The bedroom door opened with a bang and masked men entered, shouting. Their words were indistinct, panic preventing Draco from understanding any of them. The blood pounded in his ears as he heard his name spat out over and over again.

Malfoy. Malfoy. That was his name. A name covered in horrors.

He sat up sharply in his bed. He couldn't count the number of people in the room. There were far too many. Ten, fifteen, maybe even twenty. They were staring at him from behind their masks, and only their pupils and smiles were visible in the darkness of the room. The rest were mere silhouettes and shadows.

Fear pounded in his temples. He understood nothing. He was terrified. His breathing was blocked in his chest, as if a weight were resting on it.

There were hands on his body now, palms over his mouth to stop his screams, fists around his neck and fingers clawing at his face.

"You're finished, Malfoy."

Malfoy.

Someone was whispering in his ear. His forearm was burning, his limbs were being pulled, he was being tossed back and forth. He couldn't really feel his body anymore. Everything was just a constant mess, playing with his mind and every cell in his body.

"Your sweet little Mudblood is going to pay for what you've done."

He was screaming. He could hear his screams, though distant, echoing in his mind. It was as if he was witnessing his own death, yet in a different room.

He was trying to fight. It was too much. Harsh laughter, insults and other cries. It was incomprehensible. Draco was lost, destroyed. His greatest fear was coming true. He was going to die at the hands of enraged vindicators.

He deserved it. He had waited for it, like the final judgement, the hour when everything would come to an end. That day was finally coming, and he would no longer have to live in fear. His throat was sore and he was drenched in blood, sweat and tears.

"Hermione!" he shouted despite the blows he was receiving. "No! Leave her! I beg you! Take me, take me instead. Hermione!"

The laughs wouldn't stop. It haunted him, overcoming all of his senses. Draco felt himself curling inward, his arms over his head and his back bent in two. He was begging them. He heard screams, he suffered, but he never stopped screaming.

"Hermione!" he cried one more time.

oOo

"Draco!"

He sat up with a startle, his eyes wide and his breathing ragged. He had a terrible headache and could feel his blood pounding against his temples behind his eyes. His body was covered in sweat and he was shivering, a mixture of icy cold and unbearable heat.

"Draco, it's me, look at me, it's okay," Hermione said, catching his face between her palms.

He was forced to look into her eyes. He felt utter panic, no longer able to discern reality from the images forced in his mind. His nightmare was as present in his head as ever, imposing, painful.

Those voices, that laughter... they were going to haunt him. He hadn't had nightmares like this for days, everything had been going so well since he was sleeping with Hermione. His dreams had already diminished over the weeks, but not sleeping alone had changed things too. He wasn't afraid to close his eyes and see their faces anymore. He was serene.

However, having spent a good part of the previous afternoon detailing the start of his sixth year at Hogwarts, his old demons had caught up with him. This time, they had taken the form of assailants who had come all the way to France to seek him out. He was still shaking.

Yet meeting Hermione's reassuring gaze helped him to calm down slowly. She was there, in front of him. She was doing fine. She was alive and no one wanted to hurt her.

He realised that he didn't care about being forced out of the house, tortured and even killed. She was alive, the rest didn't matter.

"I'm here, Draco," she whispered, stroking her cheeks with her thumbs. "It's all right, you're safe."

Her gaze in his was soothing, and she stared at him waiting for a reaction, a change in his panicked expression. He blinked several times to chase away his tears and took a long breath. He could do it. He wasn't alone.

There was a spark of warmth in her eyes that was enough to calm all his fears. Her simple presence, her gentleness, her laughter, it was as if they had been created as a remedy for his ills. He would have liked to study alchemy, suddenly, to understand this flame between them.

The fingers on his cheeks brought him back to Earth, back to the present, back to his bearings. He was in Hermione's room, in her bed, he was alive, she was alive, and everything was fine. It could only be fine.

He took a long breath. It felt right.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds and paused to calm his breathing. Then he realised that Hermione was sitting astride his hips and that he wasn't properly dressed. He immediately opened his eyes again and saw that they both weren't wearing much.

He only had pants on and she was in her underwear. He felt himself blush as the memories of the previous evening came back to him. The nightmare was long gone now that he could feel her sitting on his lap.

In the last few days, since he'd fixed the bedroom plumbing, their relationship had evolved. He slept every night beside her and they learned to discover each other. Draco was always shaken by this. Things were progressing considerably between them and he didn't know what to think. He was having trouble sorting out his physical desires from what he was feeling. It was a real mess, a chaos that had been agitating his mind non-stop for a week.

As he drifted through the memories of the night before, he felt Hermione move above him and then saw her blush. She must have felt what he felt. She turned scarlet and immediately pulled away from his hips to sit beside him.

He straightened up, just as embarrassed, and cleared his throat.

"Thanks, I– Thanks for waking me," he stammered in a low voice, running a hand through his hair. "I need a shower."

She nodded vaguely and he got out of bed, grabbing his clothes from the floor as he went. Merlin, he'd never been so uncomfortable in his life.

Once in the bath, he turned on the cold water and lowered his head under it. He badly needed to clear his mind of all disturbing thoughts. If he wanted the rest of their morning routine to go smoothly, he absolutely had to calm down.

Fifteen minutes later, he entered the kitchen to prepare breakfast. It went by in silence when Hermione joined him and he thought once again that he had ruined everything. He saw himself weeks earlier, alone in that bloody kitchen because she no longer dared to meet his eyes.

Couldn't he contain himself, for Merlin's sake? His anatomy was acting up and although it was uncontrollable, Draco hated himself for it. It was recent, he was just discovering his body's reactions to Hermione's, after years of nothing. He'd foolishly thought that these pubescent teenage reactions would have stopped after his years at Hogwarts, he'd hoped never to experience those feelings of heat and untimely urges again. He had been wrong.

He ate with his head down and his shoulders tense. He didn't want to start a conversation, whatever the subject, for fear that Hermione would be even more embarrassed. He didn't want to make things worse, he was terrified that she would reject him.

"If– If you want to talk about your dreams, you know I'm here, right?"

Had he heard her right? He looked up to make sure she had indeed just spoken. She was looking at him with concern, with that glint in her eye that showed she cared. His heart quickened in his chest as his shoulders relaxed and he realised he'd made another mistake.

He was the only one thinking about sex, about their relationship, when she was worried about him! What a fool. It only made him feel more like he was back in fifth year, when physical relationships and girls were a topic, when nothing else was enough to distract him. He bit the inside of his cheek.

"I know," he replied, doing his best to hide his tension. "It's just– difficult."

She nodded and went back to her breakfast, digging her fork into her scrambled eggs.

"You always say my name," she whispered before eating her bite.

Draco's eyes widened and he felt the blood leave his face. This time he wasn't embarrassed, he was frozen in place, terrified. What had she just said?

Draco remembered all his dreams, all his nightmares, whether they were realistic or completely crazy. He was able to write them down in minute detail when he woke up and sometimes even did so when they were good memories or strange, amusing scenarios.

However, despite his near-perfect memory, he could not be aware of what he was doing or saying in his sleep. He knew he was often in a trance, panicky and nervous, but not talkative.

He swallowed as he stared at Hermione. She seemed embarrassed to admit such a thing to him. He wondered how long this had been going on. How long had she been hearing him scream her name in his sleep?

He looked down at his plate, still full of eggs and bacon, and swallowed. He didn't know what to say. She had rendered him speechless.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable," she eventually said, after a long silence. "It's just that– I'm worried about you. I hate that I can't do anything when– when you're like this."

He blinked several times to stop the tears that threatened to fall. He was more moved and touched by her words than he would have thought. She was admitting aloud that she cared about him, that she was worried about his condition and that she wanted to help him.

He was already aware of that, of course, it was obvious and even mutual, but hearing her say it was something else entirely. He felt his heart beating a little harder in his chest.

"You do so much already, Hermione," he replied, raising his eyes to hers at last. "Seeing you by my side every time I wake up, it's–"

He cleared his throat and looked away.

"That's all I need," he continued in a low voice.

He saw her nod out of the corner of her eye. The subject was closed. He wasn't ready to confide any more about his dreams, his dark thoughts that he wanted to bury forever. It would come, he knew.

Before leaving for the village, Hermione kissed him a little longer than usual. She lingered in his arms, as if she didn't want to leave him. Draco watched her leave with a twinge of sadness. He too would have preferred her to stay by his side, just for this day.

He resisted the urge to run after her and closed the front door, his heart heavy. He had to keep busy, find something to do to distract himself. So he spent the first hour tidying and cleaning the kitchen thoroughly. Since he and Hermione always took the time to do the dishes, he didn't have much to do, but he had fun arranging the spices by colour and sorting all the food in the larder.

It cleared his head, and he was sufficiently entertained by this amusing occupation to not think again of his nightmare and those traumatic silhouettes. There were twelve different spice jars, fifteen shelves in the cellar and thirty-seven tiles on the floor.

For lunch, Draco prepared a few sandwiches, which he planned to eat on a walk. He needed to get some fresh air and the fine weather, after a few days of rain, was a welcome relief.

He followed the river he had recently discovered until he came across a small bridge in the middle of the forest. He crossed it and stopped in the middle to lean against the wooden railing. From where he stood, he could see the river flowing up to the mountains beyond the trees. He wondered if he would ever be able to follow it all the way. If he would ever be able to get out of this forest, or the gardens that surrounded the house.

He thought of Hermione, who travelled through the surrounding roads and villages every day to go to work. He admired her for that, he thought she was so brave to leave their house without trouble, without fear.

Then he realised how ridiculous he was being. He laughed ironically, in the midst of nature's silence. How could he find it courageous just to leave the house? It should have been normal for him, obvious. On the contrary, he should have found it strange and unusual not to leave the house as he had been doing for months now. He was ridiculous, weak.

He dreamed of the day when he would be able to pass through the little gate at home, the day when he would walk to Hermione's village to visit her or even bring her lunch. It seemed so utopian to him, a perfect world where he would have enough courage to face the unknown.

In the meantime, he wandered around the house, never straying far. Staying outside for too long made him panic; he felt like he was lost, like he had no bearings. It was like waking up from a nightmare and finding the real world unfamiliar for a few seconds. A few seconds during which he lost himself in a setting he didn't recognise, a setting so far removed from his nightmares and memories.

He thought back to that very morning, when Hermione had pulled him out of one of those parallel realities in which he so often shut himself. She had been his lifeline, for a few minutes. He doubted that he would be able to get out of it alone so quickly. It would probably have taken him several minutes, if not hours, to wake up, to break the mirror that separated him from the real world.

Thinking about this suddenly reminded him of the embarrassment that had followed, their surprised looks and the shame that had overwhelmed Draco. He blushed, even though he was so far away from her, as if she were there, as if thinking about it would summon her.

He felt lost, suddenly. Imagining her angry with him, or embarrassed by the situation, sent him into a tailspin. As he had a few hours earlier, he felt his panic soar at the thought of her being angry with him or leaving.

And yet he was so determined to take his time with her, to get to know her and himself. He felt that in just one morning, all his efforts had been wasted.

He had never woken up beneath her. Never had she wiggled so much on his hips as she tried to calm him down. And she'd never felt it when it wasn't one of those moments.

These moments that were happening more and more often. These moments that Draco loved for the opportunity he had to get closer to her, to discover her and to cherish everything she had to offer him. Those moments when Draco felt like a simple devotee who had come to worship his goddess.

He took everything he was entitled to, all the knowledge of her he could get his hands on. Her skin, her hands, her cheeks, her neck, her breast... everything. He wanted to know everything, to learn everything. He wanted to understand how she worked, what she liked and above all what he had to do to hear her pleasure.

Ever since he'd heard her do it that night by the bath, Draco couldn't get enough of the divine sounds she let out. He would do anything she asked, just to hope he could hear it again.

If at first he had been very clumsy in his gestures and words, the fact that Hermione seemed just as panicked and inexperienced as he was had relaxed him greatly. They had both realised that by learning together and discovering each other little by little, things would work out wonderfully.

It was disturbing to realise how much he trusted her. It was both reassuring and unsettling. How could he have placed his rare trust in someone after only a year? How could he have let himself go when his own friends, whom he had known for nearly ten years, couldn't even break through his shell?

As he watched the water drain away beneath his feet, Draco understood.

Love was such a precious thing, now that he had discovered it. It was a feeling he was getting to know carefully, meticulously. You didn't play with love, you didn't wave it away out of fear or boredom.

Love grabbed you by the gut, changing your view of the world and your principles. Draco was a different man, not only because of his life experience, but also and above all because of this encounter. He had discovered someone who was like him, who corresponded to him and, above all, who allowed him to love.

Love was simple when you understood it. It was a feeling you cherished once you had accepted it. Draco was comfortable with it, he loved to love. It was reassuring, it was pleasant.

He wasn't afraid to love, he wasn't afraid that it wouldn't be reciprocated. Because loving was natural, it was simple. He didn't need to make any effort, he just let himself be carried away by his emotions, his feelings. Love was easy, because he understood all its effects.

Loving Hermione was the purest, simplest thing he had ever felt.

oOo

Pansy had sent them a letter a few days earlier to let them know she was coming. She had suggested that the three of them have dinner at the end of the week, so as not to be pressed for time.

Draco had immediately asked Hermione if she agreed, and then, once she had accepted, what she wanted to eat that evening. It was like an evening of celebration, an opportunity to do something different, something enjoyable and particularly long and complicated to prepare. It was like a challenge, a way of cooking for different occasions.

When Draco had mentioned this to her, Hermione had laughed and told him that he didn't need an occasion like a dinner with friends to prepare wonderful dishes that were far too sophisticated for simple meals. He did that well enough every day. He'd just glared at her and gone on to give her the list of dishes he had in mind.

A week later he found himself in the kitchen, preparing white fish confit with vegetables that had been cooking slowly in the oven since the early afternoon. In the morning, he had prepared some operas for dessert and baked his own bread using a recipe from the village baker.

Hermione had not dared to disturb him all day, despite the fact that she had taken an exceptional day off. She had simply eaten lunch with him, between two chopping boards on the kitchen island, and then returned to her duties, which were to tend their garden.

Draco was setting the plates when the clock struck eight. Anxiety rose in his chest. It was good stress, the kind he liked to feel when he was waiting for Hermione's opinion on what he was preparing. Those few seconds of waiting, of fear, the kind he wanted so much.

Fish was one of his specialities, Hermione loved it and he was sure it would be a success. However, he couldn't wait to taste his dish to find out whether it was perfect. As a result of his cooking, and because he himself had been a customer of great dishes in his youth, his palate was developed. He had very precise expectations about the flavours of his day's preparation and he sincerely hoped he had lived up to them.

The significant sound of an apparition in a portkey echoed through the living room and Draco knew it was time. The minutes seemed to pass at a snail's pace as he waited to finally enjoy the main course. Hermione and Pansy kept the aperitif going with debates about cinema, in which Draco barely participated. He never watched television, despite Hermione's attempts to get him to, and didn't have enough knowledge to give any kind of opinion.

When it came time to taste the dish, Draco held his breath. He stared at Pansy as she brought her fork to her lips, his heart pounding. Time seemed to stand still as she closed her eyes in satisfaction, pleasure clearly visible on her face.

Draco let out a sigh of relief and met Hermione's amused gaze.

"Draco was afraid you wouldn't like it," she said, looking at Pansy. "As if we'd ever have anything bad to say about what he's cooking for us."

Draco glared at her, red in the face. The traitor!

"Delicious, Draco, as always."

He turned to Pansy and smiled shyly. He wasn't fond of compliments, although they were necessary for his improvement. He was simply happy that she was satisfied. It felt right.

Pansy put her fork down on the table and turned a more serious gaze on Draco. She seemed reluctant to say anything to him.

"Your birthday's next week," she said after a few seconds of silence.

A weight fell in Draco's stomach. He swallowed and glanced anxiously at Hermione. She was staring at him too, as if waiting for his reaction. And it wasn't exactly positive.

What did Pansy want? What was she implying with that simple sentence? He could feel trouble brewing, he could sense that something was up. And he didn't like it.

He realised that more than a year had gone by. A year. He was going to be twenty-six and he wasn't even excited about it. Yet he remembered all his birthdays as a teenager, those five Junes when everything had been owed to him and everyone had made those days the most perfect for him. It all seemed so strange, so out of place now.

"And?" he eventually asked, his throat tightening.

Pansy seemed uncomfortable, almost anxious about what was happening.

"Would you like to do something?" she asked hesitantly. "You don't have to! I promise I'll do whatever you want, I won't go out of my way or anything! I just– I just want to make you happy."

Draco looked at Hermione again, she was silent, just waiting for him to answer. He sighed. He had no idea if he wanted to do anything for his birthday. It had been years since he had celebrated, years since anyone had asked him what he wanted, or even cared.

He didn't know what to say. He hadn't even thought about it, he hadn't realised that the date was approaching.

"Were you thinking about something?" he asked with uncertainty.

He knew Pansy like the back of his hand, he knew very well that despite all her good intentions about giving him the choice, she already had something in mind.

She bit her lower lip and that confirmed it.

"I was thinking of lunch?" she said with hope in her eyes. "I know that last time it didn't end very well, but I thought that maybe if we organised everything in advance and made sure you both agreed on everything, it could be enjoyable."

He would almost have laughed at her delicate way of approaching things, if he hadn't been concentrating on the proposal. He glanced regularly at Hermione, as if to gauge her mood. But she showed no emotion, she just listened.

"What do you think?" he asked her, unable to give his own opinion without having hers.

She seemed surprised that he would ask.

"I... It's your birthday, not mine," she replied, blushing slightly.

"Yes, but your opinion is just as important," he replied confidently. "If we're going to do something, it's going to be here and I want you to be here too."

She blushed even more and nodded. Draco noticed Pansy's not very discreet smile at their exchange, but said nothing.

"Who's going to be there?"

"I was thinking Potter, Theo, Ginevra, Blaise and myself, like last time," Pansy replied. "I know that–"

"No," Hermione interrupted, shaking her head.

Draco placed his hand on hers above the table. He'd known right away that this would be a problem, he was even pleasantly surprised to see Hermione objecting on her own.

"I don't want to see Harry," she said, not daring to look at Pansy. "Not yet."

"All right, of course," Pansy said immediately. "It's not a problem, I'll... we'll find a solution."

"Do you mind if Theo and Ginny come along?" asked Draco, seeking Hermione's gaze.

She had kept her head down, as if trying to catch her breath, or calm herself down.

"No," she whispered, playing with the food on her plate. "If they want to come, then yes, that's fine with me."

"Then it's fine with me too," he said, turning to Pansy. "If Blaise wants to come, that's no problem, but since I haven't heard from him, I'll–"

"I'll convince him,'" Pansy promised with a determined nod.

Later, when Pansy had left and everything was planned in detail for their upcoming lunch, Hermione thanked him in a low voice. Snuggled up in his arms, under the covers of the bed they shared every night, she admitted to him in whisper that she would never have been able to give her opinion if he hadn't been there.

He held her a little tighter and closed his eyes. He was happy, proud. It felt right.