Theo glanced down at her one last time before rising from his seat. He paused by Draco on the way to the door, a hand landing briefly on his shoulder. No words exchanged. Just a steady pat—take care of her—and then he slipped out, leaving the door ajar behind him.
Draco remained where he stood for a moment, then crossed the room and eased into the chair Theo had vacated. The faint pulse of spell-dampening runes hummed in the walls, the only sound left in the quiet.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely.
Do something, a part of him whispered. Fix it.
He bowed his head, frustration tightening his jaw. He'd known he cared for her—had known for a while, really—but seeing her like this made him realize just how much he did.
Hermione stirred.
Draco's head shot up, and he scooted forward in the chair.
She shifted beneath the blanket, her brow furrowing before her eyes fluttered open. For a breath, she looked confused. Then she saw him.
"Draco," she said softly, her voice still rough with sleep.
The word left her in a breath—more relief than surprise.
"You scared the hell out of me," he said, voice low and rough.
She opened her mouth, but no excuse came. He was in front of her now, not quite touching, his expression unreadable—but his eyes searched hers like he didn't trust what he saw.
"I'm fine," she murmured.
Slowly, she pushed herself upright, the blanket slipping off one shoulder as she blinked against the light.
"No," he said, voice steady but firm. "You're not."
He reached up slowly, fingers brushing her cheek with a tenderness that contrasted with the roughness of his words. "Theo told me what happened. He said you looked at that ring like it already had you. Like he wasn't even there."
Hermione looked down at her hands, the weight of his words sinking in. "It wanted me to touch it. I could feel it. It wasn't like Imperius—not exactly. It was more… seductive. Like it knew exactly what to say without saying a word."
He let out a sharp breath, frustration edging his voice. "You should've left sooner."
"I didn't realize what it was doing until it was almost too late." She laughed softly, incredulously, her hands trembling slightly as she clasped them together. "How stupid is that?"
Draco watched her, the weight of her words pressing in on him. His jaw tightened as if to stop himself from saying more, but he could see how badly it had shaken her. His hand hovered for a moment, unsure whether to reach out again. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter, softer. "It's not stupid, Hermione. It's the magic."
A long moment passed, silence stretching between them before she spoke again. "You came all the way here."
"You think I wouldn't?"
She didn't answer, but her head tilted just enough to rest against his shoulder.
After a few hours at St. Mungo's, Hermione was finally cleared to leave. The healers had confirmed what she had suspected—no lasting effects from the ring's magic. But it hadn't stopped the lingering weight of the experience from settling over her like a dark cloud. As much as she tried to shake it off, the memory of how close she'd come to touching that cursed object stayed with her, just under the surface.
"Good to go?" Draco asked , as he gathered up her coat and purse, his tone soft but laced with the urgency he couldn't quite suppress.
Hermione nodded, as she slipped into the coat he held out for her. "Yeah. I'm fine. Really."
But Draco wasn't convinced. His eyes softened as he stepped closer, his hand brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her jaw. "Lets get you home," he murmured, his voice low and vulnerable for just a moment. The intensity in his eyes wasn't just concern—it was something deeper, a flicker of something he wasn't sure how to express.
Hermione's heart thudded a little harder in her chest. She hadn't realized just how much his worry had affected her until now. His words seemed to wrap around her like a warm, protective cocoon, and for a moment, she didn't want to let it go. She looked up at him, meeting his gaze, the unspoken things between them heavy in the air.
Their hands remained entwined as they walked from the apparition point to her flat, the quiet between them filled with the weight of the day's events.
Hermione unlocked the door, stepping inside and pausing just long enough to glance back at Draco. He hadn't said a thing since they'd left St. Mungo's, his expression unreadable, but she could feel the silence stretching between them. It was a silence that spoke volumes—of worry, unspoken fears, and something else, something she didn't quite understand yet.
Draco stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping across the space as if trying to take it all in at once. The bookshelves lined with carefully organized volumes, the warm glow from the fireplace casting flickering shadows, and the soft cushions on the sofa inviting a sense of comfort.
Tonight felt different. He couldn't quite place why, but there was something about the way the room seemed to hold its breath—the way the silence settled heavier, more intimate. His heart beat faster than usual, and it wasn't just the cool air or the tension lingering from the Ministry. This—being here, with her, in her space—was new. And suddenly, everything felt a little more real.
"Tea?" Hermione's voice broke through his thoughts as she glanced over her shoulder.
Draco blinked, momentarily shaken from his reverie. "What?" His voice came out a little rougher than usual.
"Tea," Hermione repeated, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she gestured toward the kitchen. "I figured we could both use a bit of a distraction."
He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Tea sounds good."
He followed her into the kitchen, her silhouette outlined by the dim light as she reached for cups on the shelf, her movements smooth, deliberate. There was something in the way she carried herself tonight—still poised, but undeniably open. And he couldn't ignore the quiet sense of rightness that lingered in the air between them.
Hermione set the two mugs on the counter, her fingers lingering on the warm porcelain. Draco stood nearby, hands in his pockets, watching her with a quiet intensity that made her skin prickle.
She turned, leaned against the counter. "You're staring."
He didn't deny it. "I didn't like seeing you like that."
She lowered her gaze, suddenly fascinated by the faint pattern in the tile. "I didn't like being like that."
Silence stretched between them—not awkward, but heavy. Honest.
When she finally looked up, Draco's eyes hadn't left her. The air felt thick again, charged. She reached out first, her fingers brushing his forearm. A small touch, but grounding.
He stepped closer.
No words.
Just the subtle shift of bodies finding each other.
His hand came to her waist, tentative at first, then firmer as she leaned in. Their foreheads touched. Her breath caught. And then she tilted her chin just enough.
The kiss started slow, exploratory, like they were both unsure of where the lines were—but it didn't stay that way. The need simmering under the surface all evening flared into something hotter, deeper. Her hands found his shirt, his fingers threaded into her hair.
When she tugged gently on Draco's hand, guiding him from the kitchen toward the bedroom, he followed without hesitation.
As they crossed the threshold into her bedroom, everything shifted—like the world outside fell away, leaving only the two of them suspended in the hush of the night. Hermione's fingers curled around Draco's hand as she led him in, her breath shallow but steady. The low lamplight softened the room, casting gold against the pale lines of her sheets and the dark edges of shadow.
He stopped just inside, his eyes sweeping the space—not out of curiosity, but reverence. This was her sanctuary. And now she was letting him in.
Her fingers slipped from his fingers to his chest, palm flat against his heartbeat. "Still want to stay?" she asked softly, her voice almost teasing, but there was vulnerability underneath it.
Draco's hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing over her skin. "I was always going to."
She leaned into him then, and the kiss that followed was different. Deeper. Slower. Like they were savoring every second of permission.
He helped her out of her jumper first, slowly, like he was savoring the moment—unwrapping something rare, something he wasn't quite sure he deserved but would guard with his life. His fingers skimmed her sides as the fabric slipped away, and the soft intake of her breath spurred something low and hungry in him.
She returned the favor, sliding his shirt down his arms, her hands lingering against his skin, savoring the warmth. There was no rush. No desperation. Just that growing, smoldering want—and the slow, steady unraveling of everything that had been building between them.
When they finally made it to the bed, it wasn't frantic—it was intentional. Every kiss mapped new territory. Every touch said something unspoken.
He kissed the line of her throat like he needed her to feel how much she mattered.
She didn't hesitate. Her hands found the waistband of his trousers and slipped beneath it, palms pressed to bare skin. He was warm—feverish, almost—and her touch made him shudder.
She pushed his trousers down his hips with aching deliberateness, her lips trailing along the taut lines of his stomach. When their eyes met again, something sparked between them—desire, yes, but something deeper. Recognition. This wasn't just tension anymore. This was surrender.
His breath hitched as her fingers gripped his hips, steadying him while his pulse quickened. She held his gaze as she lowered herself, her lips parting as she took him in. A groan escaped him, his fingers threading through her hair as she began to suck, her movements slow and deliberate.
"Hermione," he breathed, his voice thick and raw. "You don't have to…" His words trailed off, though he gave in even further, unable to resist.
She paused, eyes flicking up to meet his, her gaze soft but determined. "I want to," she whispered, her voice steady despite the tension between them. Slowly, she leaned in again, the world narrowing to just the two of them. Every movement felt deliberate, every touch electrifying.
His breath caught in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn't think, couldn't breathe. All that mattered was the heat of her mouth, the way she made him feel alive, like he was standing on the edge of something infinite.
He reached for her then, his hand gripping her hair, pulling her closer, urging her to continue. His fingers trembled slightly, but the hunger in him was undeniable. "Hermione…" he murmured again, this time as a plea.
She hummed her approval, her fingers digging into his hips as she took him deeper, her throat tightening around him with each movement.
Draco's head tipped back, his breathing heavy and uneven as she continued, each movement bringing him closer to the edge of bliss. The world around him blurred, the only thing real was the heat of her mouth, the rhythmic pressure that was driving him wild.
His hips stuttered against her, a warning in his voice. "You need to stop," he breathed, struggling to maintain control.
Hermione smirked around him, her eyes locking with his as she swallowed.
Draco growled, his grip on her hair tightening, just shy of painful, as he pulled her up to meet his mouth. The kiss was anything but gentle—deep, claiming, and reverent, as though he couldn't get close enough.
Her fingers threaded through his hair, anchoring herself as their bodies pressed together, bare skin meeting bare skin, a slow burn rising between them like a storm gathering on the horizon.
Draco gripped the waistband of her pants, yanking them down—panties and all—in one swift, fluid motion. His breath hitched, shallow and unsteady, as he took in the sight of her.
He walked her backward, never breaking the kiss, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She let herself fall, dragging him with her, and when he settled above her, there was a look in his eyes that made her breath catch.
Not hunger. Not even lust.
Devotion.
Hermione's legs parted instinctively as he settled between them. His mouth found her collarbone, open and hot, and she gasped at the friction of his hips pressing into hers.
His voice was low, wrecked, against her skin. "Tell me to stop."
"I won't," she whispered back, curling her fingers into his hair.
"Don't you dare."
When he finally slid into her, she gasped, her back arching, fingers clawing at his back, needing more, needing him. He filled her completely, like a lock finally turning. They moved in sync, every thrust a promise, every moan a thread pulling tighter between them.
His touch was purposeful, every graze of his hand and each kiss along her throat and shoulder filled with intent—like he needed to imprint her onto his skin.
She felt split open and whole all at once.
And when she came, it wasn't quiet—it was his name, broken and breathless, her body trembling as she clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.
He followed with a strangled groan, forehead pressed to hers, whispering things he hadn't planned to say yet—but they spilled out anyway.
"I've got you… I've got you… I've got you."
After, they didn't move right away.
Their legs tangled lazily under the sheets, his hand stroking down her bare arm. She rested her head on his chest, eyes fluttering shut to the slow thud of his heart.
For a long time, neither of them said anything. There was nothing to fix or analyze, no strategies or danger pressing in. Just warmth. Just closeness.
And, eventually, Hermione whispered, "You really were worried."
He pressed a kiss to her temple. "Terrified."
Her fingers traced a slow circle over his ribs. "I'm glad you came."
"I always will."