Thirty-Two

She's sitting in the dining room nursing a cup of tea and clock-watching when she hears the back door slam. Angelina had come in nearly forty minutes ago, and when Hermione had accosted the witch, she'd said Draco and the others were fine. "They're waiting for Colin?" she had added with a shrug, as though she was as bewildered as Hermione was. So when Hermione hears the door bang shut, it's not so much a lifting of fear as it is just relief at having him back. She knew he was fine, but it wouldn't feel real until she saw him with her own eyes.

Booted footsteps sound as she abandons her half-drunk tea and rushes for the doorway into the hall, her hair loose and fluffing around her face, uncooperative and curling. She sees Harry and Ron, who smile tiredly as she pops her head through the doorway, followed up by Draco, who – "Is that blood?" she shrills, although she knows full well it is. Dried blood is smeared over Draco's mouth and down his chin, and there's bruising forming on his jaw and around his left eye. He winces as their eyes meet, stopping in front of her as Harry and Ron scurry off like cowards. For all their issues, they still seem thick as thieves when it comes to situations like this; fleeing silently in unison, like they agreed on it telepathically.

"I'm okay," Draco says quickly as she scans her eyes over him. "I'm okay, Hermione. I swear." It looks like his nose has been healed, and maybe his lip, judging by where the dried blood appears to have been coming from. What the fuck. Fear slices through her, and she flings her arms – carefully – around him. He makes an oof, and she relaxes her grip further, head pressed to his chest so she can listen to his heart thud reassuringly, his woolly jersey scratchy on her cheek. "I didn't get this on the mission. Not really. And it's only some bruises. Nothing major."

Hermione exhales slowly. She wants to shout, and cry, and say, this is why I said it was too dangerous. Only, Draco's arms are around her, firm and warm, one hand rubbing her back, and yes, he's obviously a little battered, but he's okay. She tries to make herself relax; her heart is racing fast, and she feels all shaky from the shock of seeing him like this. "What happened?"

"Tell you while you put some bruise potion on? I have a bruise on my back I can't reach," he says, slightly nervously, as if she's a land mine, or a mouse trap; something on the verge of snapping or exploding. Hermione almost feels guilty.

"Come on then," she says as she pulls back but doesn't move away. Her hands on his shoulders, their eyes locked. For a moment, she's catapulted back in time. He's muddy and bloody, having just come in from a mission, all wound-tight and focused, and dead on his feet with exhaustion. She thinks of the mansion. Of the way he toed his boots off by the door, how he smelled of smoke so often, and the way he sometimes limped his way across the floor to the bathroom and sometimes strode quickly. How she watched him from the chair she huddled in and wondered what the hell he was thinking. Whether she could be falling for him – him of all people.

"What?" he asks, dark blond brows scrunching in puzzlement, his hand gentling over her hair, and the look on his face – unvarnished adoration – makes her heart crush tight.

"This reminds me of then," Hermione says before she can chicken out, both of them knowing what she means. And then, just as Draco's expression is stiffening, she finishes almost shyly, "And that made me think how desperately I love you." His face loses that grim hardness that had been creeping over it and goes all soft and confused in an instant – young, vulnerable. And then she grabs the front of his jersey in both hands and yanks him down, kissing his bloodied mouth willingly. For a moment, she feels like she's in two places at once. Then and now, and in both, she has him. His mouth is soft and tastes of copper, as it would've then, bloodied coming in from a mission, and his hands are buried in her hair. Her body feels too full, overflowing with a sweet, aching kind of love.

"I was so worried," she says as he straightens, both of them slightly breathless.

"It went well," he tells her, taking her hand and leading her toward the stairs. "Without a hitch." Hermione wonders how he got his injuries then, frowning to herself.

"Was it Harry and Ron again?" she demands suddenly with no context as they go up the stairs, she ahead of him, her hand on the bannister as she glances over her shoulder, and he looks at her in bewilderment for a moment. "Who hurt you," she clarifies impatiently. Because if it was, she'll murder them. Or make them wish they were dead. He huffs a laugh.

"No. No, it wasn't them." Frustratingly, he doesn't elaborate.

"Then who?" They pass the first-floor landing, heading up to the second-floor bathroom. Hermione glances back at Draco again, and he looks uncomfortable.

"Creevey," he says at last, after a sigh and a long pause. Hermione freezes on the second-floor landing.

"Colin?" she asks in disbelief. Draco grimaces and nods.

"Yeah."

She leads the way down the corridor to the bathroom, utterly bemused. "Colin? But why on earth would little Colin Creevey do that? And why would you let…" She trails off, beginning to put two and two together, and uneasiness grows in her stomach. Colin had lost his little brother Dennis about a year ago, during a Death Eater attack. Hermione seemed to recall he'd been set on fire and then had his throat cut. She comes to a halt in the bathroom doorway, turning to face him, feeling suddenly like she might be sick. She looks up at Draco. White-blond hair neatly cut by her, and grey eyes filled with a wealth of guilt and self-loathing that Hermione thinks may be bottomless, his mouth a firm, set line as he meets her eyes. His expression says: yes.

There is so much she doesn't know about him.

"You killed Dennis," she says, tongue feeling numb in her mouth, even as a part of her tells herself – yes, Hermione, of course he did. You know that must be why. You aren't stupid. She turns away abruptly and goes to open up the above-sink cabinet, rummaging through and finding the bruise potion; a runny cream in a dark blue bottle. She feels a little shocked, and thinks she probably shouldn't. She may not know what he's done, victim by victim, but she knows what he's done in the broad strokes and generalities that paint a clear enough picture for her. She needs to stop feeling blindsided by reality.

"Yes," Draco says rather belatedly, and she looks over at him as she shuts the cabinet, he still standing in the doorway in his navy jersey and grubby jeans. He looks like a beaten dog that's expecting a kick; shoulders hunched and eyes struggling to hold her gaze, his jaw clenched and his fingers twitching at his sides. She swallows, and thinks: Colin hurt him because he killed Dennis. And then her thoughts develop from there, forking and branching off, but aloud she only says:

"Hurry up then." Her tone is soft. "Come in and take your clothes off."

He looks as though that's the last thing he expected her to say, bemused and lost, but he swiftly does as he's told; shutting and locking the door behind him and then stripping off his jersey and t-shirt together. "Oh," Hermione says, as she sees the blooms of bruising on his abdomen, and his chest, and high on his shoulder. She crosses the room to him because he seems rooted to the floor by his confession that he'd killed Dennis. She wonders why on earth Lupin had let them go on a mission together if he'd known. It had to have been awful for them both, to have to face each other.

She holds out the jar to Draco. He can see himself in the mirror from here. "You can do your face," she says, and he scoops out a glob of runny bruise cream that pools in his palm. Hermione smooths some of the bruise potion over his shoulder as he dabs it on his face, and asks what her thoughts have led her to.

"Draco, did you pick the fight with Colin on purpose?" She looks up at him, and his eyes skitter away. He seems an odd mix of self-satisfied, and self-loathing, and she can't figure it out. She applies more cream to his chest, watching as it soaks in. They'll have to apply more after he has a shower, but this will begin to help. "Did you?"

He sighs. "Not exactly."

She's very calm. "And what does that mean?"

"I gave him a free shot," he says and Hermione boggles at him. "He gave me this on the mission –" he twists and shows her a nasty haematoma right over his kidney, and she gasps and mutters a few choice swear words under her breath and grabs his side before he can turn back around, applying cream to that one now as he flinches and squirms from the discomfort. It has to be causing a good deal of pain. "He gave me that on the mission," Draco starts over, "and jeopardised the whole thing. Weasley told Lupin afterwards, who gave Creevey a talking to after debriefing, but I felt like…"

"Like you should let him beat the shit out of you?" Hermione offered when he seemed at a loss for words, and he shrugged. "That's so stupid." She feels angry, her fingers shaking a little as she turns him back around and finishes putting cream on his abdomen. "So what, you just stood there and let him hit you?"

He grimaces. "Basically."

"Idiot," she tells him, although really, she's more upset than angry. He pushes his fingers through her hair, his eyes apologetic when she meets them briefly before she drops to a crouch and starts unlacing his boots. They seem to have been wet and then dried, and the double-knotted bow is being stubborn. She uses her short nails to pick at the cords, frowning.

"I – I killed his brother, Hermione," Draco says as he stands there, jeans' button and fly undone now, boxers exposed just a little. He's beautiful but marred, and Hermione thinks she could stare at him like this all night, until her legs go numb. He's lean and dangerous looking, a certain predatory air to him that she thinks is left over from the mission. "I think he's entitled to a lot more than what I gave him."

"Well, I fucking don't," she retorts tartly, getting his second bootlace tugged undone.

"You don't even know what happened," he says, sounding helpless – bewildered, and she looks up at him from her precariously balanced squat. The muscles in his abdomen ripple slightly as he slides his hand through his hair again, as if he's forgotten it's too short to fall in his eyes now. Merlin, Hermione thinks dizzily. "You don't know how I – or why." His expression is both bleak and bemused. He's remembering the horror of what he did, and Hermione would guess he doesn't understand why she's reacting the way she is. She really hopes she's guessing correctly, and that Draco was the Death Eater who'd cut Dennis's throat and not the one who'd set him on fire.

But she can't grind his face in every incident that comes up by making a big deal out of it. It would serve no purpose. He hates himself enough for both of them, and she knows he would've done the best he could at the time. The most merciful thing that he could do. And she's so relieved to have him home safely that she hardly cares right now. He's standing right here half-naked, and Hermione has other things she wants to think about. She's already cast a pre-emptive contraceptive charm; she's gotten good at that charm lately.

"I remember when it happened," she tells Draco as she taps the side of his booted foot meaningfully. He lifts it obediently, wobbling off-balance as Hermione yanks his boot off and then peels off his sock. "I know enough." His foot is pale and imprinted with the weave of the sock, and Hermione wrinkles up her nose and begins on his other foot. "You did what you could. And as horrible as it is for Colin, he doesn't have any rights over you because of what you did while you were an agent for the Order." Hermione says it with finality; conversation closed, end of story, because she doesn't want to think about any of that. Not right now.

She straightens and looks him in the eye. "Don't let him do that again."

He swallows, shoulders straight, all bruises and scars over lean muscle and bone, and utterly distracting. "I won't," he says, clear and simple, meeting Hermione's eyes. And satisfied by that, she pushes up on tiptoes and kisses him. This is what she's wanted all night, not to talk about old sins. She wants Draco . She wants him to lick pleasure into her, and fuck her until she's gasping and moaning, and utterly loses herself in the moment. The past forgotten, the future unthought of; just the two of them now, and the pleasure.

Draco isn't expecting the kiss.

She smiles against his mouth as he makes a startled sound, and his hands hover in the air for a moment before he gently buries them in her loose hair. He kisses her back after only a split second's pause, a little moan escaping him as he captures her lips properly. Careful and sweet, but filled with an aching need. His mouth is soft and tastes like aniseed and bitterness, and when she pulls away, he's breathless, his pupils huge, desire suddenly bright and hot in his eyes. A wave of hair falls over her eyes and he pushes it back behind her ear very gently, teeth indenting his lower lip, his gaze intent on her.

"I already cast a contraceptive charm," she says, wanting him to know what she wants, and feels heat flush her cheeks as she admits it. His breath catches, his knuckles sliding over her jaw.

"Really?" he asks, and it comes out strangled and wanting as he shifts unconsciously, leaning closer to her, and Hermione feels arousal run through her, liquid and electric. She sways into him, and they're like two magnets yanked together.

"I thought, maybe we could – after you have a shower," she says, hesitant and unsure, her cheeks flaming. And caught up in desire and leftover adrenaline, he shoots her a grin that makes her stomach twist deliciously.

"Why wait?"

Hermione is warm in his hands. Warm, soft, and slippery with the hot water that sheets over her darkly creamy skin, cascading off his body onto hers. She's leaning back against the wall, standing sideways in the over-bath shower, her hair hanging dripping down her back, and he's blocking her in, his mouth pressed to hers, his hands trying to be everywhere all at once. He wants to touch every part of her. He's never felt her like this before. Wet and hot, curvier than she's ever been beneath his hands, all plush and malleable, his fingers denting into luscious, soft flesh and leaving brief imprints. All his healing hurts are forgotten with her beneath his hands.

His dick is hard, and he wants to rut against her, but he isn't sure how she'll react. He doesn't want to risk it. Not right now. Instead, he leaves it alone where it is – just bumping occasionally and maddeningly against her lower abdomen – and moves his mouth up to her jaw, placing sucking kisses along it. She shivers under his hands, and her own tighten on his back – the feeling of her fingers weird and far off through the scar tissue. His dick rubs against her, and he moans and sucks sloppily on her ear lobe. She smells like vanilla and her, even in the water, and it's intoxicating.

"Oh," she says in a small gasp and turns her head. Catches his lips, and she's eager and greedy as she pushes her mouth into his. Her tongue plays over his and makes him want to do things that are far too rough and urgent for her. Her hands shift, fingers dragging trails up his sides and creating shivers that buzz down his spine and make him rock his hips out despite himself. "Oh," she moans again, and her hips are pushing out too, one leg coming up and hooking against his. Fuck. His hand dips between her thighs as she bites his lower lip and then sucks on it, her beaded wet lashes fluttering apart, firewhisky eyes half open and fixed on his eyes as she sucks, running her tongue along his lip.

"Hnngh," he gets out very eloquently as he finds her clit and watches her pupil-swamped eyes flutter briefly shut again as she releases his lip to moan, and he kisses her hard. Perhaps harder than he should, but Salazar's sake, how can he resist? She's so delicious. And then his fingers are pushing between her shower-wet folds while she moans and finds… oh fuck, she's arousal-wet too, her cunt slick and slippery before the water starts to sluice it away. He pulls back from her, and her hands – resting on his upper arms – clamp down for a minute as she moans in protest.

"Wait. Just…hang on," he tells her, shifting her so that she stands against the wall that the shower head juts out of, at the end of the bath. Leaning back, her head resting against the wall, hips bumped out a little, so he can see the vee of short dark hair and below that, her cunt; flush and wet with more than just water, and practically begging to be licked. Fuck, he will never be tired of the sight of her. He reaches up and directs the shower flow down, so that it falls over her breasts – he bends his head and sucks on a dusky pink nipple, and she groans,one hand flying to his head, grabbing a handful of hair.

"Draco…"

He draws back slightly and looks at her. Head fallen back against the wall and eyes slitted open, chest rising and falling in short heaves, the water cascading down her body, her hips outthrust by the way the bath slopes and forces her to plant her feet further forward than her shoulders. Merlin. She's perfect, her glazed eyes needy as she murmurs his name again, fingers reaching out and curling in his hair. Steam billows up, filling the air thickly and making the whole room hot and damp, and the only sounds are their breaths, soft noises, and the water streaming down.

Draco slowly sinks to his knees, his wet hair sliding from her fingers as his knees hit the porcelain, and his hands find her hips, fingertips slipping around to grab her arse. He gently, insistently nuzzles his face against her pussy, humming with pleasure as he laps at her clit, and she makes a strangled, wanting moan. One hand slaps out to flatten against the wall adjacent to her, and he grins, burying his face against her. The hot water is so good on his bruised body and tired muscles. Thank Merlin for magical water heating.

The water runs over him as he licks and sucks – her clit at first, but then delving further back, between her labia, pushing her legs wider so he can reach as she moans and shivers. And then her legs are too wide for her to stay upright comfortably, and her pelvis is still tilted wrong, and it just makes sense to hook first one leg over his shoulder, and then after a moment, both. And then she's sitting on his shoulders with her back pressed against the shower wall, one hand grabbing awkwardly at the shower controls for stability, the other shaped to the back of his head, holding him there as she makes stifled, whimpering moans.

Hermione tries to be quiet at his urging, in case the noise carries – they haven't cast any privacy charms. Draco doesn't care so much if she screams the place down, but she would, so he hushes her in between licks and sucks, and shoving his tongue inside her, fucking her on it, his hands gripping her arse firmly. Her moans are getting louder though, as her cunt gets wetter and more flush with arousal, and her squirming and grabbing more insistent. She's getting close.

He looks up when he adjusts her at one point, his face out of the spray of water, and she's flushed from cheeks to chest, her breathing ragged, her eyes screwed shut and brows all crinkled, mouth open. She's the picture of naked want and bliss, and a part of him is in awe of her. In awe of this. That she can allow this, and that he can do it. After everything that's happened –

"Don't stop," she gasps and shoves his head back between her legs.

He does his job well, two fingers pushing into her cunt, fucking her on them as he keeps teasing her clit with his tongue, and before too much more time has passed, a short, hoarse wail breaks from her throat. Her cunt twitches around his thrusting, twisting fingers as her hips jerk and her thighs go completely tense, her fingers yanking at his hair, his tongue still gently laving her swollen clit, teasing every last bit of pleasure out of it as his fingers still their motions inside her. Hermione makes a wobbling moan, her fingers twitching in his hair as the climax passes, and she eases down the other side.

"I want – down," she gasps, seemingly unable to form full sentences, and Draco huffs a laugh and places a kiss on her pubic mound that makes her shiver before he starts to untangle them. It's more difficult to get her off his shoulders, especially now she's all weak and wobbly, than it was to get her on them. But then she's sitting on his thighs as he kneels there, her arms and legs wrapped around him as they kiss wet and lazy, the water hitting the back of her head and shoulders and his dick trapped snugly between their bodies. She seems happy kissing for a while, and he indulges it, letting her ride out the afterglow, although most of him just wants to drag her onto his dick.

Eventually, he caves to that need. He lifts her up onto her feet as he scrambles stiffly to his own, bruised back aching, and then, hands on her hips, gently turns her. He places a kiss on her shoulder as he nudges her feet apart with his foot. "Is this okay?" Draco can't think of what it might remind her of, but best to check first. Although, even that doesn't always help. Sometimes things trigger her that even she didn't realise would set her off. But either way, it's quickly become a habit to check every time he tries something new.

"Yes," she breathes. "That's good." And she seems to get the idea, bracing her hands up on the wall and pushing her arse out and up – so soft, and round, and perfect. It's not the best positioning, but Draco makes it work. His dick pressing against the entrance to her cunt, and oh fuck, now it's inside her, and as always, his mind is blanked of nearly all thought except hot, and tight, and so good, and fuck. He moves. Fucking her, his hands on her waist and hips, and sliding around to smooth over the fullness of her breasts, his mouth pressing to the ball of her shoulder, kissing and sucking without thought.

It feels like bliss and pressure, building and building, and his breath comes fast, and a delicious heat suffuses him from dick to fingertips, and if he wasn't being wet by the shower, he'd be damp with sweat anyway, as he moves into her, and she pants, and moans, and pushes her arse back against him. He thrusts faster and harder as the pressure builds. He gets closer and closer. He can feel it. Right there. So close. And then he shoves deep, and her cunt clutches around him, and he comes. His last few thrusts lose all rhythm as he groans and moves unsteady and hard, his fingers digging into the curve of her waist. He thrusts deep into her one last time with a soft, drawn-out groan, and then he presses his lips against her head, her soaking wet hair plastered to her scalp.

"H'mione," he says unsteadily, his voice unexpectedly rough. "Fuck, you're perfect."

Hermione's fingers reach out awkwardly behind her as she slumps with her cheek pressed against the wall, searching for his hand, and it looks uncomfortable as fuck. He pulls out of her quickly, and then tugs her upright properly and against him, turning her to face him. She slides her arms around his waist, face pressed to his chest as the water keeps going, deliciously hot. She clings to him without moving, for long enough that a twinge of concern grows. "Are you alright? Hermione?"

"Yeah," she says softly, a thrum of strain and fear running under her voice. "I'm just really glad you're home safe," she adds, and Draco's heart lurches for her. And he thinks: home. He supposes it is now. Anywhere that Hermione is will be home to him. He kisses the top of her head.

"We should go and be glad in bed then," he tells her. "Before we both turn into giant prunes." His fingertips are already wrinkling up. "You can help me put more scar liniment on." She nods, but it still takes a moment before she lets him go.