quite feel it.
"It'll turn up," he assured her. "Tell me more about Kingsley. Did he bow at your feet and beg you to stay?"
She'd spent her first day of unemployment turning every cushion, opening every drawer, lifting every curtain. It was gone.
Thankfully, she'd been distracted by the season. By the shopping, and Draco's speech to the Crabbe boy, and suddenly it was Christmas Eve.
A year. How could it be a year? She'd noticed the date approaching, of course, but hadn't mentioned it to Draco. She was curious if he'd acknowledge it. An anniversary of sorts.
One she would choose again, despite the agony it had precipitated. And again.
Because things were good. Desperately good. Frighteningly good. So good she caught herself, sometimes, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it hadn't. She'd moved in, and left her flat, and he'd met her parents, and they were hosting Christmas.
Hosting together.
Her second task required a bit more from her. With a final whisper and a slash of her hand — a small price to pay, this one time — and a spray of her blood in what had been Lucius's office and now would always be hers, Hermione gave Draco his gift.
Well.
One of them.
Gods, she was nervous.
When she met him in their bedroom he was reading on the chaise in front of the fire, twirling a tumbler in one hand. The other tangled in his hair. He wore joggers and a tshirt, looking edible.
He glanced up the minute she walked in, and his eyes flashed. "Hel-lo."
She'd changed. Slipped into one of his old school shirts — and a pair of black lace knickers — and nothing else. Her hair trailed loose over her shoulders and down her back, and her lips were painted red.
She smirked at him and undid an extra button. "I found this in your closet. Since you hardly wear anything but black, I figured it was up for grabs."
"You forgot something." He sipped from the tumbler, nonchalant. Faker. "Accio tie." It flew out of a drawer and into his open hand. Green and silver. "Here you go."
She couldn't have planned that better herself. "Thanks." She walked over and took it. Had to tug it out of his fingers. Turning away from him slowly, she sashayed to the mirror. Felt him watching her legs. Tied his colors loosely so that they hung between her breasts and around the open neck.
When she turned Draco was sipping again, ice tinkling. "To what do I owe this treat?"
"Today. It's a year since —"
"I know what today is." He held the tumbler lightly against his leg, the book forgotten. "I didn't think you'd want to recognize the occasion. Given — what happened."
His creature. The attack. The visions. His betrayal.
And, hers.
"I'm choosing to focus on how far we've come," Hermione said, approaching him slowly. His eyes traced her body. "Instead of the sad parts."
"I see. In that case, I have something for you." And he reached behind him. Like he'd been waiting for this.
She was standing just in front of him then, pondering how she could initiate the plan. He seemed rather comfortable on the chaise, long legs crossed at the ankles. He hadn't jumped up the way she expected. She'd thought perhaps if he stood, she could sink —
Draco handed her a small black box. Oh Merlin. Was this —? She looked at him, wide eyed, the velvet soft in her hands. It was sooner than she'd expected —
She wasn't sure why, but her heart was beating heavily.
"It's not what you think," he said quickly. "I wouldn't — do that. Here. I — well, I've other plans for that."
She lifted the lid.
Her watch.
She looked up at him sharply. He was biting his lip, jaw clenched.
Echoes of a scene. Echoes of the past.
Her watch, with a sparkling new band. "You found it."
"I absconded with it." He stared at her intently.
"Why?" Hermione was already fastening it onto her left wrist, flooded with relief.
He waited. She glanced at it — it looked nice, freshly polished — and back at him.
Draco was fidgeting, nervous. "Is it okay?"
"Yes." Had he gone daft? "I'm happy it's restored to its rightful place. You could have told me you were getting it cleaned, you didn't need to take it in the dead of night." She was a little frustrated, actually. He was disrupting her plans.
"Hermione. Look at it." Malfoy's lips twisted. He vanished his drink.
She did, again. It whirred gently, comfortingly. The hands hovered in their expected places. Harry — Shopping. Ginny — Family. Ron — Bed. Malfoy —
She gasped.
Malfoy — Home.
Tears threatened.
Draco was slightly pale, fingers twisting furiously in the blond. "I'm sorry, I should have asked. I regretted it as soon as I sent it off, I didn't think —"
She fell into his arms, holding him as tightly as she could, pressing herself against the hard planes of his chest. "I love it."
Lifted her wrist behind his head so she could see it again. Perfection. She told him so, breathy in his ear.
He tangled his fingers in her hair, buried his face in her neck. Breathed her in. "Are you sure? It's a little presumptuous."
Hermione leaned back to survey him. She was in his lap, wearing his clothes, living in his Manor. For a moment she'd been expecting that box to contain —
"I only wish I'd done it sooner."
"There's one more bit which is definitely presumptuous." He reached behind him again, pulled out another, matching box. "You can hand this one to me."
She took it, confused. But he removed it gently from her hands, smirk threatening. "Thank you, Granger."
He opened it, his attention only on her reaction, and pulled out his own watch. Silver, big. Exceedingly excessive. "I had them make me a match."
Sure enough, one little hand spinning madly in a circle. Granger — They both watched as it settled, finally.
Granger — Home.
His eyes twinkled with delight. "Do you really feel that way?"
"Isn't it?"
He shrugged. "For me, that's where you are."
Hermione was overwhelmed with feelings. She laid her head on his chest, admiring her wrist and his — their watches, matching, above his Mark and her scar. It was so fucking sweet. Insane. She had completely forgotten her outfit, and the plan, and provoking him —
His cock had not forgotten. It made itself known, moments later, against her thigh. "You can ignore him. He doesn't know how to be fashionably late."
She bit her lip, fighting a laugh. "He's welcome anytime."
"Oh."
"I feel like — I owe him," she said quietly. She lifted her face from his shoulder, eyelashes fluttering. Draco swallowed, his gaze on peeks of her chest beneath his shirt.
"He can come out to play later. I'd like to admire you first."
"I have another idea." She palmed him, bending her mouth toward his lap to convey her intentions.
But he frowned. "No."
Hermione massaged him through his trousers. He was stiff and ready. She tested his size against her hand. "Please."
"I don't want you doing . . . that. I've told you."
He had told her — several times, since the cottage. But that was months ago. She'd thought, by now, surely.
She batted her lashes and licked her lips. "Why?" Tried to keep her voice husky, to preserve the moment.
"I — I don't like it." A lie.
"What if I like it?"
He frowned skeptically. "Have you done it before?"
"Yes, a few times. But —"
"Then you know that you don't. No witch does. It's degrading."
She was huffy then, indignant. "You've let other women do it."
He glowered. "Irrelevant."
"And you use your mouth on me!"
"That's different. You deserve it."
As soon as Draco spoke the words, she knew he wanted to take them back. It was on his face. Upset with the admission. More upset, because he knew she was going to argue.
Hermione softened. And — this was a fight. So, she could provoke him. He wasn't keeping her completely complacent. He had boundaries. Just — not many, when it came to her. The privilege of being posh, indeed. Cottages, new offices and art, spontaneous holidays. She sighed.
"Don't give me that look. I won't argue about this with you. It's final." He was angry, and lifted her by the hips to swing himself away. He stood, towering over her on the low chaise, and tugged on the tie. "Good effort, Granger. You can keep this for next time."
"There won't be a next time," she yelled at his back, as he crossed the room and shut the bathroom door. "Not until we talk about this."
He was in there a long time. She took off his shirt, replacing it with one of her own, worn and soft. Laid down on the bedcovers, waiting for him to come out and finish it.
She woke at midnight, wrist vibrating. Everyone in Bed except Malfoy — Garden. She scrambled up and went to look for him.
His mother, thank Merlin, was still spending most of her time in Provence. Draco suspected she didn't like the Manor without the hope of Lucius someday returning to it. But her absence was especially convenient at times like this, when Hermione had occasion to be wandering around without trousers.
The halls were wide, and dark, some of the portraits murmuring judgmentally. She'd gotten very good at ignoring them — even enjoyed some of the whispers. They couldn't get rid of her, couldn't drive her away. And someday they'd have to endure her children. It was satisfying to know the long-gone Malfoys, stuck helplessly in their frames, would spend the next several decades witnessing how badly they'd lost.
Through a window she spied lights twinkling through steam. His pool. She cut through the kitchen gardens, a warming charm and a pair of borrowed boots protecting her from chill. Draco did not look at her when she opened the glass door.
He sat on the edge, joggers tugged up, his rarely-bare legs dangling in the water. He had another whisky in his hand. "I didn't intend for you to chase after me." He could protest all he wanted that he never felt annoyed with her, but it was clear as day in his tone.
"I was worried. I'll go back to bed." Short, clipped.
"Fine."
She whirled, retreating.
"Wait." She heard the slosh of water behind her. And obeyed the command in his voice. He approached, wet footsteps. The whisper of a touch on her backside, where the edge of the lace ended. "I'd hoped you would let me thank you for my present."
"I haven't actually given you any of your presents yet. And you want to be alone." She maintained her stiff composure. She would not collapse into him at one touch of his fingers.
"I did. But now you're here. Wearing — that."
She had no idea what he was talking about. "It's an old shirt and some knickers. It's hardly —"
"Incredibly sexy." He pressed his hand into her upper back so she'd bend forward slightly. She obliged begrudgingly. Let him see what she was about to take right back into the house. "How do you do it? You look good in everything."
Hermione laughed. "You're just randy. I look completely average."
"You must be blind. And yes, I am. We were busy all week." Was he — whining?
She appraised him. He wasn't drunk, he'd be touching her more if he was. But his face was hard set. Jawline entrancing in the lights reflected off the water. "I'm not interested in helping assuage your desire until you explain what you mean by not 'deserving' my reciprocation."
He'd clearly hoped she was going to drop it and scoffed, shaking his head. "Good night, Hermione."
"It's not, actually. Tonight's turned awful. I'm mortified at my stupid little costume and prancing around in front of you, only to be rejected —"
"Don't you ever be embarrassed for shit like that." He spoke through clenched teeth. "I love that stuff. It's hot as fuck, and you can't ever be embarrassed because of me, I'll hate myself for it."
Something sparked in the back of her mind. Draco Malfoy, apparently still not thinking he was worthy of her. It had been so long since their cave and cottage conversations. She had assumed he was past all that. But — it made sense. The way he treated her. The care he took not to upset her. The fact that he wouldn't let her suck his cock, wouldn't let her 'degrade' herself. The hesitation he had when giving her a present.
She frowned. How to fix it? She remembered Ginny's words.
You're Hermione Granger. He wants to.
But, not there. She wanted the safety of their room, the comfort of a carpet on which to kneel. So she smiled at him — well, more of a grimace, but it was the best she could muster — and went inside, telling him she'd see him when he was ready.
It was an hour later, at least. She'd spent some time on herself — pulled her hair back into a soft braid, moisturized, brushed her teeth. Then she'd laid down on her side of their bed, looking at the landscape of the moors. Missing the cottage he'd built them.
He'd told her they'd spend New Year's Eve there, and she couldn't wait. They'd make a nest in front of the fire and press their resolutions into each other's skin. He'd kiss her at midnight. And instinct said there'd be another small, black box.
The door creaked open. It reminded her of all those times he'd let himself into her flat, and any residual frustration melted away.
Draco was hers, he was Good, and he needed to be reminded.
"Still awake?" Soft, so as not to wake her if the answer was no.
"Yes."
He came and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "I figured you might wait up and try again. I'd prefer you didn't."
"I know." She almost felt sorry for him.
"But, you're going to." He frowned, accepting.
"Yes."
She shifted toward his body, crawling across the mattress until she was sitting behind him. She reached out for his shoulders. He still had his shirt on, and she rubbed his muscles through it, occasionally running her fingers lightly through his hair. He tilted his head, blissed. "For someone with such small hands, you're very good at that."
"Be quiet. I want to touch you. And — give you your gifts."
He pulled his shirt up and off. A peace offering. She explored the lines of his back, from his neck to the top of his joggers. She pressed and caressed, teasing and massaging every inch. She bent and kissed each bone in his spine, and his shoulder blades. "You're so beautiful," she told him.
"That's my line." His tone was light.
She slid her hands to his neck and twisted around to his chest so that she was in his arms.
"Will you close your eyes? None of them can be wrapped."
He closed them.
Accio parchment. Accio wand.
And when he opened them, she was the nervous one.
"Here's the first." She shoved the scroll in his hand.
He moved his lips while he read. Read it again. Looked up at her in shock. "Is this what I think —?"
"If you suspect it's a spell to release your creature, to let it fade away . . . then, yes."
Draco exhaled hard, stress unstoppered. "I don't know what to say. How did you —"
"A lot of research. Different books than you used, and some secret sources from the Ministry. You'll have to perform the magic the next time you go to the cave to check on it. But I think it'll work," she said. Believed enough for them both. "You said it's weakened, right?"
"Yes." He shook his head, bewildered. "It's been slowing for months."
"I think that's because . . . you're happy, Draco."
Happy.
"It's tied to your family, and that cave," she said. "And you."
"I don't feel happy, though," he whispered. "I'm still waking up at least once a week, terrified of vampires changing their minds or what could go wrong. Of losing you. Sometimes it feels like things are so good, it can only get worse."
"You're wrong," she insisted. "I see a life of good ahead. And as soon as you realize it and cast this spell, you will too."
He hugged her tightly.
"There's something else," she started. "This next thing might help with the first."
An indulgent smile. "Alright."
"You can't open it," she squeaked. "It's — it's not in a box."
A brow quirked, waiting.
She licked her lips. "I got it — really, made it — for you because — well, you said I could change — you promised you wouldn't mind me — change anything, right? In the Manor."
"I meant it, Hermione."
"I hope you meant it. It took — quite a bit of magic. And, blood." He didn't like that, wary. "I think it's probably permanent, given the battle I had with some of your wards. They were a bit rebellious."
"I'll cancel anything that gave you trouble," he said.
She shook her head. "Just — oh — look up."
He tightened his arms around her back and looked at where she pointed. At where she shot white sparks —
at the crest, above the mantle, below the grey-sky moors
— removing the concealment charm.
Sanctimonia Vincet Semper no longer. Purity forever conquered. Forever stricken.
A gold patch replaced one of the green so that it was a mix, a melding, black and green and gold.
And the new words shimmered as though freshly carved. They were freshly carved — carved by Hermione, magically, carefully, in her office. They'd been changed in every Malfoy crest, wherever it appeared.
Amor Praebet Portus
Draco stared at it for a long time, reaction inscrutable.
Her heart pounded heavily. He hates it hates it hates it.
He shifted, finally, and regarded her thoughtfully. "I'm curious as to what it means to you." Something in his tone terrified.
"Well, uh, roughly translated it means 'love provides a harbor.'"
He nodded. "I know. But what does it mean to you?"
"Given your dedication, your work, Draco — it seems to fit you perfectly. You're leading others. The monster's victims, the builder in Hutton-le-Hole. And the Death Eaters, the disaffected. The Crabbe grandson. You're doing more to heal our society than —"
"Potter's done more," he insisted sharply. "He's already working at Hogwarts, identifying the students prone to —"
"Students who need your help," she argued. "Students who need a man of your caliber, your status, to show them the path to peace."
His jaw twitched and he looked away from her. Stared again at his new motto.
She felt him slipping away, into bad memories. Into guilt. Not that night. Not on Christmas. That wasn't her plan. It was not a tradition they were going to set. "As you led me up, out of the cave. As you protected me and restored me. Made me whole."
She nestled deeper into his lap then. Tossed her wand away and settled herself into his chest. Draco held her close, his long arms around her body. He held her for a long time, until the crackle of the fire was interrupted by the faraway chime of a clock. Until she heard him whisper.
"Love, yes," he said into her hair. "You, my harbor." He tightened his grasp. "The fact that you would believe me and my family worthy of such a change — I'll never stop trying to live up to it."
The world fell away.
She pressed her lace-clad bottom firmly against his lap. "There's one more thing."
He looked down at her, expression suspicious. "I already said —"
"It's just words," she promised. "Just words if you want. May I tell you?"
"Go on."
"Your body — just looking at you makes me want. Sometimes, when you're asleep, I stare at you. And anytime you're awake I like to run my hands over my favorite parts."
He rolled his eyes.
"I confessed it to Ginny, once. She asked, after we got out of the cave, what it was like to be with you. I told her we didn't do more than we needed, which shocked her." He flinched, slightly, and she reached up to run a thumb over his brow. "She asked me — 'About Malfoy. If he was anyone else — if he didn't have his history, didn't have his name — what would you want to do with him?' And I thought about it. I thought about what parts of yourself you'd let me see, the glimpses I'd gotten. When you got in the bath, how you felt against my body when you made me come, when you did those exercises that drove me to distraction." He made a noise, like he wanted to say something, but stopped himself. "And do you know what I told her?"
He stayed quiet. But his eyes gleamed, corners crinkled.
"I told her that I supposed, 'based on your body alone,' I'd have to invite you to bed. I hadn't even kissed you yet. I was a naive virgin. But I knew what I wanted."
She leaned up, kissed those lips softly. "Would you like to know what my favorite parts of that body are?"
He nodded, slowly, his mouth unmoving. He would not let himself enjoy this if he could help it. But he was hard beneath her. He wanted too.
"In no particular order." She brushed over his face — his forehead, his temples, his jawline. He closed his eyes, letting her explore. "Here." She kissed each cheek. Light, gentle. "Very rarely, if I'm extra funny or do something particularly special, you blush. And I know I want to do it again, to earn that bit of pink." She kissed them again. "They make you far too handsome. If you weren't so devoted to me, I'd worry about some other witch coming to snatch you away so she could kiss them too."
"Never," he whispered viciously. "She could never."
"Where else?" She lifted his arm, his left. "You might be surprised to know it's not these," she ran her fingertips over his hands. "Though they've given me hours of pleasure and innumerable orgasms, and I'm thankful. It's actually here." She stroked his forearm, over his Mark. "You reveal this part of yourself so rarely. It makes me feel special to get to see. I'm hard pressed to think of anything more attractive than you, in a nice shirt, with your sleeves rolled up. Showing off your arms." She raised it to her lips, their eyes locked, and kissed the ink. His cock jumped beneath her arse.
"For the next part I have to get on my knees — but don't go arguing with me, it's not what you think."
His lips twitched, fighting a smile.
She left his lap, sliding down. Making sure he watched her go. She kept eye contact, let him envision what it would look like. Hermione Granger, on her knees for you. Ask me for it. She reached for his slender ankles and the bottoms of his joggers, shoving them up, slowly, like she was putting a stocking on him. She lifted them to his knee.
"It's this line." She traced it, the line on the side of his leg where his calf met his shin. First one leg and then the other. "This fucking line," she breathed, adoring, spreading her palms on the backs of his calves and squeezing the muscle gently. He flexed and she chuckled. "Tease."
She bent her head. Meeting his eyes, she kissed it, the line. The hairs tickled her lips. Draco gulped the air. She ran her tongue against the line, just a bit, so he'd see. What's coming.
"There's another part I want to tell you about, but you'll have to stand up." She feigned apology. "And let me pull these down a bit."
He hesitated. But he stood. She rose on her knees, reaching for the tops of his joggers, and drew them low — low enough that his cock was barely covered. She had access to what she wanted, for now. She pressed her nose to his hip bones. "Our next stop — these. It's deeply unfair how nicely cut they are. You look like some kind of statue carved from marble."
She nibbled on them for a minute, alternating so that each side got attention. His skin smelled divine — soap and sweat and man. Eventually she leaned back and looked up. Let her hands explore, while he stared. His face was soft, open. He was listening. "But there's one more piece of you that I love more than any other."
He watched as she ran her hands across his stomach, to where the natural curve of his body led.
"May I show you?"
Draco hesitated.
A long minute passed, her heart a drum . . . .
I would never let you do that, he'd said in his tent.
No, in the cottage.
Absolutely not, so many times since.
But this time, on that night, grey eyes met hers. And he nodded.
"Thank you." Her thumbs pushed, down, on the top of his joggers. Wasting no time. His cock was free.
It sprang up between them, hard as she'd ever seen it. She'd touched it a few times — through his trousers or to guide him inside — but not often. He'd certainly never let her explore it, never let her get close. "Sit down," she asked. "This may take awhile."
He grunted, strained. "I doubt that."
She ignored him. In the original plan for the evening she'd imagined she would drop to her knees, grab him roughly, pump him into her mouth. Let him tell her what to do better, tell her what he liked. But in the dead of the night, on Christmas Eve, she couldn't imagine being anything other than incredibly careful.
A set of fingers slowly, sweetly seeking their way. Caressing gently. Wrapping him warmly — like it was a thing to be treasured.
He'd finally trusted her with it, and she wanted to make it special. She pet him, lightly, with a fingertip. Lifted his length in her hands and memorized how it fit in her palms. He watched her face and hands like he'd never seen such a sight before, eyes shining.
"Do you want to know why this is my favorite part?" she finally asked.
"Yes," a hint of male pride.
She twisted it gently, enjoying its weight. "Because this part does something that nothing else, no one else, can ever do. It connects me with my favorite person in the whole world. It brings him inside me, where he belongs, where I would have him if I could, all the time. To keep him safe. Because I love him, and I can never hold him close enough." She stroked him, applying a bit of pressure. "This part lets us be one."
She kissed the head. "I'm thankful."
He breathed out above her. "Oh, Hermione."
Opening her mouth, she licked him carefully. He gasped, so she did it some more. When it was wet, she looked up — let him watch — as she widened and took him fully. He'd bit his lip, jaw flexed with pleasure.
"Does that feel good?" No wonder, his desire for reviews. It was the most vulnerable thing she had ever chosen to do.
"Unspeakably."
She tested herself, exploring. Held part of him in her hand while she licked and sucked and tried to take him deeper and deeper. She played with his balls for a moment, which earned her his head tossed back as if he had no control. But mostly he stared at her, occasionally brushing back an errant curl, or gently running a thumb over her face.
"You're so good at this," he whispered. In awe. She took him deeper, until she couldn't, until he was in the back of her throat.
"I'm going to —"
She twisted her hands at the base of him, met his gaze, and pressed her tongue where instinct told her.
Draco came with a sound she'd never heard. That quiet sound, the coo and grunt. He didn't taste like what she'd expected. It was hot, and salty, and there was far more than she thought. Her eyes burned with the newness, and she swallowed.
"Fuck." His hands gripping the sheets. "Oh fuck."
She didn't know quite what to do, after. But he did. He gingerly tucked himself into his joggers and helped her rise. "Lie down, your knees must hurt." He fetched her a glass of water and supervised as she drank.
Then he stretched out on his side of their bed, rubbing his hands over his face. "Can I tell you something?"
"Yes."
"That was the best experience of my life." He meant it, she could tell, and she smiled. He turned to her, gathering her to him. Tucking her against his chest. "You — you are so special. I wish everyone had someone like you in their lives. The world would be cured of all its ills."
Ah. "I feel the same way about you."
"I'll work on believing that."
"Do you understand why I want you?"
He paused. "Yes." There was one thing bothering him, though. "Can I?" he asked into her shoulder. "Please?"
"It's late."
"I didn't hear your sound. And you can make it lovely and loud when we're all alone."
She found his fingers and squeezed them twice. "Alright."
So he navigated down her body, distracting himself briefly with her nipples and her arse, and then he slid his hand beneath the edge of those black knickers and found her ready and waiting. She tilted her face up to receive his kiss, to wind their tongues together. He rubbed her and teased her with just a fingertip like the old days, the old times. Back in that cave.
And when the last shudders left her, she whispered . . . .
"That was — very nice."
He laughed properly. "I love you."
Moonlight streamed in, covering them both, and his name whirred on her wrist.
Hermione nestled into the privilege —
Draco's arms, her harbor.