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The Burrow never sleeps.
Even after midnight, when all the lights are out and the only sound is the groaning of old wood, there is always someone awake.
Hermione knows this intuitively. Even if she didn’t study each face over breakfast, cataloging the shadows and lines, she’d know it as surely as she knew each bone and plank of the old house.
None of them have slept the same since before the war.
A restful sleep these days comes with a price. Just last night, Hermione found Arthur in the kitchen at half three, swigging Firewhisky. She’d almost made up her mind to say something when he began draining his glass, and after a few moments, she tiptoed back the way she came.
Hermione doesn’t judge him for it. She can’t begrudge Arthur his alcohol, or George his anger, or Harry his escapism. Whatever the war has made her into, she’s no hypocrite.
The wind outside grows stronger, murmuring against the glass. Hermione’s heart beats faster.
She tugs at the stiff bedding she conjured two days ago and rolls to her side. Ginny’s bed stares back at her, still freshly made, its quilt soft and inviting in the faint moonlight.
Hermione can take it, she knows. There’s a letter inside her trunk that told her as much. Harry was the one to explain that they wouldn’t be coming, but the postscript was in Ginny’s scrawl: Miss you. Love you.
A day later, the words still leave Hermione as cold and empty as the sheets across from her.
She can’t be sure why she tucked the envelope somewhere Ron couldn’t find it, or why she pretended to be surprised when she found Molly crying over her own letter. But lying comes easily to her, now, and she’s learned to stop questioning the things she needs to do to survive.
Her fingers curl tighter around the coin in her palm.
It’s half-two when Hermione finally tosses back the covers, plucks her wand from the dresser, and vanishes the makeshift bed. She’s just peeled back Ginny’s quilt when the coin burns.
Meet me in the fields.
Hermione gazes down at it. The gold etchings on the fake Galleon seem to spark at her, glimmering in the low wandlight.
She was almost beginning to think she’d imagined it: the rapid-sequence of messages that burned against her thigh yesterday.
I need to see you.
I’ll come to you at two.
Her frantic replies were ignored— What’s wrong? — Did something happen? — Don’t you dare show up here, Malfoy —and by the time she climbed into bed several hours ago, Hermione deluded herself into thinking he might have actually listened.
But of course he came. And now he’s here, at the Burrow— where Ron and his parents and brothers are surrounding her on all sides.
Hermione tosses the coin on Ginny’s nightstand, watching it rattle through her growing fury.
The only logical option is to ignore him. To leave him waiting, the way he left her.
And yet. Something could be wrong.
Hermione told Malfoy her plans for the Easter holidays months ago. She thought nothing of it until this past Sunday, when Malfoy asked her if she was still going to the Burrow. The look on his face when she confirmed practically winded her. It was the same shuttered rage he wore on a snowy evening in January, just hours after his father received the Kiss.
She’s memorized far more than she ever expected about Draco Malfoy. The scratch to his voice in the mornings, the shape of the Mark on his forearm. The way his gaze turns liquid black when she sucks on his fingers, or his cock.
She memorizes the things he tells her when they’re tangled in his sheets. She knows he has a fascination with dark objects, and hasn’t returned to Wiltshire since his mother left for France. She knows he’s renting a flat in Hyde Park, and that he went to Gringotts earlier this week to accept the family holdings now that his father is legally dead.
The list of topics that shut Malfoy down like a kill switch is far longer than hers, but he’s an excellent listener. And Hermione has learned that she likes to talk.
Malfoy draws out her words as easily as he draws out her orgasms, cataloging them, keeping them for himself. She finds herself talking for hours sometimes, weighing his questions and pauses until he’s gripping her chin and silencing her with his lips.
She isn’t with anyone else—she never has been. She refused Ron at least a dozen times, and she’s never lied to Malfoy about what they are. But there’s no question that what she’s doing is a betrayal.
Still, the loneliness is worse than the guilt. So on the weekends, when Ron is practicing Quidditch or boasting to reporters in Hogsmeade, the walls of Malfoy’s single-room dormitory are Hermione’s to lose herself in, over and over.
She turns to the clock on the mantelpiece— almost 2:45. The second hand seems to have frozen, waiting as she weighs her decision.
With a sharp breath, Hermione crosses the room to grab her boots. She tugs them on, casts a silencing charm, and slips into the corridor.
The stairway is dark, and quiet. Her mouth tastes like sandpaper as she looks around, but she can’t see any lamplight escaping from the rooms above or below. She casts a few muffling charms and glides down the stairs.
Charlie’s room on the third floor is silent; so is George’s on the second. Hermione casts another muffling charm, and another, her grip sweaty on her wand.
Her skin is humming with nerves and magic by the time she descends to the first floor. The wood groans on the last step, and she freezes—but there’s no stirring from the small corridor leading to Percy’s room. Her hand shakes as she casts a flurry of nonverbal charms, and then she tiptoes past the scullery and exits the back door to the garden.
The moonlight is almost blinding next to the darkness of the Burrow, and Hermione pauses to let her eyes adjust. She knows the garden is to the south, the fields north and west— or perhaps north and east? Her brain scrambles, but then the wind begins whipping against her, and her sense of direction is lost.
She pushes on, following the tugging in her chest until she sees the sprawling reeds at the perimeter. Her heart pummels her ribs as she draws closer, and she’s just a handful of yards away when she sees him.
Malfoy is wearing a black cloak, standing almost as tall as the reeds swaying around him. His gaze is obscured by a thick hood, but Hermione can feel his eyes on her.
She wills her feet to carry her forward.
“Granger.”
He pushes his hood back as she approaches, and Hermione brandishes her wand.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
His gray eyes glow in the light of her Lumos, cutting through her. She knows he can feel it— the string dancing and dangling between them, searing white-hot in the frigid air.
The wind howls, and she swallows.
What they’re doing is wrong. Harry would hate her if he knew, Ron would murder her, and Ginny—
Malfoy extends his hand, and Hermione’s gaze falls to it.
There’s a nakedness in his face, and open palm, that's unfamiliar.
Vulnerable, almost.
The string crackles, and Hermione has never felt in more control of her body than in the moment she lifts her hand, reaching for him. The wards shimmer as she pulls him through, and before she can think about what to do next, Malfoy is tugging her against his chest.
His hands are warm on her back, beneath her chin, and Hermione comes to her senses just in time to Apparate them inside Ginny’s bedroom.
She rips away from him when they materialize, casting a dozen more silencing charms around the perimeter. By the time she spins around, Malfoy has already removed his shoes, and cloak, and is staring at her like he’s about to swallow her whole.
She storms up to him, shoving a finger in his face.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing.”
He says nothing, his gaze dark.
“The coin is working, so I assume you received my messages?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and Hermione glares at him before throwing up her hands.
“I cannot believe you. This is completely unacceptable—”
“I couldn't sleep.”
“That’s what Potions are for.” She inhales sharply. “Do you have any idea how wrong this is?”
“So do you, yet you let me in anyway.”
The words knock the air from her lungs. Her skin grows hotter, and hotter, and Malfoy holds perfectly still as her rage boils over.
“You prick.” She shoves at his shoulders, pushing him against the wall. “You complete and utter arsehole —”
A snarl escapes her when he captures her hands, tugging her to his chest. His thumbs caress her wrists as she struggles to free herself, and when he flips them around, she lets out a string of curses.
He waits for her to exhaust herself, his grip tight, his breath hot on her lips. Hermione’s chest is still heaving when Malfoy releases her, stepping away.
His gaze flicks over her face, watching her breathe fire at him.
“Tell me to leave, and I will.”
Her mouth opens to snarl at him, but she grabs him down by the jumper instead.
Malfoy’s lips are hot and frenzied as they slam into hers. His hands rove over her, possessive and demanding, setting every nerve ending on fire as he touches her just the way he wants. Hermione matches him with each movement, her teeth nipping at his lips and her nails sinking into his shoulders as she pours her inferno into his.
She’s dizzy from the onslaught when Malfoy whips them around again, pulling her forward to straddle his thigh. She moans at the feel of his erection, and she’s just started rubbing herself on it when he tangles his fingers in her hair and yanks her neck back.
His hot mouth carves a path down her skin, biting and sucking bruises as she scrabbles at his chest. His other hand slides up her jumper, cupping and squeezing her breasts until her legs are jelly and she’s panting at the ceiling.
Her fingers finally find purchase in his jumper, and she pulls Malfoy down until his lips close around her nipple, her neck stretching as she whimpers. He’s balancing her weight on a single thigh when he stands tall again, tugging her up his body as she wraps her legs around his hips. She shivers as his mouth continues its torture, sucking and laving as she tugs fistfuls of his hair.
He tosses her on Ginny’s bed in a swift movement, and Hermione’s mouth goes dry as she watches him rip off his jumper, and trousers. His cock is long, and thick, and her cunt clenches with the need to have it inside her again.
She yanks off her boots, but she’s barely tugged her sleep pants down an inch when he’s on her, his hands gripping hers in a vice. Hermione glances up at him, taking in his clenched jaw, and blinks down at herself.
Her stomach turns into knots.
Her sleep pants are bright orange, dotted with black C’s for the Chudley Cannons. They can only belong to one person, and the look in Draco’s eyes tells her that he knows exactly to whom.
She opens her mouth to tell him that she was just cold, and is terrible at conjuring fabrics, but Malfoy tugs her to the side of the bed before she can make a sound.
A squeak escapes as he flips her over, yanking her arse in the air as her elbows scramble to support her weight. Her jumper slides up her ribcage as her head falls onto the bed, her nipples pebbling in the cool air.
The sound of Malfoy’s ragged breaths grow faint beneath her pounding heartbeat as he cups her arse through her sleep pants, massaging her cheeks. His thumbs dip below the waistband, and then he rips Ron’s sleep pants cleanly in two.
Hermione’s eyes roll back as Malfoy tears the fabric away and pushes inside her, working his way into her body like it’s exactly where he belongs. She lets out a strangled gasp when he’s fully seated, but then he’s slamming back into her, her walls stretching with each thrust as he begins to fuck her in earnest. His strokes are hard, and relentless, and she bites her lip to hold back her sounds, praying the rattle of the bedframe isn’t strong enough to travel up the wall where Ron is sleeping.
She’s almost adjusted to the pace when Malfoy grinds to a halt, rolling his hips in slow circles that drag her nipples across the bedding. Each curse he paints across her skin makes her cunt flutter, and when he reaches around her to play with her breasts, Hermione’s thighs begin to shake.
“Please.”
He thrusts hard, like he hasn’t heard her.
“Malfoy—”
His fingers pinch her nipples, tearing a whine from her throat.
“Tell me who’s fucking you.”
The rasp in his voice sends her toes curling, the heat in her belly blooming brighter.
“You. You are. Malfoy, pl—”
“This is where you belong, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, please —” His fingers slip between her thighs, rubbing her clit as his hips snap, and Hermione shatters in just four strokes.
She screams into the bedding as it ripples through her, her walls spasming and mind going blank as he draws every last wave of pleasure from her body. He keeps fucking her through it as she bucks, thrashing, and a single pinch of her clit sends her spiraling again.
Hermione is boneless and limp by the time she floats down, listening to Malfoy curse as he yanks her hips back, impaling her on his cock. Just when she thinks she can’t take another moment, he slams to a halt, groaning low in his throat as his cock empties inside her.
They collapse onto the mattress in a heap of limbs. Hermione’s vision begins fading, but she dimly registers herself being turned over and dragged beneath the sheets.
A strong pair of arms wrap around her shoulders, and a voice murmurs her name just before she drifts.
*
It’s still dark when she comes to.
Malfoy is awake. Hermione can tell by the way his body stiffens as she shifts, wriggling her leg out from under his.
“What time is it?”
“Half-five.”
Her breath catches, her pulse starting to race. “Malfoy, they’ll be up soon. We should—”
She’s quick to realize her mistake, but Malfoy is already nudging her onto her back. Hermione huffs an exhale even as she parts her thighs for him, her fingers sinking into the muscles of his shoulders.
He fucks her slowly this time, splaying her legs open wide as he pumps into her, hitching her thigh up. The daylight creeps quickly across Ginny’s floors, sending a flush across Hermione’s skin as the sights become as clear and inescapable as the sounds. She watches Malfoy stare at her mouth, and breasts, and the places their bodies meet, and when she slips her hand between her thighs to rub her clit, his jaw falls open. His chant of fucks drip across her skin as she pleasures herself, and Hermione has to bite down on her jumper to swallow her sounds.
Her nipples pull tight when she finally shatters, her legs spasming as she slaps her hands over her mouth. Malfoy tugs her on top of his body and chases her over the edge, pummeling into her until his cock is twitching and he’s moaning sounds she’ll never forget into her ear.
After, she perches her head on his chest, trying not to doze again.
“I bought a place.”
Her eyelids flutter, and fly open.
“I’m going to finish the year out of the country, like Lovegood.” Malfoy’s tone is light, his fingers tracing patterns across her ribs. “And I don’t intend to come back.”
The room spins as Hermione blinks, reeling. “Where?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
It doesn’t.
Not even a year ago, Voldemort was dead, and the Light had won. For all the bodies and bloodshed, they had hope.
They know better now.
Anywhere Malfoy might go has to be better than here— the place Umbridge and Runcorn were pardoned, and anyone who could testify to their willing role in assisting Voldemort received the Kiss. The place where local journalists vanished, and every complaint about the Ministry’s corruption fell on deaf ears.
The place even the Chosen One decided to flee with his lover, too broken and tired to keep fighting.
“Malfoy—” She jerks her head, struggling to voice the words. “I’m so sorry about your father. I meant to say it sooner, but I didn’t know how. I’m so sorry.”
His face is impassive when she lifts her chin.
“I should have fought harder. I should have used my platform—”
“No.”
“Yes.” The weight in Hermione’s chest sinks deeper, tighter. “I can’t imagine how you must feel, and I—” Her voice trembles, and breaks off.
Malfoy tugs her back down as Hermione squeezes her eyes shut, sucking in air.
“You don’t understand.” His fingers trail across her shoulders. “I may hate them, but they gave me everything when they killed him . Everything.”
His heartbeat ticks against her fingertips.
“My only regret is that they didn’t do it sooner.”
“You don’t mean that—”
“I do. Not all of us have parents or homes worth saving.”
Hermione’s throat clicks in the silence.
“Save your energy for your parents, Granger. You’ve given enough to this rot.”
The tears spill over as her grief swells, stinging and hot.
Her best friend left her, and the one who stayed behind doesn’t care. Her country is burning, and her parents don’t know who she is, and the only person who makes her feel that life is worth living is a casual fuck.
A casual fuck who’s leaving her.
Hermione’s sobs come on suddenly, each quicker than the last. They wrack her body until her shoulders are shaking and her lungs spasming. Malfoy holds her through the worst of it, stroking her hair.
When her breathing is steady again, he tips her chin up, his thumbs brushing away her tears.
“Come with me.”
“I can’t.” His face blurs in her vision. “I have to finish school.”
“So do I.”
“There’s also the issue of money.”
“Not an issue at all.”
“You’ll tire of me, and I’ll have nothing left.”
“I won’t.”
His voice is so solemn that she almost believes him.
She dips her chin as the silence stretches, but she doesn’t pull away.
“You’re wrong,” he finally says. “But even if you did have to come back, do you really think they wouldn’t welcome you? The precious heroine they slap all over their papers, and point to every time someone mentions Potter’s name?”
Frowning, she glances up. “That may change. I’m already a thorn in their side. I’ve never cooperated with them, whereas Ron—“
“Weasley is an embarrassment, and they know it as well as you and I.”
Hermione closes her eyes. She shouldn’t let Malfoy say these things, but she’s tired of defending Ron.
She’s tired of a lot of things.
“Lord Howe."
Her heart lurches, then halts.
"That’s where I bought the estate.”
The words whisper to her, echoing in her ears.
When Hermione was eight, she went with her parents to a Muggle travel agency. The agent had smiled brightly as she laid out the brochures, and her mother’s eye caught on a glossy spread for Lord Howe, a small island northeast of Tasmania.
Her father joked that it better be "the most beautiful place on Earth” with that price tag, and after haggling with the agent for a few hours, they settled on nearby Sydney. They ended up staying longer than planned that summer because they loved it so much, but her mother joked about how they should be saving for Lord Howe instead.
She told Malfoy the story, once, when he asked her why she sent her parents to Sydney. He hadn’t forgotten.
“You belong with me.”
Hermione's throat constricts as she looks up at him, his gray eyes burning into her. Tears stream down her face while he presses his lips to her palm, and when he breaks the kiss, she laces her fingers tightly through his.
Her gaze drifts to the window, where dawn is breaking across the Burrow.
She wonders how the sunrise looks on the Tasman Sea.
