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Chapter Text

October 2003

Hermione Granger prided herself on being painfully rational and, oftentimes, annoyingly put-together and a bit of a know-it-all. She's been called a swot more times than she'd like to admit, along with her other monikers: Brightest Witch of Her Age, the Golden Girl, and the Chosen One's Best Friend. 

Currently, she was about to hex said 'Chosen One' six ways to Sunday, considering he was twenty minutes late to a meeting with Kingsley Shacklebolt—Minister for Magic (and sometimes, friend). 

Fighting in wars will do that to a person. 

She honestly didn't understand how Harry Potter could be so late. They left Grimmauld together this morning. Actually, she watched him leave with his travel cup of coffee, unruly dark hair sticking up in every which direction, and wire-framed glasses askew. Ginny (on a brief break from playing for the Hollyhead Harpies) leaned against the threshold, smirking at the hickey he was trying to conceal on his throat.

Honestly? She loved her friends, but they could at least try to cast Silencing Charms, considering Harry's room was right above her own. 

Grotesque hickeys or not—he was bloody late to this meeting. 

Hermione shifted against the leather chair, giving Kingsley a slight grimace as it squeaked under her. They'd already been through the small talk this morning: 'How's life at Grimmauld?' To which she replied politely, 'It's fine. We finally got that poltergeist out of the third floor.' Or the awkward: 'So, how's work?' And Hermione's blatant lie of, 'Oh, it's fantastic! I love my job!' 

Okay, so she didn't exactly say that. 

The truth? She hated her position in the Ministry.

Four months after the war ended, Kingsley showed up at the Burrow (where Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all living, trying to cope with everything that happened) and offered them jobs. Not just any jobs—but high-up, high-paying jobs. 

Of course, Ron and Harry jumped at the chance to become Aurors. Ron practically blurted: 'Are you bloody kidding me? I don't have to go back to school?' They would be accelerated within the program and trained under Robards. 

Hermione, however, declined and went back to Hogwarts to finish her education. It was something she was determined to do after the castle had been reconstructed from the Battle of Hogwarts. It was hard going back, hearing the whispers of people in the corridor, and listening to their gratitude when she felt like she didn't deserve it—but she managed.

During her official seventh-year, she focused on learning more about her own recovery. While most students had someone from St. Mungos come in and speak to them—allowing them to talk about their issues and the trauma of the war—Hermione knew hers ran deeper than most.

It wasn’t as simple as black or white. Or even a year at school, hiding from the world. No. Hers weighed heavily on her shoulders, even if Ron joked whenever he came and visited that she just needed to lighten up.

Yeah, she didn't think that 'lightening up' would help with the nightmares she had of lying on the floor of Malfoy Manor with Bellatrix hovering over her, carving out derogatory words into her skin.

So, when the Healers they brought in from St. Mungos didn't help, Hermione took matters into her own hands. Literally. She started to study coping mechanisms of PTSD and Muggle therapy and psychology. 

A year later, she graduated from Hogwarts, and Kingsley offered her the same proposition: 'Whatever role you want—we will give it to you, Hermione Granger. Name your price.' 

She didn't have a price; she just wanted something not handed to her on a silver platter. 

Still, Kingsley was persistent. 'I've reviewed everything you've learned in your year at school,' Kingsley had said. 'And I think you would really be beneficial in this new department we're creating—the Department of Magical Rehabilitation and Displacement. We really need your help, Hermione. Think about it.' 

Hermione did for three practical days before politely telling Kingsley that she wouldn't accept a high-up position without merit and that anything considered entry-level would be perfectly fine. Unfortunately (or fortunately for Kingsley), Hermione was easily convinced with a few words and a handshake. Idiot. Honestly. She nearly smacked herself over the head for the way that Kingsley just had to look at her with his wide, sable eyes, and she folded.

She'd be horrible at Muggle Poker if she ever got into the gambling sport.

The reality? She didn't have it in her to complain or argue with Kingsley once she realized what he did. Plus, the newly formed department was a disaster, and she needed to put her head down and work if she actually wanted to get it up and running. The department was so new that it was only Hermione and a perpetually nervous wizard named William Watts.

Okay, and now Pansy Parkinson, but that was a topic for later discussion.

The real issue was that several children were orphaned during the war, newly bitten werewolves were running around scared, and Muggle-borns were traumatized and some untrusting of the Ministry after everything that occurred. 

Things seemed to just go downhill from there. 

She moved in with Ron. She still had nightmares. She hated her job, knowing that wasn't what she wanted to do. Then, a few months ago, she came home after a grueling day at work to find Ron in bed with another woman. Hermione didn't even give him a chance to explain—even if she heard his words, he shouted at her—and she went right to Grimmauld, where Harry was living, and locked herself away in the room she used all those years ago. 

Five years together. And for four of those years, she gave bits and pieces of herself to Ron, only for him to take home some Muggle girl from the stupid Muggle bar he worked out after he was kicked out of the Auror Program for failing to pass his written A.R.B.s (Auror Regulation Boards). 

That didn't matter now, Hermione supposed. She'd buried herself so deep into her work in her own department that by the time she actually had the mental capacity to think about the image of Ron's bare arse and those widespread, tan feminine legs as he thrust into her—utterly oblivious to the sound of the bedroom door opening—she typically was already asleep.

Kingsley cleared his throat, looking down at the timepiece on his wrist. "I suppose we should just get started," he said. "I'm sure Harry has a reason for being late." 

Hermione wanted to roll her eyes, but thought better of it. Instead, she adjusted herself on the chair for the thousandth time. 

"You've been with the Department of Magical Rehabilitation and Displacement for about a few years now, Hermione," Kingsley began. "And you know how impressed I am with everything you've done to help the creatures and children as we enter into a new era. Sometimes, I can't believe it's been almost five years since the war, and while we've done so much to help rebuild our world, plenty needs to be done." 

She bobbed her head, anxiously picking at the skin around her thumb. Nervous habit. 

Kingsley grabbed a thick manila folder off his massive desk. The golden light poured in from the wall of windows, shadowing him like a shadowgraph. 

Honestly? She always liked the Minister's office the best—or ever since she came to work here. It was all dark woods and leathers, with a massive limestone hearth that was both functional and practical. Along the mahogany bookshelf, Kingsley kept photographs and various artifacts he collected as an Auror and undercover guard to the Muggle Prime Minister. He once told Hermione that he could learn a lot from others' treasures—an insight into the minds of the wicked and the good. 

Hermione, always pragmatic, thought it was utterly foolish. 

Kingsley cleared his throat. "I called you in here because—" 

The door to the office flew open as Harry stumbled through, out of breath. "Sorry, I'm late, Minister. An issue sprang up with an underage wizard and some Muggles." 

"No worries, Harry," Kingsley remarked, grinning broadly to reveal his perfectly pearlescent teeth (a Dentist's dream). "You're here now." 

Righting himself, Harry took several strides across the crimson and navy Persian rug, greeting Kingsley with a handshake before patting Hermione on the shoulder. She knew the gesture wasn't patronizing, but she somehow felt it in her bones. 

Harry sat beside her, propping one leg over his thigh. "What did I miss?" he asked. 

Kingsley opened the folder before him. "I was just about to tell Hermione why I called you two here. As you know, it's been four years since the war and the trial of the Death Eaters. Harry—" Kingsley dipped his chin "—you spoke at the trial of Draco Malfoy when he was first convicted." 

Hearing that name for the first time in years sent Hermione's spine rigid. 

"He's coming up on his hearing in a few weeks, and I've been reviewing several files of those convicted. Draco, however, stood out to me the most." Brandishing his redwood wand, Kingsley levitated two additional folders over to them. "We created Hermione's department for a reason." 

God, she absolutely hated it when they called it that. It wasn't her department; it was the Ministries. Yeah, the department only had three employees—including herself—but it was fully functional and ran without any hiccups. The newest (within the past six months) just so happened to be Pansy Parkinson. 

While Hermione wasn't necessarily on board with hiring Pansy at first, the witch had a way of convincing her to do anything. And she really meant anything. Hermione would like to say that they were friends. They'd gone out for drinks now several times, and one of those Hermione drunkenly spilled the horrible day she caught Ron naked and red-handed. Literally. Pansy listened and offered equally witty and straightforward advice—forget him; he's not worth it. 

On top of everything, Pansy was organized and often offered key insights that Hermione found useful. She was never late, and she always got everything completed at an impressive rate. Pansy said it was the Slytherin in her with how she could make those fools in Wizengamot and the High Council wet their knickers. Also (even if Hermione would never admit it to anyone), she liked how uncomfortable William got around the witch—blubbering and glassy-eyed. 

They must've been talking because suddenly Hermione found two sets of eyes on her, waiting for a response. 

Clearing her throat, she felt warmth creep over her throat, painting crimson watercolor splotches beneath her silk blouse. Wonderful. 

"As I was saying," Kingsley drawled, "Draco Malfoy is being released from Azkaban in four weeks. Harry, as interim Head of the Auror Department, while Robards is on leave, you will be overseeing his transition and trial in Wizengamot. More information will be given, but he is assigned to you during the six weeks after his release." 

The folder magically opened on a phantom wind, showing her a recent image of a twenty-three-year-old Draco Malfoy. In the black-and-white photograph, the boy who bullied her in school stared haughtily at the camera, dressed in striped prison garb. His blonde hair was ruffled, longer than she'd ever seen, curling around his jaw and nape, and his full lips were curved into a sly, almost all-knowing smirk. 

It was positively irritating. 

She ignored the photo and focused on the various papers in the folder. Over the four years, the Healers at Azkaban had given all reports and other behavioral analyses. Her gaze snagged on various keywords: student inmate, respectful, reserved. 

Hermione looked up then. "I'm sorry, Minister, but I don't see why I need to be involved in this." 

Kingsley grinned, almost pleased with himself. "That brings me to my next point: my goal is to start a program for rehabilitating prisoners, and Draco Malfoy will be our first test subject. Harry will be in charge of technicality stuff with the Auror Department, but you, Hermione—" 

Nausea curdled in her belly. Did she eat breakfast this morning? God, she couldn't remember. Why couldn't she remember? 

"You will be tasked with the rehabilitation of Draco Malfoy," Kingsley explained. "You will monitor his progress. Meet with him for six weeks, and assess if we can properly determine if Draco Malfoy can safely integrate into society and if he poses a threat to the wizarding community as a whole." 

"Is he going to live with us?" Harry blurted, brows pinched as he continued scanning the file. "I mean, Grimmauld has enough rooms, but don't you think that will be a little… weird?" 

"Merlin, no!" Kingsley barked. "Absolutely not! The Ministry will supply him with a temporary place of living that will alert us of comings and goings and if any and all magic has been used."

A heavy breath escaped her. 

"What do Muggles call it again?" Kingsley asked. 

"House arrest," Hermione and Harry said in unison, exchanging a glance. 

"Ah! Yes, right." Kingsley reclined back in his chair, bracing his hands over his stomach. "He'll be on house arrest and monitored thoroughly. Harry—as you know, the Auror Department is working on a prototype for a bracelet that will alert us to the use of magic. You will receive reports daily of everything that he does." 

Hermione somehow gained her voice because she found herself asking: "So, what am I supposed to do again? Just meet with him and see if he can assimilate into society?" 

"Couldn't have said it better myself!" 

Hermione glanced over to Harry, and she had a feeling they were wondering the same thing: how was this going to work? 

"Of course, there are rules," Kingsley said. "Reports must be given weekly, and by the end of the six weeks, you will stand before Wizengamot and present your findings. We believe with your skills, Hermione, you can dive into Draco Malfoy's mind. Also, I know I don't have to tell either of you this, but there can be no romantic entanglements with the individuals you're working with." 

She was almost taken aback as the warmth spread over her. Romantic entanglements? With Draco Malfoy? Absolutely not. 

God, that would be when hell froze over and—okay, so pigs could fly. Whatever. Either way, she would not, under any circumstances, get involved romantically or otherwise with Draco Malfoy. 

That much Hermione Granger knew even as she accepted the task with a handshake and another pat on the back from Harry. 

Chapter Text

Hermione's foot twitched as she crossed and uncrossed her legs, staring at the hearth in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place in apprehension and equal parts eager anticipation.

Call it morbid fascination, but in these past four weeks, since she was given the task of the rehabilitation of Draco Malfoy, she'd dived back into her Muggle Psychology books with vigor like she used to do back in school. Harry would often come home and find her at the kitchen table, passed out in said books, with a bit of drool coming out of her mouth.

She would've been embarrassed if it were anyone but Harry. Yet those months on the run and living in a tent with not very good hygiene had taught them to overlook certain things with each other—plus, Harry was practically her brother in the strictest sense of the word.

Whatever. She was prepared—or as prepared as she could be for the said arrival of Draco Malfoy into her home.

Okay, not her home, but it was Harry's home that he inherited from Sirius after his untimely death.

They spent the better part of two years fixing it up and ridding themselves of every ghoul, poltergeist, and Boggart left in this god-forsaken place. Still, something dark always managed to infest these walls. They removed the lacy, worn curtains, replacing them with simple russet ones with tassels along the trim. The leather sofas, smoking chairs, and each antique cabinet and console remained.

But her own room? The one that once used to be Regulus Black's was now painted in a soft dove grey, and the massive onyx-wood canopy bed had been charmed with gauzy cream curtains and down comforters. She used Regulus's writing desk that she still found (to this day) clippings from the 70s. She fit a cozy wingback chair in the corner with a stack of leather-bound tomes and a mix of Muggle romance novels.

Over the past few months, the room had become hers in every sense of the word. She needed it to, given she didn't have a home. For all intents and purposes, she was Harry Potter's roommate, and even when she asked if she could help pay, he told her: "Sirius gave me this place, Mione. It's the Black ancestral home. I don't owe a single thing. Merlin, you're really doing me a favor, so I'm not here all alone." 

Sighing, she looked around the room, shifting her legs out and in, crossing and uncrossing her thighs. God, she couldn't sit still.

This morning, before Harry left to see Draco transferred to the Ministry from Azkaban, he sat across from her at the kitchen table, noticing her worry. But when he asked, she just shook her head, scared that if she said anything, only a plethora of words would come out, and some of them would not help ease the situation.

Honestly? She was anxious about all of this. She hadn't seen Draco since the day of his first trial when she went into Wizengamot to offer Harry support for his testimony. She could remember how he looked then, sitting in the single chair in the center of the room, acting as if he were almost… bored. When the High Council asked probing questions, he almost seemed like he wanted to be convicted. How he caught her eye and held it as he said: "I accept the charges placed against me." 

She had laid in bed that night and stared up at the popcorn ceiling of her and Ron's apartment. As his arm rested over her bare stomach and the sounds of his snores filled the room, she wondered if she imagined the way Draco's stone-cold gaze reverberated through her, into her bones.

It felt almost poetic that she did the same thing just last night, wondering the same thought about him—Draco.

Now? A different image of him, beaten and worn down in Azkaban, filled her mind, consuming her.

Why did she care? She didn't know. God, it was Draco Malfoy—the boy who used to call her a 'Mudblood' every chance he got, but he was also the boy who tried to stop his aunt when she carved said derogatory word into her arm, and the boy who lowered his wand the night Dumbledore was murdered.

When Hermione asked Harry if this was a good idea after Kingsley originally proposed the idea, he just said: "I wondered the same thing, but I testified in his trial. I know—Merlin, I know that wasn't an easy ask, but this could set a precedent for many inmates. I've looked into him, and he's a model citizen. He helps organize the library, and he never gives the guards trouble. He doesn't write to anyone, but that doesn't stop his friends from writing to him. His mother visits him every week, and then she returns to her home in Paris. He doesn't interact with his father—at all. They almost ignore each other. He's…" Harry laughed, shaking his head. "I hate to say it, Mione, but he's bloody perfect." 

"Perfect," Hermione found herself saying the word aloud into the quiet of the sitting room.

No… no one was perfect. That much she knew from years of trying to be the best she could be at school, given her status as a Muggle-born. The need to strive to do better… be better. To balance making sure Harry and Ron stayed out of trouble and didn't get expelled.

Shaking off the thoughts, she ran her clammy palms over her jeans, glancing at the crackling stone hearth.

They should be here by now, she thought nervously. What if something went wrong? 

Wait? Did she seriously care if something went wrong with Draco Malfoy?

Honestly. It was just ridiculous. She knew that everything was in good hands, given that Harry was involved in the transference of Draco from Azkaban. From there, Draco would be placed in a guarded room at the Ministry, where they would give him the silver bracelet that tracked his movements and magic—a mix of charms and spells that they'd been working on, similar to what they used to track underage wizards and witches. They would run over the rules with him and the stipulations of his six-week probationary period. Then, once the nitty-gritty parts were complete, Harry would bring Draco here to Grimmauld Place, where Hermione would begin her own set of rules and analysis of the ex-prisoner.

Harry and Hermione figured Grimmauld was the safest place to start this process. One, it wasn't threatening, and she knew from experience that caged animals reacted to caged circumstances; two, Harry and Hermione would be the ones to take him to the pre-authorized Ministry flat.

The amber flames roared to life as a looming figure stepped through. It took her brilliant brain a minute to compute what and who she just saw, but the second she did, her mouth suddenly went dry.

There, standing in what looked to be the exact suit he wore to his first hearing five years ago, was none other than Draco Malfoy.

Or, at least, she assumed it was, given how… thin he looked. The once finely tailored bespoke jacket now hung loosely off his limbs, and the charcoal pants seemed to engulf him entirely, draping over his figure like a shadow. His platinum blonde hair cascaded to his shoulders, curling delicately under his ears and at the nape of his neck like wisps of straw. His complexion appeared sallow and wan, almost hauntingly sunken in the hollows around his temples and cheekbones, giving him a gaunt look. A ghost. 

The flames roared once more as Harry stepped through, dressed in his fine Auror robes and leathers. Over the years, Harry traded his trainers for Dragonhide loafers and his baggy jeans for fitted trousers and leather wand-hoisters.

The two men, who were once rivals, couldn't look more different. It was almost like Freaky Friday, and Hermione had to blink a few times before finally realizing she was gaping at them. Budger.

Standing, Hermione ran her clammy palms over her thighs before she asked, "I trust everything went according to plan?"

Harry gave her a crooked grin. Yet it was Draco who spoke up. "I'm here, aren't I?" he drawled in that arrogant way she remembered.

And there he is, she thought to herself. 

Hermione pinched the inside of her wrist, trying to keep her mouth shut. She was supposed to act as Draco's guidance and counselor during this period. She was supposed to see if he could fit back into society and wouldn't pose a threat, and yet, somehow, she found herself back in her third year, wanting to punch him right in the face. Prat.

Clearing his throat, Harry gestured towards the leather armchair across from the Chesterfield sofa.

Despite how worn-down Draco looked, he still presented with that arrogant pomp and circumstance as he gracefully lounged in the club chair. His gaze tracked around the room. "So this is the infamous Grimmauld Place?" he drawled. "Ancestral home to the Ancient and Noble House of Black."

"It is," Harry said cooly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Sirius gave it to me when he… uh, died."

Hermione shifted on her feet, watching Harry's jaw twitch with that tampered grief.

There were many things in life that her friend didn't necessarily like talking about, and Sirius Black's untimely death was one of them. Sometimes Hermione felt like it affected him more than the other tragedies he faced, given Sirius was more than a father figure and godfather to Harry.

Draco hummed. "You know my mother's a Black by birth. Technically, if the Goblins knew what they were doing, this home should belong to me. I'm the rightful Black Heir."

"Sirius gave the house to me," Harry quipped. "It's mine."

"Oh?" Draco arched an arrogant brow. "Should we duel it out, then? Or should I just get on my hands and knees like everyone else and thank you for all your hard work in the wizarding community?"

"Malfoy," Harry warned. "You're on probation. I'd watch what you say in front of an Auror."

"Ah. Right. How could I forget? You're now a ripe and eager Auror, who somehow has been accelerated up the ranks in the mere five-ish years since you started at the Ministry. It must be nice to have everything handed to you on a platter, Saint Potter."

Something about the way he said it made Hermione grit her teeth. God, if this were any indication of how the next six weeks would go, she would need to find her old retainer.

Draco's upper lip curled. "You know, Sirius's arrogance and rebellion got him killed in the first place."

"You keep Sirius' name out of your bloody mouth, Malfoy!"

"Harry!" Hermione gasped, stepping in. "Both of you—stop it!" Instantly, her tone became something she generally reserved for Ron and Harry back in school. "Malfoy, you're here because you're required to by the Ministry. We won't argue about who should or shouldn't own this house and past grudges."

They both folded their arms, collapsing back down into their respective chairs.

"There," Hermione huffed, slowly sitting back down. "That wasn't so bad. Now, Harry and I are going to review the program rules."

"Ah, yes—I'm the guinea pig for the Ministry's genius plan," Draco sneered. "Another opportunity for them to slap Saint Potter and the Golden Girl on the cover of the Prophet and say how you put your lives on the line, babysitting the ex-Death Eater and son of Lucius Malfoy to make sure he's safe to walk the streets. Another opportunity for my poor mother to be ridiculed and forced to sequester herself inside her apartment in Paris—terrified that if she leaves, someone might try to kill her as revenge for whatever my father did!"

Harry's fingers twitched beside his thigh, where his wand holster rested. "You should be grateful that you're out of Azkaban when your sentence was for life. I know several who would kill to be in the position you're in."

"Grateful?" Draco let out a low, grating laugh. "Potter, I'm trading one prison cell for another. I probably can't even wank without the Ministry knowing about it—or is that what you'll read every night in your report?"

Harry's lips parted. "I—uh, well, I don't—?"

"You're not supposed to answer that," Draco muttered. "Though, I would like to know if you'll be able to tell when I take my cock out."

Warmth pooled in her belly, bombarding her as the image of a very naked Draco popped into her mind. She could see him lying on the bed with his thick, veiny length in his fist as he stroked himself. Would he be quiet? Or loud as he made himself—

"Sorry, Granger," Draco's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "That was… rude of me."

Hermione blinked as a different sort of warmth—the kind that made her cheeks flush and her heart race—licked at Hermione's skin. Oh, God… was she? No, there was absolutely, positively no way she was just picturing what Draco Malfoy looked like in his most intimate moments.

Unable to meet his gaze, she stared at his chest as she told him: "It's fine, Malfoy. Why don't we let Harry finish so we can show you to your new flat?"

Draco dipped his chin, but she didn't miss how his shoulders tensed and his jaw locked—a look she'd seen years before during their sixth-year when Harry was convinced that Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater.

Oh, if they only just listened.

Yet, as much as Hermione wanted to convince herself that maybe lives would've been saved if she had just listened to Harry's paranoia (and rightfully so), she knew that the only death at the hands of Draco Malfoy was Death Eater Antonin Dolohov. The very wizard who attempted to kill Hermione two times before—once in the Battle at the Department of Mysteries, then again in the Tottenham Court Road café. The last time he would ever pull his wand would be on Hermione as she raced through the castle, trying to find the Chamber of Secrets with Ron.

Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could still see the look in Dolohov's eyes as his face twisted into a look of lustful victory before a flash of green light flared in the air, and he crumbled to the ground. How Draco didn't say a single word as he held her stare with those piercing silver eyes before Ron yanked her away.

"You're required to follow the rules, Malfoy," Harry continued. "If you don't? There will be consequences. You will report to either me or Hermione on the days established. Failure to show up will involve a full horde of Aurors on your arse, and no questions asked. So… I recommend sticking to the timetable given."

Draco rolled his eyes but remained silent.

"As you know, the bracelet you wear on your wrist will track any and all magic you do." Harry gestured to his own wrist. "You can't remove it, so don't even try."

"Wasn't planning on it, Potter," Draco drawled. "Anything else?"

"The Ministry has permitted me to escort you to your vaults this week to get enough Galleons to get you by. If you stick by the rules and do not cause any trouble, you will get more access to your vaults. All properties under the Malfoy name are currently seized by the Ministry."

"And my mother?" Draco asked.

"She remains free in her own right, as she has been a behaved citizen," Harry told him. "You, however, cannot travel to see her in France. If she wants to visit you—she can. Most interactions with others will have to be supervised by me, Hermione, or another Auror. That is… until determined otherwise. If approved by the Ministry, you can have unsupervised interactions."

"So what? I'm just a prisoner again?" Draco mused, but she could sense the bitter resentment there. "All that's missing are the Dementors, or will you have some standing outside my door?"

Harry ignored that remark. "Hermione? Anything else to add?"

"No," she said simply. "Just… I expect to see you tomorrow morning in my office. Your Floo network is only connected to here and the Ministry."

Draco laughed under his breath.

Harry looked down at the leather timepiece that once belonged to Sirius. "We should get going," he said in a voice he usually reserved for 'Auror Business.' He glanced up, meeting Draco's pale gaze. "Malfoy, you'll be apparating with Hermione."

"Why?" Draco drawled slowly, and every natural instinct in Hermione wanted to shrivel up. Would he even want to touch her? She was, after all, 'dirty blood' and all that nonsense he used to spew at school.

"Because," Harry began, "she's the one who you will travel with most often. Better get used to it now."

* * * 

Hermione's favorite mode of transportation was Apparition, though she'd never admit it to anyone. The one time she did—to Ron, of course—he just laughed in her face and said she was being overly dramatic and ridiculous.

See, traveling by Floo was always messy, and one had to be as accurate as possible. Plus, the number of times she'd Floo-ed somewhere and the opposite end was closed, forcing her to shoot back out the other end or clog the entire system. Embarrassing. Portkey? She hated the feeling that came with it, like someone had placed a fishing hook in her belly and yanked her forward through time and space. Uncomfortable. But Apparition? That was something she knew that she was good at, save for the time she accidentally splinched Ron while they escaped the Ministry and ultimate capture. Besides that, she knew she had perfected the skill, graduating top of her cohort at Hogwarts.

Yet, there was something unnerving about having Draco so close to her—the feel of his cool fingertips against her bare wrist and the scent of crisp parchment, peppermint, and pine filling her lungs with each shaky inhale.

Hermione made the mistake of looking up at him, meeting those pale eyes that were equally guarded and wary. This close, she could make out the moles on his throat, contrasting his nearly translucent skin. Her chest rose and fell, brushing her breasts against his ill-fitting suit.

Arching a brow, Draco drawled, "Are we just going to stand here? Or do you plan on apparating us?"

Blistering heat immediately flooded her cheeks as she looked away, biting her bottom lip. Great. Now, he thought she was inept or something. Not that she really cared what he thought of her, given their history and all.

Closing her eyes, she summoned the sharp snap of magic, picturing them standing on the front step of Grimmauld Place and then the address Harry had given her moments before he vanished with a loud CRACK! The sulfuric tang filled the air before they were sucked into the void, only to land right outside of the five-story brick building in Southbank, London. It was located off a side street, keeping the busy foot traffic away from them. Yet, she could hear the distant calls and shouts of pedestrians and the familiar honking of horns. They weren't that far from one of the main lines of the Tube, either.

While familiar with London, given her parents used to take her to the theater and ballets when she was home on holidays, the occasional extravagant day in Harrods with her mum, and the excited hushed whisper of, "Don't tell your dad!" 

The truth was, she really didn't know Muggle London as much as she'd like. She'd spent the better part leading up to the war preparing and studying and trying to figure out a way to keep Harry alive. After the way, she spent the rest of it coping with the aftermath. The years of reminding herself that she survived while others—friends and family—did not. She saw it every day with her work, helping to rehabilitate those displayed, and the effort and money that Harry spent towards orphanages and hospitals.

The stairs groaned as they made their way up the narrow hall. God, if the outside was any indication, she could only assume that the flat would look like. Right now? The Leaky looked like a palace compared to this.

Stopping on the top floor, Harry waved his wand over the last door on the right (though there were only two) and opened the flat.

The space was dimly lit, with faded wallpaper peeling off the walls, and a musty odor of dampness permeated the air. The creaking wooden floorboards echoed beneath her as she entered the narrow entry hall. The living room, barely illuminated by a flickering overhead light, revealed worn-out furniture and dusty shelves. A faint sound of dripping water could be heard in the distance from the kitchen faucet. From here, she could just make out the cramped space, barely fit for two. Three windows lined the far wall, where she could see a rusted fire escape—Draco's only source of fresh air.

As Harry explained the rules and conditions of Draco's living accommodations, curiosity compelled her to venture further down the adjacent hall, where the distant hum of a malfunctioning air conditioner drowned out the soft sound of her footsteps. She imagined the bedroom and bathroom that awaited her, the worn-out carpet beneath her feet, and the cool touch of the dingy, grime-ridden porcelain sink. A shower that no doubt had cobwebs and dirt clinging to the basin.

Not that she expected the Ministry to give Draco a penthouse in the sky, but she at least assumed it would be something better. And while she absolutely hated living at Grimmauld with the poltergeists, Boggarts, and the screaming portrait of Walburga Balck—she wouldn't wish this on her worst enemy.

"Mione?" Harry's voice pulled her out of her thoughts. Turning, she faced them, arching a brow as Harry cleared his throat. "I was just telling Malfoy, here, that you and I will have unrestricted access to his flat. I will know of any magic performed here, and you will perform periodic check-ins. Anything else to add?"

Hermione just shook her head, glancing at Draco, who held his pale gaze on her. Annoyance crept over her bones, and she couldn't pinpoint why.

Okay, maybe it was the way he was watching her—staring at her as if to challenge her to show up here unannounced and spill Ministry rubbish on him.

"I think that will be all," Draco drawled in that familiar arrogant tone. "Now, if you will excuse me. I need to…" his gaze flickered around as his upper lip curled. "I need to settle in."

"Actually," Hermione cleared her throat, "I was thinking that—?"

"Not today," Draco said flippantly. "I'm tired, and I believe our first meeting is tomorrow, Granger."

"But—?"

"Let's just go," Harry groaned, grabbing her arm.

Her gaze narrowed then, asserting a challenge of her own. Fine. If he wanted to make this difficult, then she would too. Easy. She could play that game, and what a game it would be on the road to his redemption.

Harry ushered her out with Draco on their heels. The wood barked with each move they made. They were barely out of the threshold before the door slammed shut in their faces as they stood awkwardly on the landing.

Slowly, Harry turned to face her. "I think that went about as good as it could."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione groaned.

This was going to be a long six weeks. That much she knew.

But in reality, she liked to think she knew Draco Malfoy, given the years she spent with him at school. She knew the mean, Pureblooded, righteous wizard who would do anything to achieve power and praise. Yet, he wasn't that arrogant schoolboy anymore, and unfortunately, they had a long way to go if they wanted to find common ground.

Now? The man that stood before her was nothing but a shell of a wizard, and if she looked close enough, she could see the demons slithering under his pale skin, waiting to be released. 

Chapter Text

Sure, her job might've come gift-wrapped in bribery and post-war chaos, but Hermione Granger would be the first to admit—she was completely, irrevocably in love with her office. 

Honestly, it was the one thing that made sense to her in the grand scheme of things. And she didn't know what that said about herself, considering she had deep-rooted, non-platonic emotions for a sentient object. Oh, whatever. But it really was perfect. 

Hermione's central-facing office was a generous size for how small her department was. Really, it was only comprised of herself, William (her secretary), and her coordinator, Pansy Parkinson. The walls were paneled with dark wood, morphing into two large bookshelves along either wall, filled to the brim with every book she could get her hands on—and she didn't squirm away from books on Dark Magic or those commonly found in the restricted section. Yes, the Ministry had a personal library, but there was something about having her own books that she knew she'd treat with respect and cherish that made her happy. In the center of her office, she added two French Bergere chairs in a cream fabric, facing her antique 18th-century walnut wood desk. 

To add the cherry on top, natural light pooled in through the massive industrial-style, magically charmed window at her back.

While considered creepy, she sometimes liked to sit in her chair and watch people mill about in the atrium, conjuring stories about what their lives were like. Other times, she just liked to sit in peace, studying and savoring the beauty that so many dismissed, like the high-arching glass dome ceiling. The once brilliant copper had patinaed over time to a lovely shade of verdigris. All along the walls, the emerald subway tiles glittered against the morning light, most likely freshly polished by the elves in the night. The dark wooden floors were barely scuffed, even from the amount of foot traffic from the twenty-or-so gilded fireplaces. Anytime someone walked through, they burst with that brilliant bottle-green. 

There was a quick knock before the wooden structure groaned open. Pansy poked her head through. The sleek, blunt edges of her bob flared over her shoulders. "Can I come in?" 

Hermione knew that Pansy's requests meant nothing. She could tell the witch not to bother her, and Pansy would still waltz in, plop herself down, and make herself at home. 

Still, out of custom courtesy, Hermione motioned her forward. 

Pansy grinned, closing the door behind her as she walked over to the French Berger chairs, choosing the more fluffed one out of the two. Today, Pansy wore a smart charcoal pantsuit with a houndstooth dress-robe over her shoulders. Of course, there was not a dark hair out of place on her head, and her crimson lipstick remained unsmudged, even if she knew Pansy already had three cups of coffee, and it was barely even nine in the morning. 

Honestly? It made Hermione feel inadequate. 

"When does the deviant get in?" Pansy purred, crossing her legs in a way that could only be described as 'Properly Pureblood.' 

Hermione attempted to hold back her grimace. "He's not a deviant." 

"Says you," Pansy laughed. "Draco Malfoy has been in Azkaban for five years. That has to do a number on a person, and that's saying something, considering most of my classmates ended up there after the war." 

"We're supposed to be helping him." 

"And is that why you're about to crawl out of your skin?" Pansy quickly retorted, arching a well-manicured dark brow. "Or why your blouse is inside out?" 

Hermione loosed a long breath, eyes darting downward. Sure enough, the silk fabric revealed the seams and was painfully twisted under her simple robes. Yeah, she'd vamped up her wardrobe since working at the Ministry and accepting her high-ranking position as Head of the Department, but she didn't have the salary to afford custom couture pieces that Pansy purchased like it was a sport. 

"Fuck." The word slipped out of her lips before she could swallow it down. God, if that didn't explicitly state her mood, she didn't know what would. 

Hermione hated crude and crass words, but sometimes, when she was really pissed or flustered, it slipped out. 

Growing up around Ron and Harry, she felt like an expert in the mouths that most teenage boys had (and most adults, too). Harry was a little more reserved with his choice of language, mainly resorting to "bloody" to state his mood. But Ron? Well, he had a mouth. 

Shrugging off her robes, Hermione grabbed her vine-wood wand off her desk and cast a quick charm. The cottony breeze of magic passed over her, bathing her as the blouse righted itself. For good measure, she cast a de-static charm. 

When she finally looked up, Pansy was still arching her dark brow at her. 

"Is this going to be uncomfortable for you?" Hermione asked the witch, wanting to change the subject from her clothing. "With you having a history with Draco Malfoy." 

Pansy rolled her sable eyes. "Hermione, darling, I dated him when I was thirteen, and we screwed around until he got all depressed and dark and all that shit." 

Unease crept over her as she pictured those years in school, as Draco and Pansy found some dark alcove, and his hand slipped up her skirt. 

The image wasn't that far off, given she'd caught them once before when she was Prefect her fifth year. God, she didn't mean to stay and watch, but she couldn't help it as Draco pushed Pansy up against the cool stone wall, hitching her stocking-clad thigh over his hips. Hermione remained hidden as her breath hitched, matching Pansy's whimpering cries as Draco's skilled hands pulled her knickers to the side. Every inch of her wanted to move—wanted to look away—even as the clack of Draco's belt sounded and he pulled himself out. Hermione couldn't see him or what he did, given Pansy's uniform skirt hid the view, but she could only imagine, judging by the thrust of his hips and the way the witch's face slackened with pleasure. 

She told no one about what she saw. Hell, who could she possibly tell? Lavender Brown? Pavarti Patel? Both of them were already too busy gushing about boys, talking about anything other than practical things, like school and books, and getting high marks on their essays. 

"Earth to Hermione?" Pansy sang, jolting Hermione out of her thoughts. 

"I, uh—?" Blinking, she tried to ignore the flush that crept up her chest and to her throat. "Sorry, what were you saying?" 

Pansy narrowed her gaze. "I was saying that I've barely spoken to him in over five years. And right now? I'm perfectly happy dating around and ignoring my parents' missives for me to choose one of their hand-selected matches for me to marry. Like you said, we'll treat him like any other witch and wizard that comes through our doors." 

Hermione glanced at the manila folder on her desk. It practically screamed at her through the image of Draco's Azkaban photo clipped on the front. "I honestly don't think you will even have to deal with him," she sighed. "Minister Shacklebolt wants Harry and me to handle him. Mostly." 

"If you think you can handle Draco, you're out of your mind." 

That caught Hermione's attention. "What do you mean?" 

Pansy ran a manicured hand over her smooth, onyx hair. "Draco is… was always difficult. Sarcastic and blunt to a fault. Self-righteous and spoiled. He likes things to go his way, and he won't just open his mind to anyone just because someone says that if he doesn't, he'll be thrown back into a padded cell." 

Yeah, that was what Hermione feared—but fear had never stopped her before.

She was a fixer, a doer, a take-the-broken-pieces-and-make-something-better kind of woman. She hadn’t just accepted the job when it was offered on a goblin-made silver platter. No, she’d taken it with both hands and the quiet certainty that she’d be bloody brilliant at it.

Sure, she didn’t have the official credentials of a psychologist, no fancy degree hanging behind her desk, but what she did have was experience. Hard-earned, sleepless-night, post-war kind of experience. The kind that wasn't found from textbooks or tomes, but rather from clawing her way out of her own trauma with nothing but sheer willpower and a stack of library books as tall as her guilt and nightmares.

Hermione Granger would crack Draco Malfoy.

She just would. 

"That's also why I came here," Pansy said as she stood elegantly. "I'm going to take my work home today if that's alright with you." 

Hermione's brows knitted tightly together. "Why?" 

"Because of Draco," Pansy said simply. 

"I thought you said that his presence wouldn't bother you?" 

"Yeah, well, his presence might not bother me, but mine will bother him." Pansy straightened her houndstooth robe. "Any fellow snake will send him running for the hills. I know that much, and if you actually want to succeed in proving to the world that Draco Malfoy is redeemed and a good little wizard, then my face does not need to be the first that he sees when he walks in." 

Hermione pursed her lips. "You have a point." 

"Oh, I know," Pansy purred. "That's why you hired me, remember?" 

"I think I remember you saying that you wanted to piss your parents off and actually be a working witch," Hermione laughed. "Or something like that." 

Pansy grinned. "I absolutely love pissing them off." Her smile instantly curved down as she became serious. "But I do think I should take some time away for the first few days—maybe the week?" 

Hermione nodded her head, glancing back down at his Azkaban photo, taking in the gauntness of his cheeks and prominent jawline. "If you think that's the best, then… I trust you." 

"Good! Then, it's settled." Pansy turned, hips swaying as she walked towards the double office doors. With a hand on the brass handle, she paused. "Hermione? You can do this, you know? I've always believed that Draco Malfoy is a good man who was handed shitty circumstances by his family. Unfortunately, that's how most of us Purebloods are—trapped. And I think if anyone can crack his shell, it'll be you." 

* * * 

Draco Malfoy knew they were staring at him as he walked slowly, purposefully, through the Ministry atrium. He knew precisely what whispers everyone was saying about him with each step of his Dragonhide loafers—the same shoes he wore years ago during his indictment trial in front of the High Council and Wizengamot—made on the wooden floors. Their words were like a poisonous viper, prepared to strike him down, craving to do it.

Hell, he would let them, knowing what he knew. 

He wasn't a good man. He knew that much from the years he spent in his own personal version of Hell. Azkaban, for anyone wondering. The Ministry could pull him out of those depths and smack a contract in front of him with pretty, shiny words, and make it seem like they were doing him a favor.

A favor would've been them giving him the Kiss and leaving him to become one of those soul-sucking monsters that leered outside his cell, waiting for him to think of one single happy thought. 

Draco didn't have happy thoughts—not anymore. Not since he had to live with the Dark Lord in his home for months, watching him walk barefoot down the ancient halls of Malfoy Manor with that snake by his side. Not when he received a Crucio from his sadistic Aunt Bellatrix every time his father stepped out of line. Not when he had to watch one of his professors get slaughtered right before his eyes and then be forced with dirty fingernails pressed into his cheeks to watch Nagini eat her whole. The only thing that saved him then—and now, he supposed—was his impressive Occlumency skill that his godfather, Severus Snape, instilled in him starting his fourth year. 

If Severus was still alive, Draco might ask if he knew the fate that would be brought upon both of them—death and imprisonment. If he knew that Draco would be held down by Death Eaters and Bellatrix as he received the Dark Mark against his will. 

'A glory and honor…' Bellatrix had whispered in his ear. 'You will restore your family name, just like my dear Regulus did.' 

Draco didn't think that it was an honor. Not in the slightest. It was a curse through and through. 

Now, he wore old robes that he'd charmed last night to look a bit more put together. Who was he kidding? The robes were shit, and he just wanted access to his vaults. Better yet, he was being forced to attend daily sessions—therapy… they called it—with Hermione fucking Granger. Could life get any better? 

Draco would realize that he spoke far too soon the minute he stepped foot in the Department of Magical Rehabilitation and Displacement, coming face-to-face with a skittish secretary. Judging by the golden nameplate on the desk, his name was William Watts. 

Leave it to Granger to have a man be her secretary. If he asked, she'd give him a whole long-winded speech on how it's sexist of him to think that only women in tight pencil skirts and sheer blouses could be secretaries, and he should know better. 

She was a swotty know-it-all, after all. He wouldn't expect anything less from her. 

Seeming to notice Draco, the secretary—William—looked up. "Oh!" he blinked, pushing his thick glasses up his nose. "Didn't see you there. Do you have an appointment with Miss Granger?" 

Draco cocked his head. "Do I?" he mused, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. "I don't know." 

"Well, sir, what's your name?" William asked. 

He considered this for a minute, as if he really didn't know his name. Salazar, it would be fun to fuck with the skittish wizard (who reminded him a bit too much of Wormtail) and make him sweat. Though judging by the thick bead of perspiration already on his sandy brows, the task would be too easy. 

Draco liked to work for things. It's what made life fun—or used to make life fun. 

Sighing, he finally said: "Draco Malfoy." 

"You're—?" William swallowed thickly, causing his Adam's apple to bob against his necktie. "You're—gods, you're Draco Malfoy." 

Unable to help it, he arched a pompous brow. "And your point?" he drawled. 

"I just… well, I… you know?" 

Yeah, no, he didn't know. But he knew he would not get a single word out of this damn idiot.

Honestly? What was Granger thinking when she hired this man? Apparently nothing. Was there not anyone else here? 

Draco's gaze scanned the small office, taking in the other desk situated in an alcove beyond the reception. It was unmistakably a French antique writing desk with a tasseled lamp and feather-white quill in the holder. Behind the desk was a modern brass bookshelf, organized with onyx file holders and familiar cursive, labeling each. 

Immediately, he narrowed his eyes. Hell, he'd recognize that prim and proper Pureblood handwriting anywhere—Pansy mother-fucking Parkinson.

If he inhaled deep enough, he could still scent the notes of roses in her perfume—the same gods-damn perfume she'd worn since she was thirteen. 

Just then, the massive mahogany doors opened behind the secretary's desk. "William? Has Mr. Malfoy come by yet?" Hermione asked, staring down at the folder in her hand. "It's already five past the hour, and you know how much I hate running behind. We have a lot to get through and—" Hermione looked up then, milk chocolate eyes rounding. "Oh! Dra—Mr. Malfoy!"

So he was Mr. Malfoy now, huh? A part of him was humored, if not a bit annoyed, as he gave her a removed look.   

"How long have you been here?" she asked. 

"Long enough," he mused. 

"Well, why didn't you come in?" 

Gesturing towards William, who was still gawking at him like he was a bloody unicorn, Draco explained: "I think your secretary is broken. Might want to get him fixed if you intend on running a professional department." 

Her gaze narrowed then, and he waited for her to snap at him or come up with some genius retort, but it never came. Instead, she turned on her heels, waving at him to follow.

Huh. Well, he wasn't expecting that. 

Losing a breath, he checked his Occlumency shields, and he followed her into the office—her office. The space was well decorated and unmistakably hers, with the amount of books that consumed the two massive mahogany bookshelves. Honestly? He'd only ever been in his father's office before, and that'd been years ago when he was twelve. Still, the wood-paneled walls reminded him of it—of the memories of sitting there with a charmed quill as he wrote out his House motto: Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. 

Purity Will Always Conquer.

A shudder tore through him at the memory, causing his body to tense up in response.

Slowly, almost with precise calculation, Draco began forming those mental walls again, stacking brick-by-brick over the labeled boxes, cloaking them in bad memories of dimly lit ancestral homes and monsters before the second wall was resurrected. It was safe like this; he reminded himself.

Yet, the truth was that it was the only thing he knew after Occluding for five years straight—and that wasn't counting the years under the Dark Lord. 

Draco observed Hermione as she settled down on the plush leather chair behind the worn walnut executive desk. The sight of the cluttered surface surprised him with stacks of crumpled papers, disorganized files, and scattered random photographs competing for space. The brass reading lamp cast a warm, dim glow over the disarray. It was a stark contrast to what he'd anticipated, expecting Golden Girl, Hermione whatever-her-middle-name-was Granger's workspace to be impeccably neat, almost bordering on obsessive—manic. 

Yet, she was far from the idea he painted in his mind. There was a slight pull in her wrinkled silk blouse and a considerable amount of frizz in her wild curls. Though from the years he'd been forced to sit behind said curls, he could tell she learned a thing or two about styling charms. 

Maybe he had Parkinson to thank for that. 

Hell, Draco could readily admit that she was different, given their interaction yesterday. Something about her… changed over the years he'd been locked away. She wasn't the same witch he went to school with, who was always eager to have her hand in the air first and didn't know a hair charm to save her life. The one who was always in proper dress code, without her maroon and gold tie out of place, hair unkempt, or her nose in some dusty old book. He'd seen her, of course, plastered all over the Daily Prophet with Potter and Weaselbee. If he was correct, she was engaged to the latter. 

The thought set his teeth on edge, making his Occlumency walls crack. Fuck. 

Straightening the lapels on his crisp black dress robes, he confidently approached the plush, cream-colored French chairs meticulously positioned before the desk. 

The air was tense, fevered with something he couldn't place that made him want to crawl out of his own skin. Gods, he wanted to blame it on the cheap clothes the Ministry provided him until he could access his vaults. How did anyone stand these things? What was it? Polyester? 

"Sorry about William," Hermione said with a heavy sigh. "He's… well, uh—we're working on it." 

"Clearly," he drawled, removing his outer robe and draping it over the back of the unused chair. Slowly, he sat, watching her carefully as she fidgeted with the sleeve of her blouse.  

Hermione cleared her throat. "I hope you were able to settle in and everything was up to your liking." 

Yeah, he wanted to tell her that the Ministry-provided flat was utter shit, and he was confident that a room at the Leaky would've had better working plumbing, but he held his tongue.

He wasn't given back his wand. But when Azkaban handed over his things to the team of Aurors and Potter, he saw it sitting there in the charmed metal box. Whatever. He was certain Potter or Granger would explain it to him soon enough. So, last night, he made do with what little wandless charms he could conjure. Safe to say he didn't get very far and had to resort to using Muggle cleaning supplies under the sink before he gave up entirely. He did not spend five years in Azkaban, pissing in a fucking bucket and having to use the scraps of clothes they gave him to keep warm against the icy chill of the North Sea, to end up in another hell-hole. 

A part of him wondered if the Ministry's plan all along was to make him as mad as possible so that they proved to the wizarding community as a whole that no man or woman could be redeemed as a convicted Death Eater. 

Hermione reached forward, opening a folder with his mugshot pinned to the front. Pulling out a piece of paper, she duplicated it before the object floated to him on the zephyr of magic. The scent of honey and rainfall filled the air, almost suffocating him and faltering his Occlumency walls. Fucking hell. 

With a sharp movement, Draco snatched the paper from the air, the crisp edges cool against his fingertips.

"Mr. Malfoy—" Gods, he fucking hated being called that. "—as you can see, I've been given a list of pre-approved questions. Now, it won't be like this every time, but I figured we could start here and work our way forward."

He quickly scanned the written-out questions. 

1. How do you feel after your first night out of Azkaban? 

2. Is there anything you'd like to share about the past five years?

3. What did you think about before you went to bed last night? 

4. What did you eat last night for dinner? Was it a memorable meal?

5. What's one thing you did that made you feel like this situation was real and you were not still locked in Azkaban? 

6. Did you have a happy childhood? What is one good memory you can share? 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he whispered under his breath, scoffing.

"I—I beg your pardon?" Hermione blurted. 

He looked up at her then, lowering his gaze. "This list is bullshit, Granger. I'm pretty sure a bloody second-year wrote this unless it was your idiot secretary, Billy." 

"William," she corrected. 

Yeah, Draco really didn't care what his name was, given how ridiculous all of this was in hindsight. 

Hermione straightened in her chair. "I know the list is… juvenile, but I promise that it's meant to help. They are easy questions for us to go through." 

It was almost like he could see right through her with every word that came out of her mouth. Yeah, he knew what these questions were and what she was trying to do—peel him apart bit by bit until he was exposed as just muscle and bone. He was the thing that Ministry planned to study in a glass cage while poking and prodding at him. He was their own Frankenstein, something to be written in books to be used and read centuries later in school—the Rehabilitation of Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, a convicted murderer, and servant of the Dark Lord. 

"Mr. Malfoy, you have to know that we are only trying to help you," Hermione said pragmatically. Worse? He felt like she was talking down to him. 

"I'm not an idiot," he clipped. "I'm not some—something for you to drag around like Weasley." 

If he weren't looking, he would've missed the way she flinched at his name. Interesting. 

Hermione squared her shoulders. "I never said you were." 

"Then why are you doing this?" he asked, quickly cutting her off before she could answer. "Is it because you, the Ministry's goody-two-shoes, want to get a leg up? Want them to call you a good girl and give you another medal?" 

Her breath hitched, and her lips parted. Realizing what she did, Hermione averted her gaze, swallowing thickly. Draco made a mental note, storing the information for later when he wasn't so damn pissed off. 

Seeming to compose herself, Hermione turned to face him again, leveling his stare. "I'm doing this because it's—"

"The right thing to do?" he laughed, the sound cold and hollow. "Yeah, I've heard that one before. We've all heard it before, Granger. Try again." 

Her brow furrowed, as if considering it, before she shook her head. "We're not here to talk about me. We're here to talk about you. Now, I want to do my job, and I know you don't want to sit here any longer than need be." Her hand gestured towards the list. "Pick a question, Mr. Malfoy." 

Gods. He really wished she'd stop calling him that. 

"Fine." 

"Good," she raised her chin. "We're getting somewhere." 

Rolling his eyes, he glanced back down at the list. "Question 6: What's one thing you did that made you feel like this situation was real and you were not still locked in Azkaban?" He felt his lips curl as he slowly looked up at her. "Well, Granger, last night I laid on my shitty mattress and had a proper wank for the first time in five years. Made me feel like a gods-damn man again." 

Her lips parted as her chocolate brown eyes widened at his words. 

Yeah, he'd let that sit with her for as long as she needed. Was she picturing him, lying on the stained mattress, stroking himself? Or did she picture him with his thick length in his hand and eyes shut in pleasure as he came over his fist and stomach? Was she turned on right now?  

Hermione cleared her throat nervously, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Mr. Malfoy," she said briskly. "What you do or don't do in your free time is completely up to you. I do not need to know about you… uh, you know?" 

Draco cocked his head slightly. "No, Granger, I don't know what you mean." 

Crimson painted patterns over her chest, creeping up her throat into the apples of her cheeks. He didn't miss how she couldn't meet his gaze, fidgeting nervously. 

"You know?" she mumbled. "The whole… Oh God! Please don't make me say it!"

"No, Granger, I think I want to hear you say what you think I'm doing at night." 

He knew what was going on in her mind. He didn't need to use Legilimency to do it, given that her thoughts were screaming at him. Hermione was supposed to be the professional here, the one who got to the very root that was and is Draco Malfoy, and not discuss what he did at night between his sheets with his hand.

But by the gods, she was thinking about it. 

Taking his time, Draco undid the cuff of his cheap dress shirt, rolling up his sleeves. He watched her the entire time as her gaze flickered towards the movement, watching him. Her eyes widened. Yeah, he knew what she saw—the dark ink of his tattoos, which he had gotten in Azkaban to cover up the Dark Mark. 

Contraband was easy to get when he gave the guards something as a bargain—his weekly food rations, names of other dark wizards, and the refusal of letters from his friends. 

"It's just masturbation, Granger. Pleasure in the simplest form," he said simply. "I'm sure you've done it before." 

"I—well, I don't—?" Hermione stammered. "This isn't… I mean, we shouldn't be having this conversation, Malfoy." 

"Shouldn't we?" he drawled, leaning back against the chair. "You asked what I did to relax, and I'm telling you exactly what I did within the last twenty-four hours since I last saw you."  

Her pink tongue darted out then to wet her lips, and unfortunately, he could not look away. That feeling consumed him then—unfamiliar and yet familiar all the same. Arousal. Plain and simple. A feeling he'd felt since he woke up with his first hard-on and wet dream at the ripe age of twelve. 

It also didn't help that she currently crossed and uncrossed her legs, as if trying to relieve tension.

Draco leaned forward, bracing his forearms against his thighs. "Do you touch yourself? When you're alone?" 

Whatever stupor Hermione was in, she seemed to snap out of it as she turned her attention back to the list. "Next question." Wonderful. "Did you have a happy childhood? What is one good memory you can share?" 

Immediately, his mind snapped into a pinpoint as his Occlumency walls quivered. 

"It was suffocating," he answered cooly, feeling his temperament waver. "My father was a dick. Anything else you need to know?" 

"Malfoy—?" 

"Anything else you need to know?" he clipped. 

Hermione just blinked, glancing down at her desk before clearing her throat. "And your mother?" 

Stark, familiar anger pulsed in his veins, down to his toes, making his skin tighten over his bones. He attempted to hold his well-constructed Occlumency shields in place, but the bricks kept crumbling down as more of his true emotions shone through. His mother always teased that it was the Black family trait—anger. Draco didn't want to believe it back then, given how often he'd seen his father raise his wand and hand to his mother. He wanted to believe that he was cursed with this rage from his father until he realized that he was nothing like him. 

Lucius Malfoy was a monster who sold himself to the Devil to gain status and opportunity.

Yet, it didn't matter how often he spun that tale; the lies always seemed to catch up with him. He'd read clips of the Prophet over the years to know that many thought he was Lucius' protégé. A carbon copy of the Death Eater. 

Standing abruptly, Draco told her, "We're finished today." 

"No, we're not. We're finished when I say we are," Hermione retorted, pointing back at the chair. "Sit." 

He let out a cold laugh. "No, I don't think I will. In fact, I'm going to go home." 

Grabbing his outer robes, he turned on his heels. He barely made it to the door when she said: "So you're pissed because I mentioned your mother?" 

Immediately, his shoulders tensed, and his teeth ground together as he turned around slowly. A sound ripped from him then that he'd never heard before, and he wondered just how much the moniker on her was true. If she really was the Brightest Witch of Her Age, she would have the better sense to shut up and run. 

Slowly, Draco walked up to her desk, placing his palms firmly against the surface as he leaned over. "Let's get one thing clear," he snarled. "My mother's name doesn't come out of your mouth ever again. She stays out of any and all conversations we have. I'll tell you everything you need to know about my asshole of a father, but my mother stays out of this. She's living away from all this mess, and she's happy. She suffered long enough, and I don't need your know-it-all-swotty-little-ass snooping." 

When she barely managed to squeak as she gawked at him, he stood, straightened his robes, and stormed out of her office. 

* * *

The comfortable water around her coaxed out the tension from her shoulders and the stress of the day. Soft 70s rock played from the Muggle stereo system that she and Harry installed, echoing over the tile floors of the massive bathroom. Effervescent swirls of steam mingled with the comforting scent of eucalyptus from her soaps. 

For once, she was happy to be alone with her thoughts. Harry was currently visiting Ginny in Ireland, where her team was preparing to play a triple header. Now, she was alone in the massive ancestral home of Grimmauld, and she couldn't be more thankful. 

Her conversation today with Draco played on a loop in her head. The way he somehow dominated the conversation left little room for her to actually crack the surface that Pansy was so determined to believe that she could. She grumbled to herself about it the whole way home, enough to earn a few curious glances on the Tube that she needed to grab a bottle of Pinot Noir from the store on the corner, settling for wine on an empty stomach and a bath. 

The iridescent suds slid over the emerald bottle as she dragged it to her mouth, and she tasted the tart notes of chocolate and cherries. She held it close to her chest, savoring the contrasting mix of cool and hot against her breasts. 

'Do you touch yourself? When you're alone?' Draco's voice echoed in her head. 

Without thinking, her free hand slid down over her peaks, feeling the pimpled skin rise at the sensation. In the back of her mind, she imagined they were someone else's hands—long, aristocratic fingers, slightly calloused hands, and a smooth voice. 'It's only pleasure…' 

Was it just pleasure? Like he said, it was the most base needs of any male or female. It was the experimental touch that many did as teenagers, figuring out what felt good and what didn't. However, Hermione could admit that she only touched herself intimately like that once—only once during the Christmas Hols her fifth year, weeks after she caught Draco and Pansy in the alcove. Then, she was so preoccupied with keeping Harry alive and being on the run that she couldn't, nor did she really want to. The tent with barely any water to take a proper bath or privacy was no place, and she'd gotten so thin from lack of food and fear that her sex drive was practically gone. 

That all changed as the years went on, and finally, during a Hogsmeade visit with Ron (in her official seventh year), he rented a room upstairs in Hogshead, and she lost her virginity. 

It was awkward and fumbled, but Ron tried to make her feel good. She knew he'd already had sex with Lavender when they dated, and with everything she did, she couldn't help but feel like she was somehow being compared. Ron denied it, of course, when she brought it up months later, and soon it became easier with them. 

Hermione liked sex. She really did. And she liked the pleasure she received and achieved, like it were a competition. God, she could even admit that she once suggested experimenting after she read a book on Sex Magick, but Ron always wanted to do it missionary or with her on top. 

Closing her eyes, she sucked in a breath as she let her thumb brush over her nipple, toying with the aroused peak. Warmth flooded low in her belly, making her spread her legs wider until her knees pressed into the sides of the copper tub. 

What did she look like at that moment? What would someone see if they walked into the steaming bathroom with her breasts bobbing amongst the iridescent soapy water and her legs splayed out as if she were ready to be claimed? 

Somehow, that thought alone was enough to make her core ache with the need to be filled—a feeling she hadn't felt in a very, very long time. 

Slowly, methodically, her fingertips made their trail down over the smooth planes of her belly until she reached the soft thatch of hair between her thighs. She'd given up grooming once she and Ron broke up, and it wasn't like she was going on dates or getting laid. God, she couldn't even think of the last time she actually had sex. It had been months before she caught Ron in bed with another woman. 

Instantly, the throbbing pleasure dissipated as that disappointed, pathetic feeling settled over her. Hermione snapped her knees shut, frowning as she took another swig from her bottle of wine. 

And as much as she hated the word, she couldn't help but whisper: "Fuck." 

Chapter Text

Hermione had to give Draco credit because he sure knew the various ways to get under her skin—something she feared when she accepted this arduous task from Kingsley. Damn him.

The rest of the week went about as well as that first day in her office, which could easily be described as unproductive and exhausting. 

Now, her ritual of baths and a bottle of wine was practically assumed every time she dragged herself home, grumbling her frustrations to Harry before locking herself away. 

What Hermione didn't do, however, was touch herself again. Thankfully. 

Draco's mood seemed to change when Harry finally announced that he could visit the Malfoy Vaults for money and other necessary items. The next day, Draco walked into her office in a new pair of fitted and quite expensive dress robes, a perfectly pressed Oxford with emerald-encrusted cufflinks, and shiny black Dragonhide boots. 

She only assumed they were expensive because he looked absolutely ridiculous. Not attractive at all. Nope! And she most certainly didn't gawk at him again when he rolled up his sleeves, revealing the ink on his forearms. 

Yeah… that was still something she was coming to terms with, given the fact that Draco Malfoy had tattoos. Sure, he had the Dark Mark, but she really didn't consider the dark ink something that screamed: 'Look at me! I have tattoos!'

Honestly? Draco seemed to be the last person on earth ever to do something like that to his body. He was Pureblood to the definition and had a lineage—that she just so happened to look into for research purposes only—that expanded back to William the Conqueror. 

From what she could see during their daily sessions (and it was still very little), he had covered the Dark Mark with an intricate design of roses and serpents. The snake seemed to slither down, jaw wide, and fangs bared until it reached his wrist as if trying to swallow his hand. The blend of flowers created a bed for the creature, concealing the skull that she knew was faded underneath. 

Did he have any more? And how did he get them? 

God, she was dying to know, but she didn't have it in her to ask that very question. Mostly because she knew he would say something snarky back to her, make her feel painfully uncomfortable (or aroused), and then he would get up and leave. Then… they would be back at square one. 

The reality? Draco was making her job incredibly difficult and, honestly, a living, breathing nightmare. 

It also didn't help that Molly Weasley kept pestering her to come by the burrow for supper sometime soon. Hermione loved Mrs Weasley—she really did—but the witch could be outright overbearing and didn't understand the term 'no.' 

To top things off, she was incredibly late today and didn't have time to charm her hair, which coiled into a frizzy, frazzled mess reminiscent of her school days. 

Stepping into the lift, Hermione raised a hand to smooth out her unruly honey-brown curls but paused. Oh, what good would it do? And it wasn't that she was trying to impress anyone. God, no. That was just… preposterous. But her hair? She spent years being teased and taunted for its wild nature. So when Victor Krum asked her to the Yule Ball, she made it her mission to learn how to use proper styling charms that Lavender Brown and Pavariti Patel were so fond of during their school days. 

Also, she was ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain that she had worn this shirt earlier in the week, and there was a coffee stain on the sleeve. 

She looked like a mess. She could admit that, and every bit of her wanted to blame Draco Malfoy. 

Huffing, she stepped off the lift into the dark emerald tile hall of the sixth floor, thankful that it was quiet today. She knew (from Harry) that most of the Aurors were out on fieldwork, and the others took their work home rather than sit at a cramped desk or be forced to do scut work. That typically entailed listening to the long line of people down by the courtrooms as they made their complaints on Thursday mornings. 

Harry claimed it was the worst job he'd ever have to do and would rather duel Voldemort a hundred times over than listen to every goblin, elf, ghoul, witch, and wizard as they quote-on-quote, 'Bitched their hearts out.' 

Yeah, didn't sound like much fun to her either, but right now, she would rather hear the vast complaints of the members of the Wizarding World than juggle the massive stack of papers in her hands, her travel mug of coffee, and several books that she'd been meaning to bring back to her office. Unfortunately, that meant her vision was blocked, and she was running on pure instinct to get to her office.

Her Mary-Janes clicked against the wooden floor as she rounded the corner, heels wobbling slightly over the uneven terrain. 

The door to her department opened on a phantom wind as she squeezed her way through, sighing at the feel of the antique Persian rug through the soles of her shoes. Yet, she didn't account for William's rubbish bin. 

A loud clang rang through the space as it toppled over, spilling crumpled-up pieces of paper and tissues. William had terrible allergies. The toe of her Mary-Jane caught in the bin's corner, causing her to stumble forward. Immediately, her grip loosened on the stack of books and folders in her hands, and in order to save her trusted travel mug of coffee, she sacrificed the precious leather-bound reads and her reports. They smacked against the floor, paper flying everywhere as the spines painfully cracked from how the books landed facedown. 

"Fuck," Hermione swore under her breath, wincing at the word that came from her tongue. But really? It felt necessary, given how scalding hot coffee sloshed against her wrist, earning a pained whimper. 

Double fuck. 

Hermione set the mug down on William's desk as she kneeled on the Persian rug, attempting to gather her things and not get remnants of spilled coffee on the parchment. 

The doors opened behind her, and the shadowed presence she felt against her nape was staggering. Her breath caught in her lungs as the light eclipsed against the far wall. She knew without a doubt in her mind that it wasn't William—and most certainly not Pansy, given the witch still refused to come in. 

"What are you doing, Granger?" Draco mused in a deep, heady tone. 

Hermione paused, fingers hovering over her mess as she glanced over her shoulder. 

Of course, Draco looked perfectly put together, looking far better than he did a week ago when he sat in Grimmauld Place in an oversized, ill-fitting suit. His platinum blonde hair had been cut, styled shorter on the sides and longer on top, curtaining his brow. Her gaze trailed methodically down his towering form as if he were the Statue of David in the Galleria dell'Accademia or Venus de Milo in the Louvre. The broad, Quidditch-approved shoulders filled out the bespoke onyx suit, foregoing dress robes today. Something she would come to be thankful for. The expensive material pulled at the muscle already forming on his thighs, and a part of her was a little jealous of the male metabolism and ease with which they could snap back with one simple workout. 

It really wasn't fair. 

Slowly, she made her way back up to his face, noting the curved arch of his brow. Warmth flooded her cheeks as she looked away, realizing that she was staring at him—gawking, really. 

"I dropped my things," she finally answered him, nervously clearing her throat. "Just—Just go into my office, and I'll be right with you, Mr. Malfoy." 

The clipped sound of his Dragonhide loafers filled the room as he walked towards her. She didn't realize that she was holding her breath until she found herself staring at her reflection in the toe of the shiny leather. 

God, is that really what her hair looked like? It was awful. 

Draco crouched before her, long, pale fingers outstretched as they grazed the mahogany and obsidian-bound leather books and tomes. Suddenly, she wondered what those fingertips would look like against her waist, gripping her thighs and spreading them almost obscenely. If she were being frank, they looked like they could wrap easily around her waist and touch at the other end, given the size. And she prided herself on the fact that she had curves, given she'd been so malnourished during the years leading up to the war and a few after. 

Anxiety and stress had stolen the vital nourishment that she needed for so long. Lately—or ever since Hermione broke up with Ron—she'd gained weight around her hips, and her breasts had gotten fuller. She went to a Muggle gym thrice a week, and the muscles she'd gained made her proud. 

The whole 'sexy' aspect was still something she was coming to terms with. Honestly? Hermione didn't even think that word was within her Oxford Dictionary. 

"You're hurt," Draco mused, dragging her from her thoughts. 

Blinking, Hermione looked up, meeting piercing silver eyes. It took her a minute to realize what he was talking about until she felt the throbbing pulse on her wrist. "Oh," she squeaked, looking back down at the stain on her cuff and the crimson watermark against her skin. "My coffee." 

His hand reached forward, wrapping around the small of her wrist then. The touch contrasted against the throbbing burn, like jumping into a lake in late spring when the waters were still icy and crisp—something that burned her lungs and swallowed her whole until it was all she could think of. 

Gingerly, he brushed his thumb against her pulse. God, what was she doing? What was he doing?

"It's fine." Hermione jerked her hand away, clearing her throat. "It's just a burn. I'll put some Dittany on it when I get home." 

Draco curtly nodded as he collected the rest of her fallen papers. She stood, accepting them. The minute she met his gaze again, she watched how his eyes shielded, as if a barrier had been placed over them. The once open silver was now a steely grey.

Without asking, Draco turned towards her office and entered the room.

Huffing, she followed after him. She kept her gaze averted from the tightness of his arse, wanting to smack herself for her leering already. It was impolite, and honestly, she was supposed to be a professional and not ogle her client—even if said client was Draco Malfoy: ex-Death Eater and Azkaban convict. 

Worse? The whole interaction between them moments prior left her unsettled. 

Taking a seat at her desk, she busied herself with the stuff on her desk as she asked: "What plans do you have for your future?" 

They'd been through the Ministry's list of questions, although he avoided nearly everyone and gave her a sarcastic, condescending remark instead. She quickly learned that he would skate around questions about his childhood and the war, and she was painfully persistent in getting somewhere with him. So, she figured the future would be the best place to start. 

"My future?" Draco huffed a laugh. "I don't have a future, Granger. If you are not aware… I'm currently out of prison on probationary leave, so I'm living day-by-day." 

Hermione sighed heavily. "Mr. Malfoy, if you're not aware, I must present Wizengamot and the High Council a full report that states you are capable of living in the Wizarding World and are not a threat." She lowered her gaze. "Which means that I need to, in full conscience, report that you have a plan—a job, a place to live, funds, and so forth." 

Draco leaned forward, giving her a condescending look. "You want to know my plan? Job? I doubt anyone will hire an ex-Death Eater, so we can scratch that. If they allow me to re-activate the Malfoy Seat, maybe I'll do that, but honestly? They are all complete assholes and dicks. A home? You have all my properties held in contention. But do I really want to live in the ancestral home where I watched the Dark Lord murder people? Not really? Your Ministry can have it. Money?" A low laugh escaped him, and for a second, the walls behind his pale irises flickered. "I have plenty of that, so don't you worry, Granger." 

Raising her chin, she faced him head-on. "You need to have a solid plan for a job. I promise you, people are more open than you think." 

"Really?" he purred. 

"Yes! I just think that—"

"And tell me, when you go into Diagon Alley, do people run the other way? Do children cry? Do people glare at you, spit at your feet, and call you a murderer? Do they tell you they wish you received the Kiss and that they shouldn't allow you out of a cell?" 

The words that she wanted to say seemed to hang on her tongue, unable to move forward. 

Draco's upper lip curled. "I didn't think so. You see, Granger, everywhere you go, people tell you how great you are and how thankful they are for your contribution to the efforts of the war. So whatever fucking little fantasy that you have in your head about how you're going to 'save' me—I'd lose it real quick. I'm not redeemable, and I don't particularly want you, of all people, meddling."

All she could do was blink, feeling as if every simplistic reaction was stolen from her and tossed out of the window at her back and down into the Ministry's atrium. 

"I don't even know why you are bothering to try," he went on, fingers digging into the arm of the chair. "You want to know the truth about my future? Either you'll find me inept to integrate back into society, or I'll live my days with Muggles. Ironic? Isn't it? That a Malfoy would rather live with Muggles than wizarding-kind." 

Given the number of individuals who came through the Department of Magical Rehabilitation and Displacement—either by their own accord or sought out by someone on their team—she'd heard her fair share of self-doubt, anxiety, and fear over the future, given the treatment of the past.

Muggle-borns who were unfairly questioned by Dolores Umbridge with Dementors swirling overhead, and then promptly had their wands confiscated and snapped before they were dragged to holding cells. Or the overarching fear many had when they watched their loved ones be struck down with a Killing Curse in Diagon Alley after a Death Eater raid. There were several other circumstances that she, William, and Pansy all had to listen to with open hearts and compassion while offering their aid and solutions. Every time, Hermione felt the weight of their grievances and fears. 

Now? Sitting here and watching Draco sneer at her with that cold, sheltered gaze, she realized that there was an overarching hopelessness that couldn't be managed with a tissue or words.

Honestly? It was something she never thought she'd experience from Draco Malfoy. 

Never. 

Was it her naïveté? Was it her own personal grudge she felt for him deep down, hearing him whisper 'Mudblood' in her ear? Or something else? 

The longer she looked at him, the more she saw that little boy with pale blonde hair holding his mother's hand on the platform as she straightened his robes, unaware that a Muggle-born with bushy hair and teeth too big for her small mouth was watching on. Then again, during their sixth-year, she watched with concern as said boy shrank in on himself, no longer interested in Quidditch, and found a love of potions in a darkly lit room. 

Human, she always thought. Or the idea that this could be the real him.

Yet, she knew that Draco Malfoy had been peeled apart and that the mundane bit of him was barely there. Sure, Azkaban would do that to a person given the conditions, but she could easily assume (from what small piece he'd told her) that a year of living with the Dark Lord had destroyed him. 

Somehow, she found herself wanting to tell him that she had scars, too—that her perfect safe-haven of a world was nearly destroyed, too. Sometimes… God, sometimes she didn't feel safe, and most of the time, she felt like people could see right through her as if she wasn't really there. 

But she held her tongue because if she learned anything from him over the single week together, she knew pity was not something he appreciated. So, she went about it with a different, pragmatic approach—fire with fire. 

"I'm starved," she said, standing as she brushed her hand over her blouse. "How about we go get lunch?" 

Draco huffed out a breath of air. "I don't want lunch, Granger. I want this session to be over so I can go back to my shitty flat." 

"Well, I want lunch, and you can't leave until I say we're done." 

"Don't I fucking know it," he grumbled under his breath. 

Ignoring him, she gathered her things. "What are you thinking? Indian? Italian? French?" she asked, thankful that she was leaving with less than she came with. 

Draco didn't answer her as he lounged with his long leg braced over his knee and his fingertips drumming on the arms. If she didn't know any better, she'd think that she was in the wrong office and somehow miraculously ended up in Draco's office. Except Draco Malfoy wasn't a Ministry employee, and this was her office. 

She leveled her gaze, trying to put on her best 'don't mess with me' face as she said: "Up." 

"Up?" he drawled, lips twitching as if amused. 

"Yes," she said simply. "You're going to get up, and we're going to lunch." 

"Granger, did you not listen to a word I just said?" 

"I did." 

"And did you not comprehend that I don't want to go to Diagon Alley and be forced to endure others' company?" His pale eyes narrowed, and if she had any common sense, she'd back down. 

Yeah, she wasn't the Brightest Witch of Her Age for nothing, and she wasn't about to let Draco Malfoy's little pity party and pretty eyes convince her otherwise. So, she dug down within herself, pulling out a tactic that would've made Pansy incredibly proud. 

Tugging on her coat, she walked around her desk towards her door and called over her shoulder, "If you don't come with me, I'll write in your report that you don't follow orders and are impossible to work with. I'm sure that'll go over splendidly with the High Council when they give you their review in five weeks." 

* * * 

"I thought you said we were going out to lunch, Granger," Draco drawled as the bell over the door dinged in the small antechamber of the restaurant. 

"We are," she told him. 

"But we're not in Diagon Alley?" Draco remarked, gaze flittering around. 

Unable to help it, she grinned, wondering what he saw when he took in the small French bistro. The walls were covered with a painted mural of the Seine, the Eiffel Tower, and the silhouetted, notable structures of the Arrondissements. Over the worn speakers played a circuit of music she imagined in a Jean-Luc Godard film or something starring Catherine Deneuve or Audrey Hepburn. It was utterly cheesy, and she could even say a bit gauche, but it was somewhere that her mum used to take her when they'd spend the day in London. 

The hostess approached them through the ivy-embossed archway. Hermione recognized her instantly as Seline, one of the owners' daughters. 

"Her-minny!" Seline said, revealing the gap between her front teeth. "It's been a long time!" 

While Victor Krum's constant inability to pronounce her name correctly irked her to where his passionate snogging wasn't worth it, she found Seline's way endearing. 

Hermione's grin stretched wider, matching the hostess before her. "It has! I was in the area and figured I'd stop in. Is Jaques still working?" 

But Seline wasn't paying attention to Hermione anymore. The hostess' hazel eyes seemed to widen, and her jaw slackened as she stared just beyond Hermione's shoulder. 

Right. Draco Malfoy. 

It didn't take much for Hermione's imagination to run rampant. What did Seline see when she looked at him? A ridiculously gorgeous man, too tall for his own good, with eyes that resembled the silver platters along the wall and the clouds lingering outside. Something intoxicating? Or maybe something that should be illegal? And was this all really necessary? God, Seline was practically drooling over him.

Again, ridiculous.

Unfortunately, Hermione had seen that look plenty before on witches at bars who hit on Harry and Ron, completely ignoring the fact that they were both taken. It used to bother her when she was dating Ron, but Ginny always laughed and said she considered it a compliment more than anything. Now? Something about it made her skin crawl with a craving to turn around and see exactly how Draco matched the hostess's stare. Was he giving her that lazy male smirk? Or what Pansy liked to call 'bedroom eyes'? 

"Who is this?" Seline purred, batting her lashes. 

"Oh!" Hermione blinked, yanked from her mental spiral, and smacked straight into the bizarre reality unfolding before her. "This is my—my—?"

The words fizzled uselessly on her tongue the moment she felt him. Draco Malfoy. The insufferable smugness seemed to radiate off of him, matching the heat as he pressed a hand to the small of her back. His fingers lingered—god, like really lingered—with the kind of casual possessiveness usually reserved for something far more intimate than appropriate in this situation. Yet, she found herself wanting to bury against him, or settle back against the broadness of his chest. Something about it felt like a well-worn jumper of a bath she craved to sink in. 

"I'm her boyfriend," Draco said smoothly, like they did this sort of thing all the time.

Her head snapped up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. Boyfriend? Boyfriend! What in God's name was he playing at? And more importantly, why the hell wasn't she pulling away?

Every bit of her brain protested (actually, it screamed at her), but all she could do was remain there. If there were a competition for stillness, she'd win. Easily. Worse? She didn't even blink as his fingertips began doing sinful things against the back of her wool coat.

A touch that dragged her back to this morning when she felt his touch in a far less intimate area.

Goosebumps flooded her skin, making the space between her thighs ache almost immediately. And maybe she was hallucinating, but there was that scent again, consuming the antechamber of the restaurant. That heady, woodsy scent of pine and mint. Something that reminded her of a dimly lit dungeon and sixth-year Potion's classrooms. Bad ideas. Prefect duties. And Slytherins. 

This was fine. Totally fine.

Hermione took a nervous step forward, placing space between them. "Do you have room for two?" she blurted out. "Or something?" 

Seemingly caught off guard, Seline quickly recovered as she grabbed two thick leather-bound menus and ushered them through the ivy-covered archway. With every step that Hermione took, she could feel Draco's presence hovering behind her. It also didn't help that they were the only ones in the restaurant, save for an elderly couple tucked away at a two-top table across the room. 

Seline placed them by the window, giving a view of the passing pedestrians on the pavement. It was a dreary, typical day in London, in shades of grey as the thick clouds covered most of the slate skies, obscuring any hint of the sun and casting a muted light over the streets. Any minute now, the concrete would be rain-speckled, and the view would be dotted by onyx umbrellas and trench coats. 

Navy leather-bound menus—worn at the edges and smelling faintly of old parchment and peppercorn—were placed in front of them as Seline breezed through the specials, her eyes expertly avoiding Draco’s face. Well, she had to give the woman credit. She knew how to back off. Ugh. 

Hermione, meanwhile, was desperately trying to pretend she hadn’t heard anything unusual in the last five minutes. Like, oh, Draco Malfoy casually introducing himself as her boyfriend. Just the thought alone made that scarlet warm creep up her throat, blistering her cheeks with evidence. But with every awkward pause and every pointed non-glance from Seline, the words echoed louder in her head. I'm her boyfriend.

Why on earth would he say such a thing?  

"We'll take a bottle of your Sancerre," Draco said smoothly, pulling Hermione out of her spiraling thoughts.

She blinked up at him, lips parting before she could stop herself.

Wine? Right now? Here? Together? Why? Hermione hadn't done something like this in—well, when had she done something like this? Maybe six months ago, when Ginny had forcibly pried her out of Grimmauld Place and declared it was time for a Girls’ Day complete with overpriced rosé and matching hangovers.

That had felt indulgent.

This? This felt… dangerous.

"Darling?" Draco purred, turning to her with a lazy sort of smirk. "What would you like for lunch?" 

Darling.

Something must've short-circuited in her brain. No, she was certain of it. Actually, if she didn't know any better, she would think that she was in one of her absurd dreams or had a violent case of whiplash. Darling? What in the world? 

Panicked, Hermione looked down and ordered the first thing she saw. "I'll have the Nicoise salad," she told Seline, handing back her menu. 

"I'll take the Croquet Madam," Draco ordered. 

Seline nodded her head before hurrying off and bringing back their wine. Now, with their glasses full of crisp Sancerre and a warm loaf of bread to share, tension resumed between them. Honestly? She welcomed it, given how bizarre the last few moments have been. 

Reaching forward, she took a sip of her wine. Citrusy notes of grapefruit and apples licked her senses, reminding her how much she loved the French white wine. 

Setting her glass down, she finally glanced up at him. Draco's posture was relaxed, much like how he usually was in her office back at the Ministry. It almost reminded her of Crookshanks with how his jaw twitched, and his shoulders tensed like his hackles were raised. 

She was almost positive that Crookshanks would absolutely hate Draco Malfoy. 

"What are you thinking about?" Draco drawled. 

"How much my cat would hate you," she admitted. 

Draco's lips twitched. "Animals love me." 

"My familiar most likely would not." Hermione raised her chin, feeling the already tingly buzz from the wine. "Crookshanks is part Kneazle and has an impeccable judge of character." 

He nodded, rolling his lips. "Ah. I see. So, you think my character is flawed? I thought you would already know that by now, Granger. Or did you not do your homework properly?" Draco tsked. "Less than Outstanding. Shame."  

Annoyance prickled against her nape, but she held her mouth shut. She would not resort to his below-the-belt antics. 

"Why don't we go over some more questions, Mr. Malfoy?" Hermione said, placing a piece of bread on her plate. 

"If I say no, are you going to do it anyway?" Draco purred. 

"Why do you make this so difficult?" 

"Why don't you tell me something about yourself? A question for a question—it can be our little game." 

Hermione blamed the wine as warmth filled her veins, and she cocked her head. "Why?" she asked. "Is that going to make you open up more?" 

Draco only shrugged. 

This was either going to go splendidly, and she would be able to wither away at his hard exterior, or he would end up pissed off at her and storm out of this restaurant. It was a flip of the Galleon. One half does the other, and all that nonsense. 

Contemplating this, she took another sip of the Sancerre. Alright, she had to give Draco credit; he certainly knew how to pick out a superb wine, but she was always favorable towards a French when drinking white. 

"Fine," she sighed heavily. "Why don't you go first?" 

Draco grinned, and suddenly, she felt out of her comfort zone. Great. 

"Why were you uncomfortable when I said I was your boyfriend?" 

"I didn't—didn't get uncomfortable," Hermione stammered. "I just thought that it was inappropriate when Seline was batting her lashes at you, clearly interested." 

"She's a Muggle." 

Hermione snorted. "So?" 

Yet, a part of her couldn't help but wonder if he still held that prejudiced attitude toward all Muggles and Muggle-borns. As much as she hated the words that most Slytherins (including himself) used to call her, she understood that these were just children being forced to succumb to the ways of their families. Most didn't know any better or had it beaten out of them at a young age—Sirius being a prime example and the exception. 

While Grimmauld had a vast library filled with every book known to wizarding kind, it also held Walburga's journals. Hermione hated that she read them, but it gave her an insight into understanding Purebloods, especially those who truly believed that non-Purebloods actually had mud in their veins. Disgusting? Undoubtedly. Did she find herself hovering over the toilet on many occasions? Absolutely. But it was the harsh reality.  

Somewhere in the line of Blacks, Walburga faced the same line of abuse. The hand that once hit Cygnus Black II hit Pollux Black, and that hand hit Walburga. 

It all stemmed from a cycle, and it trickled down like rot until it was cancer in their veins. 

"Oh, Salazar," he groaned. "Wipe that bloody look off your face, Granger—it's not like that." 

"Like what?" she asked, playing the game. 

"Look, I don't care if she's a Muggle. I care that she's a woman who looks at me like I'm a gods-damn meal." He gestured behind him towards the hostess stand. "I wasn't a human to her then—I was something to be won. I've seen it before, and I'll see it again by our kind if I'm ever really accepted back in society." 

"And if you are accepted back?"

Draco considered this, gaze drifting out the window. "You know, if the war never happened and that—that monster didn't exist—I'd be married by now. My mother and father would've undoubtedly had a marriage contract written up for me by my fifth year of school." 

He shrugged, the movement slow and deliberate, as he lifted his eyes to meet hers. The world outside seemed to fade away, the sounds of traffic and chatter muted, as if time had come to a standstill. The minute their eyes locked, a gentle warmth spread through her body, enveloping her in an intimate cocoon. 

Shaking off the feeling, she looked nervously down into her lap. "Do you wish it had happened?" she asked. 

"No," he told her. "I mean, yeah, it was talked about—with Parkinson, actually." 

Somehow, that knowledge made her stomach twist as bitterness filled her mouth. The image of Draco and Pansy tangled together in a dark alcove filled her mind, and she wondered if they ever talked about it—if that was before or after she witnessed the undiluted pleasure crossing the witch's face. 

"Obviously, it didn't happen," Draco drawled, picking up his wine. "We didn't get married, and instead, I ended up in prison. Funny how that works out." 

"Do you wish it worked out?" Hermione asked. 

Draco sighed heavily. "I wish you wouldn't do that." 

"Do what?" 

"Turn all serious and professional. Just—?" Draco's jaw worked. "Just have a conversation with me as a… you know?" 

"A friend?" she offered, feeling her spine straighten. 

"Actually? Yeah. Talk to me like I'm Potter or Weasel or someone. Don't—Don't treat me like I'm some project that needs fixing. I'm not some Muggle charity case. I hate fucking hate that." 

"Mr. Malfoy, I—?" 

"And I don't want sympathy, either," he told her. "Salazar, don't be like the rest of them. Don't keep trying to fix me. You can't fix me like you fix everyone else. I just… Can you just not do that, Granger?" 

Emotion rippled off him as magic sparked around them. It tasted like apples and a crisp fall day—like the scent of the forest after it rained. 

She'd seen this before with others—the denial of everything that they'd experienced. Draco had demons, and she knew that. So, right now? All she could really offer him was his sense of normalcy, like he wanted—like she would want if the roles were reversed. 

She bobbed her head. "Of course, Mr. Malfoy. Whatever—?" 

Draco barked out a laugh, rolling his eyes. "For gods' sake! Stop calling me 'Mr. Malfoy.' That's my bloody father, and I hate it when people call me that." 

Hermione picked at the skin around her thumbs under the table. "Okay, I can do that." 

"Good," he said smugly. "Now, you haven't touched a sip of your wine, and you said we're to enjoy our lunch here." 

She arched a brow. "Are you coercing me to drink?" 

His lips twitched. "No, never." 

That same tingling warmth spread through her again, filling her veins like bubbly golden Champagne. It was an addictive feeling that she didn't entirely want to think about and should brush away if she knew better. Unfortunately, she didn't; it had been so long since anyone dragged out the entirely human reaction. 

Reaching forward, she grasped the thin stem of her wineglass and lifted it to her mouth. Taking a generous sip, the citrusy liquid embraced her palate, revealing the vibrant notes of zesty grapefruit and the subtle aroma of elderflower that lingered in the background.

Licking her lips, she glanced up, expecting to meet a pair of silver eyes. Except, his entire attention was solely on where her tongue danced over her mouth. If she didn't know any better, she could've sworn that his pupils expanded, filling with an unquenched hunger.

Warmth bled up her throat, pooling against the apples of her cheeks. 

Seeming to notice, Draco immediately looked away. She watched as those walls slid up with each roll of his shoulders and the crack of his neck. 

It was something that she noticed him doing more often than not. 

Harry had already informed her that Draco was an accomplished Occlumens and Legilimens. Not that Draco outright told anyone within the Auror Department this, but it was something the Healers in Azkaban mentioned. Hermione knew Harry well enough to know that he was keeping this information to himself to use when it suited him best. 

Sometimes, she wondered if the Sorting Hat had made a mistake when Harry could be just as secretive and cunning as most Snakes. 

"I hope you weren't offended," Draco said, dragging her from her thoughts. 

She blinked. "What?" 

"That I pretended to be your boyfriend," he clarified, jerking his chin towards the hostess stand. When she didn't answer him, he arched a brow. "What? Will Weasel get his pretty little knickers in a twist or something?" 

She looked away then, unable to answer the question. 

"Trouble in paradise?" he mused. 

Unable to help it, she rolled her eyes. 

"Now, look who's not answering questions." A low, rumbling laugh escaped him, sending shivers down her spine. Draco braced his forearms against the table, and Hermione couldn't help but swallow thickly as she took in the dark ink that peeked out of his dress shirt. The blue-green veins against the fragile skin of his hands bulged, traveling over his fingertips. And she found herself wondering again what they would look like against her body—naked and bare. What would they feel like as they held her? 

That warmth festered against her skin again. Wonderful.

"Like I said before, Granger—a question for a question," he purred. "I'll answer anything you ask of me, but you have to do the same." 

She narrowed her gaze. "So you can what?" 

He shrugged. "So you get what you need out of me, and I…" he drifted off. "Maybe I just want to get to know the Brightest Witch of Our Age." 

Yeah, she didn't believe that for one second, figuring that he just wanted to know her weakness and use it against her. Hell, wasn't that what he'd already done in school? When he said her teeth were too big for her mouth, hexing her and forcing Madam Pomfrey to shrink them down? Although, she considered that a bit of a win. Whatever. Or when he called her a 'Mudblood' in front of the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch team? When he made her feel awful whenever she answered a question correctly? Or the obnoxious volume of her honey-brown curls? 

However, she had Pansy to thank for the spells that managed to tame them now into heavy waves that fell lush and full to below her breasts. 

Did Draco notice that now? Did he see that she wasn't the Muggle-born girl anymore, but now the Head of an entire department that was created for her? 

Shaking her head, she shoved the thoughts away. Slowly, she turned to meet him head-on. His metal gaze penetrated every inch of her as if he could see right under her skin to the bone within. If he could see every thought that lingered in her head. It unnerved her and made her feel raw, like she was the one who needed fixing.  

Maybe she did. Maybe. 

"Fine," she finally said. "A question for a question and nothing else." 

"Excellent." 

"Great!" she blurted. 

"Why did you get weird when I mentioned Weasel?" Draco asked, dragging the wineglass to his lips. She couldn't help but watch how his throat bobbed as he drank. 

God… 

Clearing her throat, she took a sip of her own wine, relishing in the citrusy tang before saying, "We broke up." 

Draco just blinked at her. "Come again?" 

"We broke up." 

"Yeah, got that…" he drawled. "But why? Weren't you two like—" he waved his hand in a flourish. "I don't know—the 'it' couple or something?"  

She rolled her eyes. "We were absolutely not the 'it' couple. That's just… ridiculous." 

"Is it?"

Thankfully, their meals arrived. Though a part of her wished she'd picked the croquet madam like Draco instead of her tuna Nicoise salad. The delicious scent wafted across the table on the breath of ether. 

Her stomach agreed as it rumbled in annoyance. 

"So what?" Draco pressed. "Did Weasel finally realize that he was famous now and end it?" 

Stabbing at her salad with her fork, she explained: "I broke up with him because he cheated on me." 

Silence filled the room around them. The only sound to be heard was the soft chatter of Seline in the antechamber and the French love-song playing over the speaker. 

Losing a breath, she glanced up, meeting Draco's gaze. Unable to help it, she flinched back, shocked to see the outright fire that burned molten ore within his depths. He didn't seem to see her then, as if she were nothing but a hologram. It felt unnerving—if she was being honest. Hell, it was a look she wasn't expecting out of Draco Malfoy. 

"How?" he asked, but there was ice there within the singular word. 

"I caught him in bed with someone else," she whispered.

His upper lip curled as he finally looked at her rather than looking through her. "Who was it with?" 

She swallowed thickly. "I—I don't know. Some Muggle girl he picked up after his shift," she explained. 

Honestly? She was unsure why she was even telling him this, but somehow, it felt better than keeping it all in. Yeah, she told Harry, but a part of her didn't want to put him in the middle, given that it felt more like a divorce than a breakup. She couldn't even stand to be in the same room as Ron, knowing that every time she saw his goofy grin and crinkled green eyes, she also saw his head thrown back in pleasure as he came inside someone else—as he screwed someone in the wooden four-poster bed they purchased together. 

The bitter tang of disdain flooded her senses, ruining the taste of the lettuce in her mouth. 

Frustrated, she shoved the dish away and grabbed her wine before she downed it all in one go. Draco (seeming to understand) poured her another glass. 

"Thank you," she mumbled. 

He dipped his chin, but she didn't miss the smirk that graced his lips. "I honestly don't know what to say," he told her. 

"It was months ago, and as much as I would love for Karma to find him—I don't really care." 

"I think you care, Granger." Draco leaned forward. "I think you care a lot more than you think." 

Desperate to change the subject, she blurted: "What are some Muggle things that you want to try?" 

God, she didn't even know why she asked that, but it was the first thing that came to her mind. Yet, as she watched his mental walls slide back with military resistance, she couldn't help but feel a little disappointed that he hadn't fought against her and demanded that she tell him more. There was anger within those depths—that much she was certain of. Was it anger over Ron shagging a Muggle when the Weasleys were Pureblood? Or something else? 

She was dying to know, but that felt like a very slippery slope. 

When Draco didn't answer, she amended, "It was on your list of questions—What Muggle things would you be willing to try?" 

Arching a pompous brow, Draco leaned back in his chair. "I'm at a bloody Muggle restaurant, Granger." 

"Didn't you go to Muggle restaurants before?" she asked. 

Draco shook his head. "My mother and—" She watched as his throat bobbed, which he concealed with the graceful movement of his fingertips against his lips. "My parents… they're—well, you know. My mother was from the House of Black, and my father was raised with the intention of being the Malfoy Heir, and then he raised me as such. The only thing either of them knew was what their parents taught them. They were Purebloods. And I know what you're thinking—why didn't they try to be more accepting of Muggle-borns?"

Well, she wasn't necessarily thinking that, but this was the most forthcoming he'd been the entire week. And for once, it wasn't laced with sarcasm and condescension. God, she'd take it. 

"They didn't know any better," Draco continued, oblivious to her inner conversation. "For a while, that was just how things were—Purebloods and their Sacred Twenty-Eight. The Rosiers and the Notts and the Blacks and the Lestranges and the Malfoys and the Averys. Pureblood balls and débutantes and society gatherings. Glitz and glam and all that fucking shit. It was how things were done. Parents set up marital matches when their children were barely out of leading strings, and most of the time, they pulled their daughters out of school."

A gasp escaped Hermione. "That's ridiculous!" 

"Yeah, well, it was life." He shrugged casually. "My mother was pulled out a month before she graduated from Hogwarts. A fucking month. Why? Because they said that their marriage would bring the wizarding world into the light—though, I should say darkness. They were married on Summer Solstice at dawn."  

She could imagine it then: a Malfoy wedding at the 16th-century style manor home as the sun crested over the rose gardens that had been in their family for nearly two hundred years and reflected off the Renaissance-style windows. There would be dramatic entrances of dark lacquered carriages winding up a mist-fallen path to the Governor's drive. 

Unfortunately, Hermione knew all the details of the ancestral home, thanks to the book she purchased on Pureblood Manors in England and France. Guess who had an entire chapter about their home? The Malfoys. 

It became obsessive, really, after her second year, when she just wanted to know about the separation of classes and society within the Wizarding World. Okay, and there was a very brief moment where she imagined herself living within those stone halls, dressed in some long, sheer white nightgown like Francis Ford Coppola's 1992 movie adaptation of Dracula. 

But again, that was before the war and when her adolescence was stolen from her—robbed—when she was taken by Snatchers and Bellatrix carved into her left forearm on the drawing-room floor. 

"You asked me a question?" Draco's rich baritone pulled her out of her thoughts. 

Oh. Right. Budger. Sitting up straighter, her tongue darted out to wet her lips. "What's a Muggle thing you want to try?" 

He nodded as if considering. "A friend once told me that Muggles have these boxes that play things, like—like our photographs. They move and tell stories and such." 

Her eyes widened. "Oh! You mean like a telly?" 

"A telly?" Draco tasted the word, swishing it around like the most expensive blend of wine. "Huh." 

"It's wonderful, really," Hermione gushed. "You can watch movies and programs. My mum and I watched every royal Jubilee! Oh, and there are so many good films. My mum loved—" but as soon as the words came to the forefront of her mind, so did the memories. 

Fuck. God, and she really hated that word, but it felt like the only emotion she could truly comprehend at the moment. 

It was rare that Hermione harped on the fact that at age seventeen, she Obliviated her parents and sent them packing to Australia—all done to keep them protected against Death Eaters. She'd been right to do so, given her house was compromised only a few days later, and she'd seen the aftermath even when Remus told her not to. But then the war ended, and he was dead, and there was no one to tell her no. 

Great. Now she was thinking about Remus Lupin on top of her parents—parents, who might as well be dead, considering that they had no idea she existed in this world. 

She mourned that loss years ago, but there was always a rich ache that festered inside. The wound felt like it was only covered with a Band-Aid when it needed proper stitches and medical care. 

Shaking her head, she glanced up at Draco. He was watching her, grey eyes focused on that way that made her feel uneasy, yet something lingered there. 

Clearing her throat, she asked: "What was your favorite memory back at school? Can be with Pansy or anyone." 

Draco seemed taken aback by the question.

Honestly? Could she blame him? It was somewhat out of left field, but this whole conversation was rapidly becoming a therapy reflection for her, rather than for him. Something that she wasn't that keen on in the grand scheme of it all. They were here for him. Not her. 

"Do you really want to know about me and Parks?" he asked, leaning forward. "My favorite moments with her? 

"Actually, I do," she sniffed. 

Draco let out a low laugh. "Right. So you want me to tell you about all those moments with Parks in hidden corridors or behind tapestries, Granger?" he drawled out her surname like it was silk, and he was trying it on for size. "The times when we would sneak out of our beds?" 

That same damn memory of Pansy and Draco pressed up against each other in the shadows filled her mind. The look of pure pleasure that was written on Pansy's face as Draco's hand disappeared under her skirt. 

"You were Prefect, Granger. I'm sure you know what happens." His lips curved into a crooked smirk. "If not? You can use that brilliant brain of yours to figure it out."

Yeah, she could use that brilliant brain of hers to figure it out and let her imagination get the better of her. Except it wasn't that hard to picture them, given what she saw—what she knew.

Something occurred to her then—Oh, God! Did he know? Did he know that she knew? That she sometimes used that memory of the two of them when she slipped her hand between her thighs at night? That she did think about the two of them together.

Warmth flooded her cheeks like an inferno. 

"Tell me?" he pressed. "Did you ever sneak behind a tapestry?" 

Hermione tried her best to scoff. "This is hardly an appropriate conversation, Malfoy." 

"Isn't it? You asked me what my best memory was at school. Well, I can tell you that it's not Potions or Quidditch Pitches." Draco cocked his head, considering. "I change my mind; I have a few good memories on the Pitch that don't necessarily involve Quidditch." 

The image of tapestries was replaced with wooden stands and tent flaps, and she imagined Draco holding onto obsidian hair as he thrust it into her eager mouth. 

She knew it was utterly wrong, but she couldn't help the warmth that pooled in her lower belly, settling between her thighs. It took every bit of strength within her not to cross her legs, hoping to relieve the pleasure. Instead, she remained perfectly still as undeniable tension permeated and throbbed around them.  

Draco's silver gaze focused on how her breath hitched and her skin pebbled and tightened over her bones. Every bit of her wanted to ask him what he was thinking of right now. Yet, she couldn't—or rather wouldn't. 

First, this was not appropriate behavior between them. He was her client. Better yet? It was Draco Malfoy—ex-Death Eater. She was supposed to evaluate him, and it felt like the other way around. Second? Well, she couldn't think of a second reason right now. 

Honestly? She blamed the now-empty bottle of wine between them. The emerald glass mocked her with their warped reflection of two individuals who should not being having this lunch together. 

Straightening her spine, Hermione leveled her gaze with a look reserved for Ron and Harry. "We're done with this conversation," she told him. "Now, tell me about something else—what's another memory? What was your best O.W.L.?" 

Draco scoffed, shaking his head. 

"What?" she demanded. 

"Seriously? That's what you want to know? What my best fucking O.W.L. was? Which I'm sure you already know, Granger, since all you strive for is insufferable perfection and being a royal swot. You can't even take a simple joke or have a laugh." 

Hermione bristled. "I can take a joke!" The minute those words came out of her mouth, she realized how defensive she sounded. Great. 

"No, everything has to be by the book with you." 

Attempting to redeem herself, she blurted, "This luncheon with you isn't by the book." 

Draco let out a low laugh. "No, it isn't. When was the last time you actually relaxed? You so wound up; I can see the steam practically billowing out of your ears." He gestured carelessly at her. "You're tighter than a clock, and it shows." 

"I am not!" 

"No? When was the last time you got laid, Granger?" Draco's gaze dragged over the length of her, slowly and methodically. It was like a serpent prepared to strike. "When was the last time you let someone else take control?" 

Warmth bled through her core, over her belly, and between her thighs. It pooled there like molten lava, swelling and prepared to explode. Maybe he was right—maybe she was tightly coiled, given how easily a few simple words could turn her on, and from him, nevertheless. 

Draco's pink tongue darted out to wet his lips. "I bet it would do you some good," he drawled. Oh! 

No, this wasn't how this conversation was meant to go. Again, this was supposed to be about him and not about how she needed to get properly laid by someone other than a pathetic shag she had months ago with her ex-boyfriend. 

Smirking, Draco stood as he tossed down some change. "I think that concludes today." 

Her lips parted, but she couldn't find the right words as she watched him toss down the change before grabbing his overcoat and leaving the restaurant. Her natural instinct was to get up and go after him, yet she couldn't help but stare at the crisp pounds with Queen Elizabeth looking back at her. Where in the world did he get Muggle money? 

Shaking her head, she stood, deciding that the conundrum was for later when she wasn't tipsy off the Sancerre. 

Because right now? All she could focus on was the way her heart pounded inexplicably, mingling with her frustration and lingering arousal. Worse? She knew she absolutely, positively shouldn't be feeling this way about Draco Malfoy. 

Chapter Text

"It doesn't matter if he's my boss—he's a dick!" Ginny's voice rang out over the steady throb of '90s pop music at the swanky bar where they found themselves seated that Friday night. 

Hermione honestly didn't even have it in her to wince at her best friend's crude words. Instead, she took a large gulp of her Pinot Noir for good measure, letting the tart notes of cherry and chocolate lick her senses. 

At least she could taste that. Ugh. Honestly? She blamed it on her conversation with Draco from yesterday, leaving her utterly confused. 

Last night, Hermione found herself staring at the charmed canopy above her bed for longer than she'd like to admit. She also found herself doing other inappropriate things that she swore she wouldn't do ever again—especially with Draco in mind. It was utterly wrong, and she knew that it was just flights of fancy in her mind. A damn fantasy. An idiot's decision—if she was being honest with herself. 

She wasn't. 

"And then I told him I've been using the fifty-ninety angle since I first used a broom!" Ginny continued. "I know how to manipulate it, and I'm sorry that the other flyers aren't as skilled as me. I mean, yeah, he has the whole sexy Welsh thing going for him, but you should hear him, Min. Utter arse! He makes my brothers look like saints! If he weren't my head coach, I'd Bat-Boggey him to next Sunday." 

"Another round?" the bartender asked, earning their attention (or rather Ginny's), considering Hermione was still stuck on her annoying, persistent thoughts of Draco Malfoy. 

Ginny leaned forward, flashing the man a wicked grin as her bright hazel eyes gleamed under the dim bar light. "You're spoiling us, Ian," she purred. 

"You lovely birds know you're my favorite customers," Ian laughed, waving his hand to dismiss Ginny's flirting. "It's on the house." 

Ginny sighed, watching as Ian walked away. "Now he's really spoiling us." She cocked her head. "Has he always had that great of an arse?" 

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

They'd been coming to the Bitter Raven since it opened in the fall of last year. It was one of those new, swanky wizarding bars that were becoming all the rage around Muggle London—something completely hidden from sight, yet out in the open where, if they wanted, they could easily find a place not filled to the brim with young Ministry workers and other twenty-something-year-olds. 

The Bitter Raven was an industrial ode with modern design. Dim, moody lighting cast long shadows over the indigo walls and a massive, polished metal bar that stretched over the back half of the place like the spine of some futuristic beast. Leather couches and club chairs created small nooks and meeting spots for patrons, and in the center were high-top tables with custom-made barstools. Everything oozed understated luxury, from the well-curated bottles of liquor (both Muggle and non) to the antique collection of various framed mirrors installed behind them. 

Among the chatter of the patrons, the faint thrum of modern-day music. 

Ian dropped off their drinks, and Ginny turned to face her, clashing her glass of amber liquor against the blood-red wine. 

"Cheers!" Ginny beamed. 

Hermione grinned, sipping the Pinot as the sweet cherry notes invaded her senses. It was far better than her bathtub wine, which made her increasingly aware of the bad habit she'd formed in the last few weeks. 

Folding one denim-clad leg under her, Ginny arched a brow. "So? Tell me how it's going with the prisoner?" 

"Doesn't your boyfriend tell you everything?" Hermione countered. 

Ginny just scoffed. "Harry tells me the PG and stupidly revised version of what I want to hear. What I want to know is what he's like. I mean, is the ferret utterly insane? Is he as much a prat as he was in school?" 

Her spine straightened at how the redhead said it—the accusatory nature she'd heard many times before, and the underlying words Ginny was saying: Is he still a Death Eater? 

Hermione shook her head. "It's fine—he's fine," she explained. 

Ginny rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her whiskey. "Okay, now you're worse than Harry. C'mon. Spill. What's going on there?" 

She didn't know what came over her as she reached forward and downed her entire glass of wine in one go, ignoring the tense burn that filled her chest in the aftermath. Ginny arched a brow, but Hermione ignored her as she signaled for a refill from Ian. 

Leaning against the cool metal of the counter, Ginny's fingernails drummed against the sleek surface. The backlighting cast molten flames against her pin-straight locks and black leather jacket with the Weird Sisters' band-tee underneath. The witch oozed that untethered coolness that Hermione couldn't match with her disheveled curls and the crease etched between her brows that was deep enough to plant a garden in. Now, Hermione wished she'd worn that new brown-suede skirt and silk blouse, instead of her current worn jumper and Levi's that had clearly seen better days.  

Actually, she was almost sure that there was a grass stain on the knee from the last time she was forced to get on a broom at the burrow. 

Hermione let out a long sigh, fingers fidgeting with the thin stem of the wineglass. "I don't know what to do, Gin. I mean… God, he's so infuriating. I can't get a thing out of him on my own, or he'll just start spilling random pieces of information. Dropping bombs on me like it's him talking about the weather. It's like whiplash, and it's only been two weeks of this. Two weeks!" Warmth flooded her cheeks. "I can't grasp what's going on inside his head." 

Ginny's brow quirked. "You mean, besides his usual Slytherin superiority complex?" 

Hermione shot her a look but didn't answer as her finger traced the rim of her glass. 

Yeah, that was one way to put it—the other was his inability actually to open up unless it was a game. Then, he had the irritating ability to get under her skin like a parasite and fester there, twisting appropriate conversations into something that was far from it. 

She couldn't stop thinking about how he watched her—studied her with that intense gaze of his. Had his eyes always been that grey? No, they weren't necessarily grey but a stark silver, like something she'd find in her jewelry box or the curio case at Grimmauld. 

Stop that! 

Hermione shook her head. Okay, yeah, nope! She needed to get all thoughts of Draco and his bedroom eyes and his arrogant charm out of her head. Curiosity would most certainly kill the cat with this one. 

Reaching for her wine, she took a very healthy gulp. 

"Ah…" Ginny hummed, earning her attention. "I see." 

"See what?" Hermione asked, and the crease between her brows deepened. 

"Either this whole Malfoy thing is turning you into an alcoholic, or you have a crush on him." 

Heat burned Hermione's nose as she choked on her wine. "What?!" she blurted, setting down the glass with a soft clink. "Absolutely not! I do not have a crush on—on him, Ginerva Molly Weasley! That's just—just preposterous!" 

"Is it?" 

"Yes! And entirely unprofessional!" Hermione nervously looked around, dropping her tone. "Ginny, he's my client." 

"He won't always be your client," the witch pushed. 

Hermione shook her head. "You don't understand. Kingsley made it perfectly clear that I could not have romantic relations with any Azkaban prisoners—ex or otherwise—entering into this program. It would discredit the entire thing! Not to mention that the High Council and Wizengamot would see any of my work as void or biased if I did!" 

"Ah-ha!" Ginny smacked her hand against the bar, earning curious glances from passing patrons. Unfortunately, the attention only made Hermione's cheeks bleed further. Great. "So you do admit that you have a crush on him?" 

Hermione's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of the water before she decided to click her teeth shut. A familiar ache settled along her jaw, radiating into her temple. Honestly, though? What could she say? And better yet… did she have a crush on Draco Malfoy? 

She didn't know. 

She couldn't know. 

She wouldn't know. 

Ever since Hermione was a young girl—even before she found out she was a witch—she prided herself on always laying out the facts, assessing them, and presenting herself with a well-thought-out argument. The habit continued when she realized she was the outlier within the wizarding community—the rare phenomenon like a total solar eclipse. She was the Muggle-born witch who had something to prove. She didn't believe in Divinations because it was a flip of a coin, but she relied on Arithmancy and performed each and every calculation to determine the best course of action. The only time she messed with Fate was during her third year when Professor McGonagall gave her a Time-Tuner so she could add to her coursework. 

Ron and Harry never questioned or challenged her ways because, by the time they found themselves in trouble, she'd already thought out, devised, and presented her plan to save them. She kept Harry alive on her intelligence alone, and not in the selfish, sacrificing way that Dumbledore did to him in the end. No, she did it out of love and respect and knowing that he needed to use that part of his brain for other essential things, like destroying Horcruxes and keeping Voldemort out of his head.

But Draco? He challenged her; she realized. He did it in a way she wasn't prepared for and that no Arithmancy calculations could predict. 

It was irritating, like an itch she couldn't scratch. 

Ginny leaned in. "Well, if it's not a crush, then he's clearly playing games with your mind." Her tone turned serious as she placed a hand on Hermione's thigh. "Listen—" 

Before Ginny could finish, a familiar figure approached the table. The two pulled apart as Harry's shadow eclipsed them. 

"Thought I saw you over here," Harry said. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of Ginny's head before gesturing towards Ian for a pint. 

"And you—" Ginny said pointedly, "—are interrupting girls' night." 

"Oh?" Harry laughed softly, dipping his chin at Ian as he took a long sip of his ale. "Anything interesting happening?" 

"We were just having the most enlightening conversation," Ginny continued. "Three guesses who about." 

Hermione groaned in protest, praying that her friend wouldn't say anything about her utterly incorrect theory on this so-called 'crush.' Okay, one, she most certainly did not have a crush, and two, she was about to hex Ginny if she didn't keep her mouth shut. 

Of course, being raised around six brothers did nothing to tamper Ginny's filter. "Hermione told me how difficult your little pet project is." 

Harry groaned. "He's going to be the death of me. I swear it." 

But Hermione could see that behind his wire-framed glasses, those emerald eyes held the tiredness she felt in her bones. 

"Huh?" Ginny scratched her nose. "Funny because Min, here, said the same thing." 

"You too?" Harry asked. 

Hermione sagged against the bar, but as much as she wanted to complain to her friends, she didn't have it in her to spill or harp on all the things wrong with Draco. Maybe it was because a part of her could understand it—the crass attitude and sarcastic retorts that covered up the hurt and the anger underneath, or how he was devoutly protective over his mother. She knew she could pick Harry's brain anytime she wanted, but the pair rarely discussed work at home, and Draco was not about to be the exception to the rule. Then, she also didn't want Harry to use it against Draco whenever the latter went in for his once-a-week D.M.L.E. mandatory assessment and analysis of the magic he used. 

"Well, my end isn't much better," Harry admitted in her silence. "The report I'm filing tomorrow? Not exactly glowing." 

She frowned deeply at that. Her first-week report had been bitter and a disaster, but she knew that tomorrow's report was… different. There was hope within the lines that she had yet to finish—which is what she should've been doing right now, instead of drinking at the Bitter Raver. 

Ginny must've noticed the twist of guilt on Hermione's face, because the witch pointed a finger and said: "Oh no! Don't you dare do that, Min! This isn't on you, and you know it. If the prat doesn't want to cooperate with you and Harry, that's on him. If he ends up in Azkaban again, it's only because he's a know-it-all and a dickhead—not because you aren't good at your job." 

Well, that wasn't exactly what she was thinking about, but now the thought swarmed her brain like bees. What if she wasn't good at her job? What if this was a test by Kingsley? Oh, budger. 

Harry gave Hermione a searching look. "Ginny's right, Mione. You've done an excellent job so far. I've read your reports. He's just uncooperative. Don't let him make you feel like this is your fault." 

Hermione nodded, worrying her bottom lip until she tasted blood. The guilt and her own self-deprecation lingered like a sickness. Reaching for her wine, she took a long sip, wondering (and not for the first time) why Draco was able to get under her skin like this. 

It was really maddening. 

"No one can save that miserable soul," Ginny commented. 

Desperate to change the subject, Hermione asked: "Who are you here with, Harry?" Yet, immediately once she asked the question, she regretted it when she saw the unease that settled into Harry's readable features. 

Of course. Because this night wasn’t bad enough already.

"I'm sorry," Harry pouted. It used to be cute when they were thirteen, trying to avoid getting detention, but now she found it annoying. "Ron asked to get a drink, and the only place I could think of was here." 

Yeah, she knew the only place he could think of was here because she had a ten-minute-long conversation with him earlier when she told him she was meeting his girlfriend at the Bitter Raven for a much-needed drink. The only reason the conversation went on so long was because they both were curious about the unknown and anonymous owner of the new establishment, taking their guesses of who it might be. 

The bar pulsed with an electric energy that seemed to seep into every corner. The polished indigo walls reflected the dim glow and the faint scent of leather mixed with the tang of spilled spirits. Voices and laughter rose and fell in waves, the sound blending with the low, throbbing bass of the music.

Hermione sat still against the barstool, her wine glass nearly empty, her eyes fixed on the table’s glossy surface. The cold, modern aesthetic of the place was doing little to calm the storm in her chest. 

She glanced up at Harry, her voice steady despite the unease twisting in her gut. "It's fine," she told him, lying right through her tense smile. 

"Ron's just—?" Harry shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. "He won't bother us." 

"You say that now," Ginny grumbled into her whiskey before she sighed heavily. "I'm going to use the loo." 

The minute Ginny left them, Harry's shoulders slumped. "I'm really sorry, Mione. You know I wouldn't—fuck," he swore under his breath. "I'll get him, and we'll leave before he notices you."

Hermione sighed, waving him off as he leaned over and kissed her temple. She knew that Harry would most likely get distracted in the process either by following his girlfriend into the loo for a quick shag (honestly, gross), or someone would strike up a conversation about him and the war. Harry would preen like a bloody peacock, and then their discussion would turn into a rant. 

Deciding it was best if she just went home, given that their 'Hen Night' seemed to be over, she dropped some Muggle bills on the counter, paying for their tab and giving Ian a nice tip. Even if he said it was on the house, she still felt bad for leaving without giving something. 

Grabbing her coat, she turned to leave, except the Fate's seemed to have some cruel sense of humor as she spotted Ron. Huh? Imagine that, because really, this night couldn't get any worse. Right? 

Ron weaved through the crowd with the same casual confidence she had once loved. Now, it just felt almost arrogant. Sinister. He wore a dark button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing his freckled forearms. His jeans were well-fitted, his boots scuffed but stylish. The faint scent of his cologne—a warm, woody musk—wafted toward her, triggering an unwelcome wave of nostalgia.

He looked the same—freckled, tall, and utterly unbothered. His gaze locked on hers, and he with that familiar, lopsided grin. 

God, she used to love that grin, but now it only made her stomach twist. 

“Mione,” Ron greeted. “It’s good to see you.”

She swallowed hard, her jaw tightening. “Ronald.”

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, leaning in slightly. His voice was warm, too familiar, and utterly oblivious to the tension radiating off her.

“No, thank you,” she clipped. She fixed her gaze on the table, willing herself to remain composed.

Did he think that this was some kind of casual catch-up? That she invited him here? God, that she'd forgotten everything he did?  

Ron, oblivious or just not caring, pressed on. “Listen,” he began, his tone shifting to something softer. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. About... everything. I’m sorry, Hermione. I really am.”

“Ron,” she started.

”Mione, we had almost five years together. That has to mean something. I know I screwed up, but—”

Her fists clenched under the table, nails digging into the worn denim of her thighs. With each lie that he spoke, his words blurred into the background. 

A part of her couldn't help but wonder what would happen if her knight in shining armor burst through those doors and put an end to this nonsense. It would be like one of those scenes from her romance novels that were entirely and utterly tooth-rotting with the amount of smut and unfathomable scenarios. 

She could picture it now, a ridiculously tall man storming into the bar. Everyone would grow quiet as he prowled towards her, platinum hair gleaming under the dim lights and his tailored coat billowing behind him. He’d cross the room with that sharp, predatory grace, gray eyes fixed on her like she was the only person in the world. She wouldn't be able to look away as he stopped at the bar, fixing Ron with a cold, scathing glare and saying something devastatingly precise with that cunning, blade-like tongue. "Take your hands off of her." Something that would make Ron shrink back in his seat.

Would he punch Ron? Would he risk getting sent back to Azkaban for her? Would Draco take her hand, pull her to her feet, and lead her out without a word, and— 

The fantasy shifted before Hermione could even comprehend. Oh god! When did it change to Draco? And why was she thinking of Draco at this time when her ex-boyfriend and once friend was battering her with his missed apology? 

“Mione?”

Her name snapped her back to reality; for once, she was thankful for the interruption.

Looking around, she realized that Ginny and Harry had both snuck off somewhere, leaving the two of them alone. Honestly? Hermione couldn't even find it in herself to be mad because one look at her face and Ginny would know precisely what Hermione was thinking. And that was a huge problem. 

“I should go,” she said abruptly, sliding out of her chair. 

“Wait.” Ron’s hand shot out, grabbing her arm. "Mione, just wait." 

The whining tone grated against her flesh, sending heat to the spot where his fingertips pressed against her bicep. 

"Ronald," she said pragmatically. "Let go of me." 

Ron shook his head, causing his shaggy red hair to fall over his blue eyes. "Baby, c'mon. Don't do this. We've got history, Mione." 

"History?" Anger pulsed its way to the surface, where it festered from the minute he walked up to her. She yanked her arm free, but she could still feel his touch. "You erased our history, Ronald Weasley." 

A few nearby patrons had turned to watch, their curious eyes flushing her cheeks with embarrassment.

"You’re being overdramatic," Ron said, exasperation creeping into his voice. "Merlin, Mione, can’t you loosen up for once?" 

"Loosen up?" Her voice rose, sharp and trembling. "You want me to loosen up after you brought another woman into our home—into our bed—after almost five years of my life? How dare you?"

She tried to remain calm… collected in something that utterly screamed: I have it all together. But with each pitying look passersby gave her and from the stupor on Ron's face, she knew it was hopeless. 

Ron opened his mouth to respond, but she didn’t let him. "God, do you have any idea of how it felt to walk into there and see you? Do you—?" Her voice cracked, but she pressed on, her words coming in a torrent. “You don’t get to waltz in here and act like this is something we can fix with a drink and an apology. I told you before that this isn't fixable. We're done." 

"But I miss you, Mione," Ron said. "I made a mistake—a big one. It won't happen again. You know she didn't mean anything." 

"Didn't—?" Hermione laughed, shaking her head as she felt the scalding tears prickle against her lids. "If it didn't mean anything, then you should've done it!" 

The room had gone quiet, the low thrum of music the only sound as heads turned to watch the scene unfold. Ron stared at her, his face pale, and his usual confidence absent.

Without another word, Hermione turned on her heel and stormed toward the exit, her breath coming in shallow, angry bursts. She didn’t bother looking back, not at Ron, not to find Ginny or Harry. She wanted to be mad at them for abandoning her—leaving her to pick up the pieces and the mess that was Ronald Billus Weasley, but she didn't have the energy in her, and right now, she really wanted a bottle of wine to herself and a bathtub. In fact, she was about two floo calls away from branding the time 'Bathtub Wine.' 

But as she reached the door, she caught sight of two familiar figures: Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini. They lounged against a corner booth, their sharp, calculating gazes following her every move like serpents on the prowl. 

Her steps faltered momentarily before pushing through the door into the night. She didn't want to think about the way they watched her—studied her. Right now? Her emotions were swirling in a storm she could barely contain. She hadn't felt this out of control since discovering she was a witch. And honestly? Screw Ron. Screw this whole night, gone completely and utterly wrong.

She kept her pace brisk, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds as if she assumed Ron would follow after her. Really, she didn't put it past him, knowing he didn't take no for an answer. A fault of his and stubborn Gryffindor pride. While Harry's temper was usually tampered with and contained, only to explode at inconvenient times, Ron's was like a bomb. It had no rhyme or reason she learned in those months on the run, and it didn't help when he had to wear the locket around his neck. A part of her wondered if she should've seen the signs then. If she should've run for the hills and never looked back. Maybe she wasn't the Brightest Witch of Her Age, after all, and the moniker was all off. 

Turning the corner, her gaze caught on the flickering lights of a bodega and delicatessen. Immediately, her stomach grumbled in agitation, as if telling her that her best option was to ignore the turn to the Apparition point and go inside. When was the last time she ate? Better yet, did they sell wine? 

The warm glow of the bodega was practically a tiny oasis amidst the gloomy urban city. The cool autumn air bit at her flushed cheeks. Thankfully, the street was quiet except for the occasional passing car, whose headlights cast fleeting shadows across the brick walls. 

Looking over her shoulder one more time, praying she wouldn't see Ron charging after her, Hermione crossed the near-desolate street. 

Some things were indeed blessings. 

The bell over the door dinged softly, and she was immediately greeted by the scent of warm bread, deli meats, and the sausage turning in the warmer on the counter. Shelves were stocked with various bags of chips and tooth-rotting candy, while the iceboxes that lined the walls held sodas, ice cream, and other frozen treats. Overhead, the crackle of Never Let Me Down Again by Depeche Mode played on the radio, and the quiet chatter of the clerk on the phone. 

Hermione wandered the rows, fingers grazing over the edges of the shelves as she searched for her bathtub wine. It wasn't until a familiar figure caught her eye that she paused with a soft, "Oh!" 

Draco Malfoy stood by one of the freezers; one large, veined hand on the open door as he surveyed the contents. She didn't know what was more shocking—the fact that Draco was here, in a Muggle bodega in London, or his current casual attire that was so incongruous with the man she knew. An onyx T-shirt clung to his towering frame, pulling against the newly formed muscles in his arms. It emphasized his athletic build that she'd seen in their youth, but now, seeing it on a twenty-something-year-old Draco, it felt… different. 

Her mouth went dry, and all the air seemed to seize in her lungs as her gaze trailed over the dark jeans that sat low on his hips. 

Jeans. Draco Malfoy was wearing jeans. 

She blinked once and then twice and maybe a third time for good measure because what the hell? 

Her gaze drifted, unbidden, to the tattoos that were stark obsidian pools over his exposed pale skin. Oh, God… A sinuous dragon curled along his right arm, its scaled body twisting with magical ink, coming to life as it made a path around his bicep. In the flickering light of the refrigerator, it shimmered faintly, and she never felt more of an urge to reach forward and touch it. 

No, she wanted to do more than just touch it—she wanted to memorize it. She wanted to know what else he had on his body, and more than that, she wanted to see his left arm. 

As if the Fates were in her favor, Draco turned, and Hermione almost sighed in relief. He seemed just as shocked as she was, given silver flared behind his gaze as he took her in. 

Arching a pale brow, Draco mused, "Granger." 

Her lips parted, but she couldn't find the words as she let her gaze drag over the stretched fabric over his chest and down his left arm. The serpent was even more beautiful without the covering of finely tailored dress robes. It lay on a bed of roses, basking there as it coiled and slept. She wondered then what it meant when she saw it with its jaw wide and waiting to strike at Draco's wrist.

Beyond the serpent, his bicep was covered with a constellation map, starting from below and beyond the sleeve of his T-shirt. The stars connected by thin, silvery lines. Between them, runes were inked with elegant, swirling patterns. She recognized several of them from Ancient Runes—one of her favorite classes back at school. ūruz—ᚢ—strength, energy, power. Ansuz—ᚨ—breath to Odin. Raidō—ᚱ—journey and determination. Gebo—ᚷ—sacrifice, offering, furnishing help and substance to all broken men. Perthro—ᛈ—divination and Fate. Naudhiz—ᚾ—need. Mannaz—ᛗ—purpose and harmony of intelligence. Tīwaz—ᛏ—sacrifice. Eihwaz—ᛇ—transition of life. 

She stared, fascinated, as her gaze snagged on the objects in his large hands: a carton of ice cream and a bottle of Pinot Noir. She was caught up in one flavor in particular. 

"Mint chocolate chip?" Hermione muttered, nose wrinkling. "Seriously?" 

Draco rolled his eyes. "You can't honestly tell me you don't like mint chocolate chip, Granger." 

"It's disgusting," she laughed, the sound coming out lighter than either of them expected. "It's practically toothpaste." 

"Toothpaste?" 

"Muggle toothpaste," she clarified. 

His brow furrowed. "Muggles eat toothpaste?" 

"No! Oh, god, no! I mean that there's—oh, never mind." She waved her hand, realizing that he wouldn't care. "I forget that our kind uses mouthwash instead. Foolish really. What good will mouthwash do against cavities and decay?" 

Draco tilted his head, clearly amused. "You're oddly passionate about this, Granger. Feeling alright?" 

"I'm just saying there are exceedingly better options out there for ice cream. Literally anything else." 

"Like?" 

"I don't know—" she paused, considering for a second. "Neapolitan." 

Draco scoffed. "Basic. Simple. Mundane." 

Hermione folded her arms over her chest. "Any more descriptives you'd like to add there?" 

"I think I covered it," he smirked, revealing a singular dimple on his right cheek. 

With a heavy, exhausting sigh, she asked: "What are you doing here, anyway?" 

Raising his wrist, Draco arched a brow. "Can't really go anywhere else," he told her. "And I was… uh, craving strawberry, but they were all out." 

Hermione tried her best to ignore the silver bracelet on his right wrist, knowing that it was basically a prison manacle. Every move that he made would be tracked. Every breath that he took, they would know. He was only allowed in the Ministry and home, and if he needed groceries or any necessities, he could walk safely around the three-block radius of his provided flat. 

"I should ask what you're doing here?" he asked, shifting in his Dragonhide loafers. 

God, can't the man just not dress well for one second? She blamed it on the wine in her system, but she could readily admit that he looked as fine as she imagined without all those bespoke dress robes and Oxfords. He should really wear T-shirts and jeans more often. They did wonders for him, and she was about to tell him just that when her stomach betrayed her with a loud, uncomfortable rumble.

She pressed a hand to her midsection, heat rising to her cheeks.

Draco's pale gaze flickered to her stomach and then back to her face. Without a single word, he turned and walked over to the deli counter. 

Hermione watched in utter confusion as he placed an order, keeping his tone low and firm with the clerk. The pair argued back and forth in a language that Hermione's wine-logged brain couldn't compute. Again, she blamed it on the wine and, by default, Ron's interruption of a perfectly good girl's night. Harry? Well, she had other various choice words for him, considering he led the adulterer to the very bar she claimed was hers tonight. Could she even claim the Bitter Raven? God, she was more inebriated than she thought. 

Moments later, Draco returned, handing her a warm toastie wrapped in parchment. 

Her lips parted as she blinked up at him, but Draco was already heading out the door. The bell above gave that merry little chime. Forgetting her original mission of why she came into the bodega in the first place, she followed after him. 

"Now, wait just a minute!" Hermione called, making Draco stop right on the edge of the pavement. She waved the toastie up in the air. "What is this?" 

Draco slowly turned to face her, clutching a brown paper bag of his own purchases of mint chocolate chip (a problem they needed to rectify in their sessions next week) and wine. "That," Draco drawled, "is a sandwich, Granger. And a thank you would suffice just fine." 

"Thank you," she said without thinking. "But why?" 

"Your stomach was about to crawl out of your abdomen, and I didn't particularly want to be blamed for the death of Hermione Granger," Draco explained, holding her stare. "It's just a sandwich. It won't kill you." 

Yeah, but the thing was, it didn't just feel like a sandwich. It felt like something more. It was an offering that she didn't know how to receive. And that terrified her. 

Her heart gave an unfamiliar flutter at the thought. Wonderful. 

The streets were quieter now (as if they weren't before), but it was shocking for ten o'clock at night in metropolitan London. The soft buzz of the bodega's sign flickered, casting shadows over Draco's prominent aristocratic jawline and cheekbones. She never noticed it before, but his nose had a slight kink to it, almost as if he'd broken it and never had it fixed. 

Her lips curved then as she remembered when she punched him third year and broke her thumb in the process. Professor Lupin had been kind enough to fix it for her.  

"What?" Draco hummed, rich baritone filling the void of their silence. 

Hermione shook her head, lips stretching wider into a full grin. "I was just thinking about the time I punched you." 

Draco nodded slowly. "Third year. Good times." He paused, considering something before he asked: "I always wanted to know why you did it. I mean, hell, Granger—you're the last person I'd expect to be throwing punches." 

"If you don't recall, Malfoy, you were quite annoying with your cronies." 

"So I deserved it?" he asked. 

"I'd say so." 

Silence encased them then like a blanket. The air smelled of damp pavement and wood smoke, the remnants of someone's fireplace lingering in the breeze that passed through the street. 

Her fingers fumbled with the paper wrappings on her toastie, desperately wanting to bite into it. Oh, what the hell. Hermione bit into the crispy bread and melted cheese, moaning almost pornographically at the sensation. She might not have gotten her bathtub wine, but this was nearly ten times better. A saving grace if she was being honest. 

Glancing up, she caught Draco's gaze, watching her every movement. It made her heart beat faster as he stepped closer, the tension between them a taut force she couldn't compete with. It was tangible that if she wanted to reach out and touch it, she easily could. 

"Granger—" Draco motioned to her mouth, "—you've got a bit of—" 

A loud, shrill sound echoed through the street, causing both of them to step back, gasping. Her wand vibrated violently in her coat pocket. 

She cursed softly, pulling it out as unease crept over her. Quickly, she silenced her wand. 

"What was that?" Draco asked, tone sharp. 

"An alert," she muttered, glancing up at him. "It's the wards at Grimmauld. I set the alarm to notify me if—if Ronald ever entered the house without Harry's permission. He's there now."

Draco's jaw went rigid, tendons rippling down his throat. No longer was there warmth behind that gemstone gaze, but steely shadows that danced with war in mind. His presence seemed more prominent, more commanding, as it towered over her. She wasn't used to this with Harry or Ron, for that matter. They were both tall—yes—but this was something else. 

Something dangerous that if she weren't so foggy from the wine, she'd run. 

"Where's Potter?" Draco asked, tone low and steady. 

Hermione glanced down the road, as if she could still see him. "At the bar still, probably—maybe. Oh, I don't know. Clearly not at home." 

"Which bar?" 

She turned to look at him. "The Bitter Raven." 

If she weren't looking, she would've missed it, but a look of shock and unease flickered over his features. Interesting. Yet, she didn't push him on it, given she could see the way his Occlumency shields shadowed over him like a demon. 

"You're not going back there," he said firmly. 

She folded her arms over her chest. "I can handle it." 

"Yeah, but you shouldn't have to, Granger." 

Lips parting, her resolve wavered with each passing second and heaving breath from her chest. 

There was it again—that fierceness within his expression that left little to no argument to be had. She wasn't used to this. She didn't have to do this back and forth with Harry and Ron when they were younger. Whatever she said, they never argued with her, and they just simply went with it because she always had a plan to counteract their childish recklessness and sometimes stupidity. 

"Come to mine," Draco said, tone softening slightly. "I live—well, you know where I live." 

"Malfoy—" she started. 

"Just until he leaves or Potter gets back. I don't want you dealing with that idiot." 

Her mind raced with all the various reasons as to why she should refuse, but each argument became less valid the more she had time to think about it. Draco was right—she was more inebriated than she thought, and she saw the desperation behind Ron's gaze at the Bitter Raven. 

Slowly, she nodded her head, muttering, "Fine." 

Draco inclined his head, expression unreadable as he turned and began walking down the street. And every bit of her wondered if she was about to walk into a serpent's den and fall right into his trap. 

* * * 

Draco was beginning to wonder why he'd even invited her over in the first place as he watched her take in his flat. He really blamed it on several occurrences and probable happenstance within the past half-hour. Firstly, out of all people he could run into at the bodega, it had to be Hermione fucking Granger with red-rimmed eyes and pouty lips that she kept dragging between her teeth. Then, he just had to buy her a damn sandwich. He blamed that one on her stomach that kept rumbling and the fact that she wasn't so subtle as her gaze raked over him, taking in his tattoos. Yeah, he saw how she looked at them with those big, molten whiskey eyes. It wasn't the first time she'd noticed them, and he knew she had so many questions in that little head of hers. 

Questions. It was always damn questions between them.

Then, her wand just had to go off. He'd heard that alarm before, but played the dumb, unknowing wizard. It was a Pureblood spell—ancient magic forwards to alert if any unwanted guests crossed into familial homes. A way for them to protect their lineage and bloodline. How did she learn it? Better yet, where did she get her hands on Blood Magic rituals? Because that was the cost of erecting those wards. 

Well, well… Hermione Granger sure had a trick up her sleeve—he'd give her that. 

It made him itch to know more, which was a problem. 

Then, of course, she had to go on and say that it was that fucking waste of space. Draco could admit that he was… let's just say, surprised that they broke up. He honestly expected the two of them to start popping out Weasels the minute they left school. His mother always said that the whole bloodline was ridiculously fertile, that it was obscene. 

Something about that thought grated against his nerves like a nail against his Occlumency shields. 

Fuck. He didn't want to think about the witch having Weasley's kids. Her belly swollen as she carried his offspring. Or even the thought of them fucking in bed. 

Draco rolled his shoulders down his spine as he moved deeper into his flat. He set the paper bag on the counter, listening to the wine clang against the wooden surface. 

For the first week of living here, Draco almost wished he were back in his holding cell at Azkaban. No matter how much wandless magic he could do, it wasn't enough to remove the worst bits of the place. Thankfully, he was able to get a new sofa—something plush and ridiculously expensive that Theo pushed on him when he showed up unannounced and was still as annoying as ever. 

Theo took one look around the flat and told Draco that he needed to move. Immediately. Their conversation (of course) went nowhere, even if Draco told him repeatedly that he couldn't leave and was on bloody fucking house arrest. Blaise, indifferent to the whole thing, swiped one tawny finger over the thick layer of dust on the mantel and grimaced. 

"You're better off just destroying the whole place and starting from scratch," Blaise mused dryly. "It's disgusting, Dray."

"What he needs is new furniture," Theo added, leveling Draco with a glare. 

"What I need is a wand," Draco told them. 

"We can get you a wand," Theo told him. "Whatever you need." 

Draco closed his eyes, feeling his temper press against his Occlumency shields. The minute he saw them through the peephole on his door, he threw up his walls. He knew it was pointless, though. Theo was his best mate—the damn wizard knew him better than Crabbe and Goyle ever did. They were raised together, and most of the time, they spilled every dark secret they had to one another in the tenebrous shadows of the witching hour. 

Reaching forward, Theo touched Draco's forearm, right over the Dark Mark. Call it instinct or whatever, but Draco just flinched away, turning around. 

"Look," he began to his friends. "I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but—can you just leave? Go back to how your lives were before. Honestly." 

"Aw," Theo pouted, leaning against the back of the stained sofa that Draco was still terrified to sit on. "It's cute that you think you can pull that woe-is-me shite on us, mate. Really. But I haven't seen my best friend in over five years, and he somehow forgot to write in all those months he was away. Guess mummy and daddy's fancy penmanship tutors really were a waste of the Galleons." 

Draco rolled his eyes but didn't goad him. 

"We're here to help you, mate," Theo went on. "We're not your enemy." 

The next day, Theo's own personal house-elves appeared with magick'd furniture and strict orders to clean the place up until they could eat off the floor. Salazar, Draco didn't even want to think about all the alerts that the Ministry got or the tongue-lashing Potter would give him in three days' time. He wasn't even certain if he could come in contact with Blaise and Theo, but he assumed that if Aurors hadn't busted down his door by now, he was in the clear. 

Hermione cleared her throat nervously. "This looks…" Her words died off as she looked around. 

The flat was still dinghy and utterly against everything Draco knew, but at least he had a set of leather club chairs, a plush sofa worth more than any piece of ancestral china at Malfoy Manor, and a Persian rug. The walls were no longer stained with watermarks and splotches that were questionably brown and moldy. Cobwebs didn't decorate the corners with their tiny arachnids, and the bathroom was so damn sparkly that Draco could (in fact) eat off of it. 

Draco didn't really know how to say thank you. His mother, of course, taught him manners—or rather, the various Pureblood tutors that were hired—and his father taught him to take a room without permission and command it. 

But Draco knew Theo didn't need words. Theo just… knew. He might want to punch the wizard half the time, but a part of him was grateful. 

Hermione turned to face him, and he hated how bright her eyes looked against the light pooling over the kitchen floors. 

After years of living in Azkaban with no windows or even the chance to see the sun—Draco now hated light. He preferred to stay in the dark, sulking around his flat like some Transylvanian Vampire. Theo purchased him a bunch of table lamps, or 'mood lighting' as the wizard put it, but Draco hadn't turned them on. In fact, he wasn't even certain he turned on the overhead lighting once. 

Maybe he should light a fire? Or… fuck. What was he actually supposed to do with her? 

If this were just any other witch that he brought home (and if he didn't have the history of Azkaban behind him), he'd have her pinned up against the wall and his mouth on her throat. He'd have her writhing on his thigh as it pushed between the sweet spot of her legs. He might slip his hand underneath the cotton fabric, knowing she'd be dripping for him. It would be ambrosia, and he'd feel that hunger to devour the space there. 

Draco could admit that was one thing he was really fucking good at—oral. 

Cunnilingus. Going down. Eating out. Whatever it was called, he knew he was good. Hell, he had a reputation of sorts around the whole thing, thanks to his ex-girlfriend. He prided himself on it back at school every time Pansy came apart on his tongue in under a minute. He'd pull two more orgasms out of her in five minutes and still have time to make it to class. He even had a pretty little Beauxbaton's witch tell him he had 'z'tongue of z'French men' during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. 

None of that really mattered anymore to Draco because he didn't have a sexy little witch to take home, and he wasn't about to stick his cock in a Muggle. 

Gods, he wasn't that pathetic… yet.

No, now he only had Hermione Granger standing in his living room of a flat that wasn't technically his, but some cheap thing purchased by the Ministry for a bloody experiment for which he was the test subject. 

The whole thing was ridiculous, but he counted down the days like they were his salvation. 

Without asking, Draco opened his cabinet and pulled out two glasses. He could feel her eyes on him as he poured them both from the bottle he purchased at the bodega. It was cheap. Utterly so, and he would've been embarrassed because his mother raised him better than to serve shitty wine, but again… he didn't fucking care. 

His mother wasn't here to tell him otherwise, and the closest wine shop was just outside the bounds that the Ministry set forward. Another annoyance of his, if he was being frank about the whole thing. 

He made a mental note to ask Theo's persistent house-elf to get some the next time the annoying creature stopped by. A nice Bordeaux or a Barolo or Barbaresco or a Châteauneuf-du-Pape—something other than sixteen-pound wine. 

Picking up the glasses of red wine, he walked towards her, slow and calculated. Her doe-eyed gaze tracked his every movement like he was some hunter. He'd noticed how she sometimes got that almost frightened look in her eyes, countering the heat he didn't miss like a hawk. Good. She needed to be scared of him because he wasn't a good man. He wouldn't sugarcoat things with him like she tried to do. He wouldn't be sweet if he ever had the chance to— 

Draco shut those thoughts out with a snap of his mental shields. 

"Here," he murmured coldly, fingertips grazing against her own as she accepted the wine.

Hermione flushed, dragging that damn lip between her teeth. He turned away then, wandlessly igniting the fireplace for them. 

"I didn't know you could…" Hermione's words drifted off, but he knew what she meant—she didn't know he could do wandless magic. 

"Yeah," he told her, keeping his back towards her. It felt like she was breathing down his nape, and the force made his shoulders tense. "My father taught me." 

"Oh, when?" 

Draco shrugged. "Fifth year, maybe? Before he got himself locked away in Azkaban." 

He'd long since gotten over his grudge towards Potter that he held sixth year when he blamed him for getting his father arrested. Draco had the sense to understand now that it was Lucius's fault—everything was that bastard's fault, really. The Dark Mark? The whole being forced to join a dark cult and fuck up his life thing at the ripe age of sixteen? How his mother and he were forced to endure living with the Dark Lord while his father rotted away in prison. The fear he had day in and day out, terrified of the unruly Death Eaters that came and went as they pleased. The only thing that kept his mother from being used as a plaything that they could pass around was Bella's favor and pull with the Dark Lord.

Even then, sometimes, when the Dementors got bad enough, he wondered if Narcissa lied to him—if worse things happened that she didn't dare to admit. 

He didn't ask, though.

He didn't think he had it in him to know the truth or if he could live with himself. 

The only thing that kept him grounded now was the simple fact that Narcissa lived in Paris, far away from all that madness and innate darkness. She was safe, even when he woke up drenched in sweat, panicking that she wasn't. 

Draco hated that—hated feeling weak and vulnerable. He didn't want to worry or have a care in the world because that's how a twenty-something Heir to a massive family fortune should behave. 

But he wasn't that anymore. War did a number on him, and he paid the price by spending five years following in a cell with rats and vermin.  

He could feel Hermione hovering awkwardly behind him. Sighing, he turned, gesturing towards his sofa. "Sit," he told her. 

Swallowing thickly, she obeyed. Unable to help it, his lips twitched as two words popped into his head: good girl. 

Draco took the club chair next to the hearth. He propped one denim-clad leg over his knee as he took a sip of wine, covering his amusement as she squirmed nervously. He really wondered how the Ministry expected him to take her seriously. Yeah, sure, she could be serious. Sometimes. Mostly, though, she was a royal pain in his arse and a swot. She was easily intimidated and excessively pushy when she wanted to. And by the gods, it was so damn easy to get a rise out of her—to watch that warmth bleed up her throat and paint it such a pretty color of red. 

"Why did Weasley go to Grimmauld?" he asked, curious. 

Hermione nearly choked on her wine. "What?" 

Rolling his eyes, he repeated, "Why did he go to your home, Granger?" 

She worried that damn lip again. "I suspect he wasn't… satisfied with our conversation from earlier or embarrassed that he didn't have the last word. He has a temper." 

Draco's fingers dug into the leather armrest. He wanted to ask her—craved to know if that blubbering idiot touched her or hurt her—but he wouldn't. 

So, instead, he said: "You canceled our session today." 

She hummed, glancing down at her lap. "I just… I figured we could both use the break." 

"And yet, here we are, Granger. You're now sitting in my shitty little flat drinking wine with me. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you like my company." 

Hermione jerked her head up at him, narrowing her eyes. "For the record, Malfoy, you invited me into your flat." 

"Shitty," he corrected. 

"I beg your pardon?" she gasped. 

"I said 'shitty little flat.' Figured you'd want to be correct about the whole thing." 

A sharp burst of laughter came from her then. Molten amber bled into her irises, glittering against the roaring flames that silhouetted her untamed curls and petite frame. However, he knew he really couldn't call her petite, considering she was above average height for a witch. Her shoulders shook, and her lips twitched, and Draco found that the sound didn't bother him as much as he thought. 

Interesting. 

"What?" he drawled. 

"It's just…" Hermione shook her head, calming down. "God, Malfoy, this flat is far from shitty now." She gestured around with her free hand. "You managed to turn this… place into the bloody Ritz." 

"Hardly." 

She quirked a brow, settling deeper into the sofa. "Do you know how long it took Harry and me to fix up Grimmauld? Years. And even then, there's still so much that needs to be done. That place is like a pit of despair." 

Draco rubbed a hand over his mouth. "I don't doubt it one bit, Granger. My mother told me stories of dinner parties there when she was just a girl, and they gave me nightmares for weeks."

"Yeah, try living there." 

There was a pause before Draco asked: "Why do you?" 

"Why do I what?" Hermione pressed. "Live at Grimmauld?" 

"Yes?" 

The witch shrugged one shoulder, taking a long sip of her wine. Plum bled over her mouth, staining the rosy skin. He couldn't help himself as he tracked the movement of her pink tongue, licking away the remnants. What did it taste like? Feel like? Sweet? Or was it a blend of her? 

Draco sucked in a breath, yanking his gaze away. Fuck… 

"I don't really have anywhere else to live," Hermione answered. "Ron and I… we broke up, and I didn't know where to go." 

"Why not buy your own place?" Draco mused. "I'm sure whatever ridiculous salary they're paying you at the Ministry is more than enough." 

She stiffened, quickly changing the subject. "So you've been busy," she said, gesturing around his flat. "Who helped you with this?" 

Draco chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Theo." 

Her brows rose. "Theo? As in Theodore Nott?" 

"The one and only," he mused. "What? Are you going to turn me in for having contact with him?" 

She seemed taken aback by the question as she floundered for a response. "What? Oh, God! Oh no, Malfoy. I mean, you can have contact with whoever you want as long as you aren't leaving the country or—you know." 

Yeah, he did know. His four-block radius prison, excluding the Ministry, and wherever they deemed fit for him to travel in the London area. 

"I saw him tonight," Hermione finally said in their silence. "At the Bitter Raven." 

Draco huffed, taking a sip of his wine. "I'm sure you did, Granger." 

"What?" 

"Nothing." 

Yeah, he'd let her sit on that for however long her brain took until it overheated. Did she know how easy it was to read her? How, if he really wanted, he could slip into her mind, and she wouldn't even notice? That he could stay in there for hours and find everything that he needed to know? She was an open book, just like the ones on his nightstand. 

Yet, that didn't feel like the right thing to do as Hermione yawned. If Draco were the proper Pureblood gentleman he was raised to be, he'd send her into the floo to Grimmauld, but he found he quite liked the image of her sitting on his sofa and drinking his wine. 

He liked it all a little too much, knowing it was utterly wrong. 

Whatever. He barely had morals anymore after living in Azkaban for years. He memorized his screams within those first few months, and they became a lullaby. He knew what it felt like to have a Dementor hovering over him in his sleep, stealing every good memory from him: laughter in the Slytherin Common Roon, the press of his mother's lips against his brow, riding a broomstick, a trip to Hogsmeade, periwinkle silk, freshly fallen snow, a rainstorm in the forest, and whiskey.

Clearing his throat, he blinked out of his memories, glancing up at her. Hermione's head lulled against the plush back of the sofa, wineglass set on the marble coffee table before her. 

Was she… asleep? 

Draco leaned forward. "Granger?" he said softly. 

She didn't move. 

Sighing heavily, he stood, setting his own wineglass down as he walked over to her. His shadow eclipsed her as he watched every breath that she took. Those pillowy lips parted on a breath as her eyes remained closed. From here, he could make out the smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose, like the tattooed constellations on his bicep. 

Yeah, he'd seen how she watched them earlier with that open look that he could read a mile away. Again, did she know that she was that easy? A part of him was dying to know. 

Losing a long breath, Draco grabbed the chenille throw from the back of the sofa and placed it over her. 

Whatever this was? It wasn't in his cards tonight, but he found himself not caring as he grabbed her wineglass and downed the rest of her wine. The tartly sweet notes kissed him, and as he ran his tongue over the rim, he could've sworn that he tasted her on the glass. 

His lids fluttered closed as a rumbling, primal sound escaped him. It tasted like honey and a crisp fall day. It tasted like— 

It was only a second before he realized what he'd done. Draco's eyes flew open as he stumbled backward. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Without another thought, Draco turned and walked towards his bedroom, slamming the door. He didn't care if she woke up because he didn't care about her. He didn't care about anything that swotty little thing did because she was nothing to him. 

Or, at least, that was what he kept telling himself. 

Chapter Text

Hermione woke slowly, the hazy tendrils of sleep retreating against the fog of her brain. Stretching, she felt the plush cushions at her back, the unfamiliar scent of pine, and something else she couldn't place. The buttery cream upholstery actually engulfed her, and she realized she was on a sofa, but it wasn't the stiff Chesterfield at Grimmauld. A luxurious, soft-as-silk throw blanket was draped over her legs, the kind of material that screamed of trust funds and expensive taste. 

Peeling her eyes open, she took in the golden light leaking over the finely woven Persian rug. The walls were painted in a stormy grey (similar to her room back at Grimmauld). Above her, a crystal chandelier hung, although the slight cobwebs screamed of its disuse. 

Quickly, she began retracing her memories, wondering where the hell she was. Alright, she remembered being at the Bitter Raven, then running into Ron. Ugh. His hand gripping her arm, the flush of undiluted humiliation she wanted to wash from her mind. No doubt, there would be some article in the Prophet today or tomorrow. Then, she remembered running away—okay, not running away—but escaping the Bitter Raven and into the bodega. 

She froze then, realization dawning in a rush of molten heat to her cheeks. 

This was Draco Malfoy's flat—Ministry-provided flat—but his flat, nevertheless. 

Oh, crap…

Yet, before she could rationally process this and escape the mess she had created, the door (to what she assumed was the bedroom) opened. Her breath hitched, and she pulled the blanket higher over her chest as Draco emerged. His bare feet padded softly across the floor, but that wasn't the only thing she noticed. 

No, because Draco Malfoy was shirtless. 

He only wore a pair of low-slung grey sweats on his hips, giving her unburdened access to, well, everything. The morning light played across his pale, lithe frame, playing with the silver scars that twisted around him. She knew what they were from—Harry's Septemsempra Curse. Yet, the scars seemed to morph with the ink on his canvas. A massive dragon stretched across his right shoulder blade, its wings spread wide, curling around his back, dipping towards his ribs. The magical creature's head was inked with striking, meticulous detail. Its eyes gleamed with cunning instincts, and its open mouth opened to reveal sharp teeth. Over his torso, she found more intricate runes she wanted to trace and study like she was back in school. Some glowed faintly in the light—a mix of ancient Nordic symbols of protection and guidance. 

On his right pectoral, over his heart, was an inky onyx moth with a skull nestled in its thorax—grim and hauntingly beautiful. Beneath it, the Latin words "Memento Mori" were inscribed with a delicate, flowing script that sent chills down her spine. 

Her gaze continued to travel down until she saw it. Holy hell. There was another phrase between his hips, so low on his waist it was almost obscene: Iam cum diabolo dormivi.

She knew enough Latin to understand what it meant. I've already slept with the Devil. 

Draco walked into the kitchen without a word, his movements languid as the dragon stretched and moved with the muscles of his back. 

"Do you want coffee?" he asked, jolting her from her thoughts. 

Immediately, Hermione scrambled off the sofa. Her fingers toyed with the tangle of curls, realizing that the notion was utterly hopeless. Her jumper was wrinkled, and her jeans were so stiff that she wished she had just returned home last night and slept in her well-worn flannel pants and t-shirt she stole from Harry long ago. 

She cleared her throat, her voice higher than usual. "Um, yes. Please!" 

Gaze flittering around the flat, she took in the early morning light compared to the darkness and glow from the fire from the night before. She noticed that he refused to turn on any lights, which only made her curious. Why? Why did he feel the need to live in darkness when there was so much opportunity for light? 

Draco reached for the French press with practiced ease. His fingers deftly measured out the coffee grounds. Hermione nervously approached the counter, noticing the changes that he'd made to the place. No longer did it have cheapy, tacky linoleum, but instead, it was a wooden plank. The cabinets were painted a soft grey, matching the rest of the flat, and the appliances were brand new. Interesting. 

"You know how to make coffee?" she blurted, wanting to break the silence. 

Draco glanced at her, a faint smirk tugging at his full mouth. "There's plenty you don't know about me, Granger." 

"That's painfully obvious," she muttered. 

He pressed the plunger with a steady hand, yet his movement was unhurried. Somehow, that bothered her, given she felt like everything with her was a race against the clock. From the moment she woke in the morning, she had already gone through every task that she needed to do in her head, feeling like she already wasted precious seconds by just thinking. Now, here was Draco, moving like he had the world wrapped around his finger. 

Pouring the liquid into two mugs, he slid one across the counter towards her with a raised brow. 

Hermione grabbed it, eyeing the mug cautiously. The rich, decadent aroma filled her lungs, making her mouth water on impact. God, she really did love a good French press and made a mental note to ask Harry to get a new one. Theirs had seen better days. 

Taking a sip, she sighed heavily. "This is… Merlin, really good." 

Leaning back against the opposite counter, Draco cradled his own mug in one hand. She couldn't help but watch as the moth fluttered its wings against the golden light that filtered in through the window. "Don't sound so surprised, Granger," Draco mused. "I've been known to manage a few domestic tasks." 

Ignoring him, her gaze trailed over his muscled arms, taking in everything else she missed hidden by his T-shirt last night. She tried her best to ignore the words inscribed between his hipbones, but that was like asking her not to read a book. She wondered why he got them and what they could possibly mean. 

"If you have a question, you should just ask it," Draco drawled. 

Quickly, she averted her gaze. Oh God, she was totally staring, wasn't she? She knew that this was wildly inappropriate. She was his—his boss. There were rules in place against this sort of behavior, and yet, here she was, sitting in his kitchen, drinking his coffee. 

Hermione cleared her throat. "What else do you like to do?" she asked, even if she wanted to bang her head against the counter at the stupidity behind her question. 

Draco shrugged one shoulder, and Hermione had to look away as his muscles rippled. "I like to cook," he told her. 

She arched a brow. "You? Like to cook? When?" 

Laughter escaped him, warming him. "Can't really tell you when it started—and trust me, I never really got to do it much at home—but I like cooking. You should come over for dinner sometime." 

Hermione jerked her head toward him. "What?" 

"Come over for dinner, and let me cook for you." 

"I don't—?" Her mouth suddenly went dry, losing all sense of words. She didn't even know how to perform a proper sentence, wondering if she'd heard him correctly. Did he just invite her over for dinner? With him? By himself? And herself? Alone in this apartment? 

Suddenly, she realized just how true that last statement was, considering they were utterly alone in the Ministry-provided apartment. Oh, fuck. 

Hermione made a mental note to stop swearing and invest in some sort of jar to break the nasty habit. 

Panicking, she grabbed her wool coat off the stool, pushing it up her arms as she fumbled with the sash around her waist. She could feel Draco's intense gaze on her, watching her every move, and she had never hated something more. She needed to get out of here—she needed to leave and go home and understand why she ended up sleeping on Draco's insanely comfortable sofa, which was worth more than her yearly salary. 

Hermione glanced up, mumbling. "I should go. Can I use your Floo?" 

Draco loosed a breath, walking around the counter and past her. "It's linked to your home, Granger, and the Ministry. If anyone can use it—it's you." 

Right. She'd forgotten that tiny aspect, and she didn't know if that made her more anxious or curious, given the fact that Draco had unrestricted access to Grimmauld. 

"Thank you for letting me stay," she stumbled over her words. "Honestly. And I'm sorry for overstaying my welcome." 

"Granger—" Draco's tongue felt like silk over her surname. "It's fine." 

Was it fine? It didn't feel fine. 

Hermione was just about to reach for the Floo-powder when a bright POP! echoed in the room. Gasping, she jolted back, eyes wide as she took in a small house-elf. The creature was dressed in a well-pressed frock with sprigs of lavender on his right breast. Unlike Kreacher, his ears were shorter, less pointed, and jagged. They seemed to flop over like a rabbit she'd seen in the park across from Grimmauld in the Spring. And there wasn't that retched odor about him that took months to rid Kreacher of, only for Harry and Hermione to realize that the thing was bathing in onions. Kreacher's response? 'To keep the filthy half-bloods and Mudbloods away.' 

"You have an elf!" Hermione nearly screeched, arms outstretched towards the creature as if to snatch it and run away—save it. But the minute she reached for him, the small house-elf bared his teeth and hissed. 

Startled, she stepped back, glancing between them. 

Draco rubbed at his brow. "Fuck. Down, Kip," he soothed. "It's okay." 

"You have elves!" she repeated, unable to say anything else. "Elves!" 

"I have one elf, Granger," Draco said slowly. "Singular. Not plural. And it's not even really my elf—it's Theo's. Isn't that right, Kip?" 

The house-elf nodded his head rapidly, floppy ears falling over his eyes. "That's right! Kip loves his Master Theo!" 

Seeming to come out of her temporary shock, Hermione narrowed her gaze at him. "If the Ministry finds out about this, they will—" 

"The Ministry already knows," Draco explained. "Kip is very… convincing when he wants to be. Trust me. If anyone owns anyone, it's Kip." 

The elf grinned smugly. 

Draco sighed. "Look, it's how I've been able to get things and get by. I understand if this is… odd to you, but Kip's been Theo's elf for a long time, and even if I kicked him to the curb, he'd still come back." 

"No one is kicking Kip anywhere!" the elf huffed, folding his thin arms. "Kip stays right here. Yes, he does!" 

Draco gestured to him, eyes wide. "See?" 

"Yeah, I see," Hermione grumbled. 

"He's a free elf, Granger." 

"How do you know?" 

Rolling his pale gaze, Draco turned to face Kip. "Are you free?" 

"Free?" Kip pondered. "Yes, Kip is a free elf! Free thanks to the kindness of Master Theo and Master Draco. Very free but loyal. It's an honor to serve the Young Master Draco. Yes, it is!" 

Draco arched a brow as if to say, 'Told you so.' 

Whatever. Hermione rolled her eyes, realizing that she had no argument about this whatsoever. Honestly, she'd given up on her whole 'free the house-elves' crusade she'd been determined to conquer during her fourth-year. S.P.E.W. was practically dead, and she didn't have it in her to state all the reasons why owning house-elves was an awful, terrible thing. 

Draco wouldn't care.

Sighing, she ignored the issue that was Kip and turned to Draco. "Thank you again," she said.

"Anytime," he mused, folding his arms over his bare, tattooed chest (which she ignored, of course). "And I'm being serious about supper." 

"Mr. Malfoy—" she started. 

"Don't call me that," he clipped, eyes shadowing. "Anything else but that." 

She loosed a breath, grabbing the Floo-powder. "I think it's inappropriate to come over here for dinner or anything unrelated to Ministry work. Again, thank you for being so understanding last night with the whole… Ronald thing, but this can't happen again." 

She thought she sounded practical—pragmatic in a way that he would understand—yet she saw that fire within his silver gaze as she stepped into the Floo, and she knew she had made a terrible miscalculation.

* * * 

The emerald flames of the Floo dwindled behind Hermione as she stepped into the familiar drawing room of Grimmauld Place. For once, she was thankful to see the patchwork of shadows, its dark wood paneling absorbing what little light filtered through the heavy curtains. The faint scent of musty parchment and old magic lingered, mingling with the sharper tang of fireplace ash.

She paused, listening to the silence. Harry wasn't home, and better yet, there was no sign of Ron. Thank God. 

Relief flooded her as she kicked off her boots, the worn floorboards cold against her feet. She crossed the room, the weight of the night still pressing on her shoulders, and began the climb to the third floor. The staircase groaned beneath her step, a protest from the ancient townhome that seemed to hold its own grudges. It probably did, given the amount of Dark Magic still imbued within the walls of the ancestral home. 

As she reached the landing, a familiar voice cut through the stillness.

"Hermione Jean Granger!"

Ginny's tone was sharp, her figure leaning casually against the wall. Her brilliant flame-red hair spilled over her shoulder, catching the faint glow of the enchanted sconces on the wall. The fire in her hazel eyes was unmistakable, and Hermione realized her mistake—or, rather, how guilty she looked at this point in time. 

Fuck. And there was another pound in the swear jar. 

Hermione groaned inwardly and quickened her pace.

"Oh, no! Don't you dare ignore me!" Ginny called, following her. "Not when you're still wearing last night's clothes!" 

Hermione glanced down at her wrinkled jumper and denim-clad thighs, wincing at the undeniable evidence of her long, tumultuous evening of sleeping on Draco's luxurious sofa. Without a word, she grabbed Ginny by the wrist and pulled her into her bedroom, shutting the door behind them with a click.

The room—though once brooding and dark in the style of Regulus Black—was now a sanctuary of calm blues and greys. The four-poster bed still stood tall and imposing, its black lacquered frame gleaming faintly in the soft light. Hermione had replaced the heavy velvet hangings with lighter, gauzy drapes that shimmered like moonlight. Books were scattered across every surface—stacked on the nightstand, balanced precariously on the floor, and spilling onto a low bench near the bed. A chaise lounge, upholstered in sage velvet with cream tassels on the bottom, sat invitingly in the corner beneath a reading lamp. A patchwork quilt, frayed but well-loved, was draped over it. It was her mum's, and something that Hermione snagged when she went to see the wreckage that the Death Eaters left behind in her home after the war. 

Ginny's eyes swept the room, lingering briefly on the organized chaos before turning back to Hermione with a raised brow. "Well? Care to explain why you didn't come home last night?"

"Your brother," Hermione practically growled. 

"My what?" Ginny gasped, eyes wide. "You slept with him!?" 

"What? Oh, God—no!" Hermione paced to the bed, her fingers tangling in her hair as she tried to gather her thoughts. "I mean—? I don't—?" A whimper escaped her as she collapsed on the mattress. "I don't even know where to start."

Ginny perched on the edge of the bed, leaning back against one of the four-posters. "Start with why you didn't come home."

Hermione exhaled heavily, leaning back on her elbows. "After you and Harry disappeared—"

"Oh, you noticed?" she purred. 

"Of course, I noticed, Ginerva Weasley!" Hermione shot her a look. "You were gone for twenty minutes!"

"Well," Ginny said with an unapologetic shrug, "we might've borrowed the bathroom for a quick… moment."

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Borrowed? Really?"

"He's really an expert at bending me over surfaces," Ginny grinned wickedly, waggling her brows. 

"That's not the mental image that I need, Gin." 

"Oh?" Ginny's hazel gaze met her own. The witch grinned, a mischievous glint in her eye that screamed of undiluted trouble. "I wouldn't judge until you tried it. You just need to find a certain someone who would be perfectly capable of bending you over a bathroom sink and shagging you senseless if you just asked." 

Before she could even comprehend what was happening, the image of pale blonde hair filled her mind's eye. The image of a grimy mirror and her fingers gripping porcelain as she met a familiar reflection in the mirror. Tousled hair, sweat over a brow, lips parted, and silver irises bleeding into molten ore. 

Oh God!

Hermione shook her head, scrubbing a hand down her face. She couldn't, under any circumstances, have those thoughts coming into her head. It was critical and highly inappropriate if she was being honest with herself.

Again, though, was she being truthful? She really didn't know, considering she could still smell him on her clothes from sleeping on his sofa all night long. 

"Right," Hermione muttered, her voice muffled by her palms. "Anyway, after that, Ron decided to be… impossible."

Ginny's grin faded, her brow furrowing. "Fuck," she swore. "What'd he do now?"

"What didn't he do?" Hermione groaned. "He's a prat." 

"Oh, the King of Prats," Ginny agreed, waving her hand for Hermione to continue. "Let's hear it then." 

So, she immediately launched into how Ron approached her after Harry went after Ginny at the Bitter Raven. She only assumed that he was waiting for the perfect moment, catching Hermione at her weakest and not surrounded by those who knew the truth. Optics, he always said, and she hated how much of that was true now. The tale, however, went: the awkward confrontation at the bar, Ron's unwelcome advances, and the humiliation of being the center of attention in front of strangers all eager for the next piece of tabloid scoop. 

The gossip mill in the real world was honestly worse than it was at school, and her fingers were twitching to put Rita Skeeter back in a jar. Pesky little fly. 

"And then," Hermione continued, her voice softening, "I ran into Draco at a bodega down the road."

Ginny's eyes widened. "You what?"

"I ran into him," Hermione repeated, heat creeping up her neck like splotches of crimson watercolors. "He was buying ice cream. God, mint chocolate chip! I… well, I sorta teased him about it, and we talked, and then… I ended up at his flat. Well, he told me to go there after your idiot brother showed up here unannounced and tripped the wards." 

"Fucking dickhead!" Ginny swore. "What else? Did you two fuck? Shag senseless? Is that why you're blushing like a whore in Nocturne?" 

"Ginerva!" Hermione gasped. "We did not—God, not everything is… you know? We had wine together, and then I fell asleep on his sofa. That's it. Nothing else happened. Nothing." 

"But you wanted something to happen, didn't you?" Ginny teased, a sly smile forming on her lips.

Hermione glared at her. "Absolutely not."

"Liar," Ginny sing-songed, leaping up and pouncing on Hermione.

Before Hermione could escape, Ginny had her pinned on the bed, her fingers digging into Hermione's sides in a way that had the witch squealing, attempting to break free. God, Hermione blamed this behavior on the whole 'I was raised with six brothers and had to defend myself' aspect. It was nothing like the only-child scenario that Hermione faced growing up with two Muggle Dentists as parents. 

"Say it, Min!" Ginny teased, continuing on with her tickling. "Say you've got a crush on Draco Malfoy!" 

"Stop it!" Hermione gasped, her laughter breaking free despite herself. 

"I'm not gonna until you admit it! Admit it, Hermione Jean Granger!" 

"I won't—I don't! Umph! Ginny, I'm going to hex you!"

"No, you won't!" Ginny argued, unrelenting. "Because you know I'm right." 

Hermione huffed, refusing to answer. 

Their laughter filled the room, echoing off the high ceilings and mingling with the faint creak of the bedframe. Ginny eventually rolled onto her back, panting with exertion as they lay side by side.

"You know I'm right," Ginny gasped for air, holding her side. "Godric, I thought I was in shape training with the Harpies, but I feel like I've just run a marathon." 

Their laughter faded, replaced by the soft hum and groan of the ancient house, settling into its bones. 

Hermione stared up at the magically enchanted canopy of the bed, her mind drifting unbidden to thoughts of Draco—were they redeeming thoughts? Or something else? She thought of the quiet intensity in his eyes, the unexpected kindness in his actions, and the strange comfort she'd felt in his presence.

No. She knew without a doubt in her mind that she did not have a crush on Draco Malfoy. He was her client—patient if she really wanted to get technical with it. He could even be a friend (an annoying one), but given their conversation last night, the possibility felt realistic rather than a daydream fantasy. And as frustrated as he made her feel on any given day, she knew he was just a twenty-three-year-old trying to figure it all out. He was just like her in that regard, so she really couldn't blame him for much. 

But what did this all mean? 

Ginny propped herself up on one elbow, her expression softening. "I can see that brain of yours ticking like a clock, Min. Why don't you stop thinking so damn hard and just live your life—enjoy your life? You only have one to give, after all." 

Hermione said nothing, her thoughts a tangled mess of guilt, curiosity, and something she couldn't quite name. The room fell silent again, save for the faint rustling of leaves against the window, as she tried to make sense of the chaos within. 

* * * 

Hermione sat at her desk, swaying gently in the chair as Pansy rambled about her Italy adventures. Her one-week holiday (and requested time off in the presence of Draco) quickly turned into two as the witch spent time at an old family friend's villa in Lake Como. Now, the raven-haired witch was even more stunning with the soft glow on her skin and bright, well-rested, sable eyes. 

On the other hand, Hermione felt exhausted from lack of sleep and tossing and turning over the events of the weekend. A part of her desperately wanted to ask Pansy for advice—wanted to ask if Draco's behavior was just his typical mind games or if she could really believe that they were genuine. God, did she even want them to be genuine? 

She didn't know.

"I should really let Vincenzo go," Pansy sighed, plopping a sugary macaroon into her mouth the witch picked up during a stop in Paris. "But, darling, you should see the tongue on that man. I swear he was more enthusiastic about living between my thighs than any other man I've met. Those Durmstrang boys are built differently, but I think you already know that." 

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Victor and I are strictly friends." 

"Were you strictly friends when he took you to the Yule Ball?" Pansy countered. 

"Yes," Hermione said tersely, grabbing a lavender macaroon. "Victor was nothing but a gentleman." 

It was the truth. Maybe if Ron hadn't thrown a tantrum, something more would've happened with Victor Krum. But Hermione quickly realized after the Yule Ball that her focus needed to be on keeping Harry alive and safe from the remaining tasks of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. She didn't have time to 'date,' and Victor's need to just sit and watch her revise was honestly annoying. 

Pansy sighed heavily, twirling a lock of her sleek onyx hair around one manicured finger. "Well, enough about me—has William survived without my presence?" 

Unable to help it, a bright burst of laughter escaped Hermione. "He's been rather… frazzled," she explained. 

"Oh?" 

Hermione hummed. "I think he's lost more reports in the past two weeks than he has the entire time he's been here. Gave Harry the wrong one of the Hippogriff pack sighting and sent the Aurors on a wild goose chase." 

Rolling her dark eyes, Pansy mused, "I don't know how you ran this department for so long without me. Go on—say it, darling, I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you." 

Hermione laughed softly, focusing on the various files on her desk. Right. She was here to do work, not sit around and chat and gossip. 

But she honestly could say she missed Pansy's company over these weeks. Hermione could admit that the Slytherin-to-the-bone witch had become something like a friend over the year they had worked together. It was different from her friendship with the Gryffindor girls back in the dormitory. Yeah, she heard the whispers of the others back at school who said she didn't have any friends, but if they asked her upfront, she would've told them she didn't necessarily want to be Lavender and Pavarti's friend. All those girls cared about was gossiping about boys and clothes. She much preferred the relationship she had with Ginny and then with Tonks. 

Now, that ache in her heart where the latter once held was filled with Pansy's presence. Hermione liked to think that the two would've gotten on if Tonks were still alive. 

There was suddenly a knock on the door, jolting the two out of their casual posture. Immediately, Pansy straightened, vanishing the box of macaroons off the desk and fixing her custom-made emerald velvet robes. Hermione wiped off the crumbs that pooled along the breasts of her blouse. Dammit, was that a coffee stain? 

Okay, she really needed to invest in more clothes. 

The door groaned open as Kingsley stepped through the threshold. His towering frame, broad shoulders, and calm demeanor filled the quaint office. Today, the Minister wore a set of pinstriped dress robes and his signature Kufi on his clean-shaven head. 

Pansy stood, quick as ever, dipping in a curtsy that could be defined as strictly Pureblood. "Minister Shacklebolt," she said, her tone syrupy sweet. 

But Kingsley just waved her off, gesturing for her to sit back down. Hermione knew the witch had an upbringing that wouldn't allow for that in the presence of someone like the Minister for Magic, so Pansy made her way behind Hermione's desk. She didn't know how the witch did it—standing with her spine ramrod straight, hands clasped in front, and her chin up as the blunt ends of her sleek bob framed her face. 

The action made Hermione feel far more important than she actually was. 

Hermione cleared her throat. "Minister, this is a surprise," she said. "What do I owe the pleasure?" 

Kingsley chuckled deeply, taking a seat before Hermione's antique desk. "Yes, I hope I'm not interrupting. I was in the area and figured I would check in to see your progress with Mr. Malfoy." 

She nodded, ignoring the way her stomach knotted at his name. "They're going… well," she said slowly. "Of course, there's still more progress to be made, but I don't doubt that we won't get there."

"And is he opening up more?" 

Hermione's lips stretched into that practiced grin she used when forced to attend events as a war hero. Everything about her felt tense and untethered at the same time. Like one rogue zephyr through the office, and she'd fall apart. It was ridiculous, really. A farce—but one that she'd perfected just like Pansy's posture. 

"Of course!" Hermione lied right through her teeth. "Like I said, every day is getting better and better." 

Behind her, Pansy shifted, and she could feel the unyielding heat of her dark gaze like a spotlight on her nape. Of course, the witch picked up on that. Who knew Draco Malfoy better than Pansy Parkinson? 

Ugh. 

Kingsley smiled faintly. "That's good to hear, Hermione. As you know, his cooperation is essential for the High Council and Wizagamont's evaluation." His gaze drifted off as she watched his mind turn. "There are many who are rooting for my failure in this little experiment—several who want to see Mr. Malfoy hung for his crimes. I… by Merlin, I want this to work out, and I'm so pleased that you are the one to do it, Hermione." 

That guilt wound up her throat, settling on her tongue like sour milk. 

Standing, Kingsley dipped his chin, addressing Hermione and Pansy before exiting the room. A shaky breath escaped her lungs, but she knew the reprieve was short-lived as Pansy's heels clicked against the wood floor, coming to stand before Hermione's desk. Great. 

"Well," Pansy drawled out the word. "Care to tell me why you just lied to the Minister?" 

Hermione could see now why Pansy was sorted into Slytherin. Yes, the witch came from a long line of Parkinsons that were placed within the emerald and silver house without even a blink, but now it was apparent. 

Clicking her tongue, Pansy wagged her manicured finger. "Don't lie to me. You Lions are absolutely horrible at it. Your face practically screams: 'I'm hiding something—something big,' Hermione Granger." 

"I'm not," she protested with a huff. "We are making progress, and he is opening up." 

"But I'm guessing there's a barely within that sentence?" Pansy mused, arching a brow. 

Hermione groaned, slamming her forehead against her desk with a thunk. 

Before she could add to the conversation, another knock interrupted them. She should really invest in a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. Or maybe a secretary who would actually stop unwanted visitors so early in the morning, especially on a Monday. 

The door groaned open, and Hermione felt him before she saw him. The unyielding sense of him swirled around her on a zephyr and settled in her lungs like a crisp winter day or the first bite of an apple. 

Hermione lifted her head, running a hand over her curls as Draco entered the room. His aura oozed off that cool detachment and strictly laissez-faire attitude, making her want to simultaneously scream and sigh. His platinum hair was tousled in a way that could be considered tragically styled, and he wore a charcoal suit beneath his dress robes. She didn't miss how the top four buttons were undone, revealing his chest's smooth, chiseled planes and the peak of onyx ink she already knew from their run-in yesterday morning. 

"Parks," he drawled, lips twisting in a crooked smirk. "I was beginning to think you ran away." 

Pansy rolled her eyes, striding towards him as she kissed his cheek in a societal, European greeting. "Draco, darling, I would never run away from you." She pulled away, getting a good look at him. "Well, you cleaned up nicely. Sad to say that I wasn't here to witness what awful garb you showed up here in, fresh out of the slammer." 

"Polyester," he drawled. "Imagine it." 

"Oh, I am." Pansy stepped back, folding her arms over her emerald robes. "Going right into my personal files that I can use against you later on, darling. Plus, I hear you've been giving my friend a difficult time." Pansy tsked. "That's very naughty of you, Dray." 

Draco's pale gaze shifted to her as if seeming to notice Hermione for the first time. Immediately, she stiffened. Her irritation bubbled to the surface, warming every square inch of her until she couldn't breathe. It felt like she was under a microscope, and Draco was the scientist assessing her. 

"Friend," Draco finally said, looking away. Hermione let out a nervous breath. “I didn't know you had any friends, Parks." 

Pansy just rolled her eyes, bracing herself against the edge of Hermione's desk. The iridescent strands of her onyx hair caught in the morning light filtering through the massive window as Pansy tilted her head. 

"How's your mother?" Pansy asked, tone curious. 

With bated breath (and also a bit of smugness), Hermione waited for Draco to snap—to prove that it wasn't just her that he took his hot and cold personality out on.

Yet, it never came. 

"She's doing well," Draco replied, words soft and soothing. "She's living in Paris in an apartment that belonged to her mother—Druella. A Rosier property, or whatever. Something these bastards couldn't take away from her." 

Like a bubble, Hermione's glee vanished into a cloud of green smoke. 

Pansy pouted. "You should've told me sooner! I was just in Paris. I would've stopped by, and we could've caught up! I know she's positively bored out of her mind without a good round of gossip." 

"I think she's plenty busy," Draco laughed. "Redecorating. Again." 

"And that's why I absolutely adore your mother!" 

Hermione's chest tightened with each word exchanged between them. The ease at which they spoke with that natural rhythm of conversation. It set her teeth on edge and tightened the skin over her bones. Everything felt a thousand degrees warmer as she watched them like a game of Muggle tennis. Why? Why was it so easy for them to talk, and yet it was pulling teeth for her? Better yet, why was he under her skin? 

"Well, I should actually put in some work," Pansy was saying as she pushed off the desk. 

"Pansy Parkinson? Actually doing work?" Draco mused, and Hermione was painfully aware that he was teasing her—teasing her!

Swatting at him, Pansy leaned over, pressing her crimson lips against his pale, clean-shaven cheek. A sweetheart mark was left there, mocking Hermione with every breath that she took. That emerald beast that she hadn't felt in a very, very long time rose its ugly head as she stared at the lipstick stain.  

"Trust me, Hermione doesn't work me too hard," Pansy drawled. "She saves all that energy for you, darling. Ta-ta!" 

With a wink over her shoulder, Pansy exited the room, closing the massive wooden doors.

Draco laughed softly under his breath before throwing himself into the chair with that casual arrogance. "So, Granger," he started. "What's on the docket today? More idiotic questions?" 

She didn't know what came over her then because nothing felt rational as Draco stared at her, waiting for her response. She felt like she had in those moments when she sent her flock of canaries pecking at Ron when he stumbled into her fifth-floor alcove with Lavender Brown. She felt—felt… jealous. 

Hermione stood, grabbing a stack of reports as she walked around her desk and dropped them haphazardly into his lap. Draco's lips parted as shock rippled through him. "You're going to spend the day reading these reports," she snapped. "You read them. You memorize them. Then you write what the findings are." 

Draco's lips parted, and she could only assume he would argue with her, but she didn't let him finish. 

"They're old case files—werewolf maulings, bitings, and war victims. Make notes of patterns you see and what you might do to help them."  

A flicker of panic and almost undiluted pain crossed Draco's features, but she ignored it. God, she had to ignore it because she knew this was exceptionally cruel. She'd nearly vomited in her waste bin the first time these came across her desk years ago. They were the worst of the reports, and she used them as an interview tactic to see if people could handle reading such cruel and grotesque findings that were a result of the war. 

Pansy and William were the only ones who passed.

"I have work to do in the library," she added curtly, striding towards the door. 

Pansy was already standing, her lips moving. Yet, Hermione didn't wait to hear what the witch had to say as she exited the department and made her way toward the Ministry's private library.  

With each click of her heels (though respectable), she let her frustration roll off her in waves. She let it drip to the floor like fallen rain, knowing the ends of her hair had to be sparking with untampered magic. Honestly? Screw Draco. And screw this stupid task set upon her. 

* * * 

Hours later, Hermione found herself hoarded away in a remote corner of the stacks, surrounded by books she'd begun sorting after some junior ministry worker didn't bother to clean up the mess they left behind. Disrespectful. Honestly. 

She always liked it here—there was something safe and serene about the towering mahogany stacks and the soft hum of magic that filled the air. The scent of old books, tomes, and manuscripts that were cherished by thousands. While Harry always resorted to the Pitch to find his reprieve, Hermione knew that books and the crisp smell of dust and parchment were hers. It was like that way, even in school. The safe-haven she found within Madam Pince's strategically organized stacks and even the Restricted Section. The idea that there was a world beyond her own, she could bury herself in. 

Maybe in this world, Draco Malfoy was amiable. Maybe he wasn't the most enormous prick and royal pain in her arse. Maybe. 

Or maybe it was all wishful thinking. 

Distracted, she didn't sense the presence behind her until it was too late. Turning, she gasped, slamming her spine against the ancient tomes, meeting a molten silver gaze across from her own. Electricity swam around them, making it feel like his breath was hot on her nape as he folded his arms defensively. It was a behavior she'd seen before in him—and others. Guarded. A sentry standing watch on a tower battlement. 

"What do you want?" Hermione asked, trying to remain cool, calm, and collected. She was failing, obviously. 

Draco arched a brow. "I came to give you my report, Granger." 

Budger. She forgot about that in her jealous, emerald haze.

But Draco didn't miss a beat. "Annabel Summers. Thirteen-years-old. Mauled by Greyback, a werewolf, while Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy, watched on. Summers did not survive. The instance was witnessed by her younger sister, Sarah Summers—she was only six." 

Hermione's lips parted, feeling that bitterness fill her lungs. She didn't want to hear this. And now, realizing it, she didn't want Draco to read it either. It was exceedingly cruel. 

"Rodger and Kara Brooksbank. Twenty-one. They were married for only a year before Lucius Malfoy killed them off under the request of V-Voldemort." It was subtle, but he noted how his breath hitched. "Their two-month-old child was placed into an orphanage following the war." 

"Malfoy—" she started, but Draco held up a hand. 

"Mary Edgeworth, Eleanor Flavin, George Maynard—murdered by a raid in Diagon Alley," he continued. "Said that Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, and Otto Avery were leading the charge. Witnesses watched as the Death Eaters took joy in seeing the pain inflicted and the terror caused within the small antique shop." 

"I—?" Hermione hesitated. "Malfoy, you shouldn't—?" 

"Did you enjoy dropping those folders in my lap?" Draco asked dryly. "Enjoy knowing that I would have to read them?" 

Prowling forward, Hermione held her breath as Draco came to stand inches from her. Warmth bloomed like roses in late spring, filling her with an unbridled ache that she tried to restrain from clenching her thighs together. Reaching forward, Draco peeled the book out of her hands. She had no idea where it went as her head thumped back into the wooden stacks, forcing her to meet his molten gaze. Oh, crap. 

"What game are you trying to play here, Granger?" His voice was low, vibrating over her in waves. "What are you trying to get at?" 

She didn't know what to say—or how to answer. 

"Did you enjoy knowing how much… fucking hate I would have for myself?" he asked. 

Hermione bit her lip, stifling the whimper building in her chest. No, that wasn't her goal. Not at all, but she didn't know how to tell him that. 

Draco pressed both hands on either side of her head, caging her in. With each breath she took, her breasts brushed against the firm muscles on his chest, and her nipples pebbled beneath the conservative brassiere she wore. A part of her wondered if he could feel them, given the peaked points practically ached to be touched—worshiped. 

No. No. This was all wrong. This wasn't right. Hell, she shouldn't want this? She knew that, like she knew that he shouldn't be making her feel this way. 

And yet, he was. 

"You want me to see all the destruction that my father caused to this world?" he growled, raising his leg until it separated her own. Merlin. "Want me to see what that monster did who lived in my home for a year? Who made my mother fear for her life? Want me to see all the raids I had to participate in against my will?" 

His thigh pushed higher and higher until she felt her skirt begin to ride with it. There was no doubt in her mind that her knickers were obscenely soaked. 

Hermione flattened herself even further into the shelf, but that didn't stop him. He was determined with a fire in his gaze that heated her beyond words. An inferno that she wasn't sure she could put out with a simple spell. It would fester until she burst and cried out a name she knew was utterly wrong to spill from her lips. 

"Is this what you wanted to see?" he demanded, voice low and full of warning. "Did you want to see how I might break? See the poison inside of me like cancerous rot, Granger?" 

"No—No!" she gasped. 

"Really?" he hummed, dipping his head, his lips brushed against her jawline. It was barely a touch, but she could feel the damp heat of his breath against her bare skin, sending a pleasurable shudder down her spine. "What was it then? Was I seeing the almighty Golden Girl… oh, I don't know. Jealous?" 

"I—I wasn't," she argued, even though she knew it was a lie. 

Draco laughed, angling his thigh higher, fully pressing against her cotton knickers. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God! She really didn't want to do it—she tried to hold it in—but her body had a different thought in mind as she arched forward against the firm ridge of his leg, seeking pleasure for herself. 

This was completely and utterly indecent, and she knew that this wasn't what she should do in a library pressed against books older than she could even imagine, but she found then that she really didn't care. Not when her fingers latched onto the lapels of his robes, craving to have him closer as his mouth grazed along her collarbone and over her throat. The instant she felt his teeth nip against the tender skin, her pants came out in desperate sounds that she'd only ever heard in the privacy of her room under the moonlight.

She was needy. Wet and wanting. She knew it. 

She could feel it as she writhed against his thigh. 

For how utterly undone Hermione felt, Draco was the complete opposite as he allowed her to seek something she shouldn't be taking. It was maddening, but she really didn't care. She wanted this, she realized. She wanted to feel something for once in her life. 

She wanted whatever pleasure he was trying to give her. 

Draco's teeth grazed against the throbbing pulse in her throat. "I think you were jealous," he hummed. "I think you were jealous of me and Parks. Isn't that right?" 

"I'm—?" Hermione bit her lip, shaking her head, but her hips kept moving, kept seeking. "I'm not, Malfoy." 

"Oh?" 

She hummed, feeling heat pool in her lower belly. Oh, God. She was—okay, this was really happening. It was so close, practically right there, that she could taste it on her tongue. The sweet tang of honey and lust. That tingly sensation crept up her thighs, building and building. 

"I can see right through you," Draco told her. "Your thoughts are screaming at me every damn second of every damn day. I'm fucking sick of it. So, if you can't be honest here, I won't be honest with you." His teeth grazed once more over the tender spot in her neck. "I could ruin you, Hermione Granger, if given the chance. I could ruin you, and you wouldn't survive it." 

Strangely, she wanted him to ruin her—she wanted him to utterly destroy her because she was about to come right here in the library against his thigh. 

"M-Malfoy," she whimpered. 

A low, rumbling laugh rippled from him as his lips brushed against the shell of her ear. "Green is such a lovely color on you, Granger." 

Draco pulled away from her and smirked before she could even comprehend what was going on. Straightening the lapels of his robes, he flicked off an invisible piece of dust. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow, and we can try again. Honesty, Granger. Honesty." 

And with that, he left her utterly gasping for air and painfully wanting. 

Chapter Text

Hermione couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned for a solid four hours before she heard the clock downstairs strike midnight. It was too late now to go and take a Sleeping Draught, and she made a promise to herself that she wouldn't rely on it anymore after a stint of almost becoming addicted. Yet, she craved it now—craved something that would relieve the circling thoughts in her head and the conversation in the library with Draco. 

'Did you enjoy knowing how much… fucking hate I would have for myself?'

That wasn't her end goal, and she wanted to go right over to his flat and defend herself, but she knew that wouldn't do her any good. They'd probably get into a screaming match, and she couldn't be trusted around him at the moment, given the… need she felt. 

That was another issue: Hermione Granger was painfully horny. 

Really, she could only blame Draco for this… issue. He was the one who caged her in, cornered her like some hunter, and shoved his thigh between her legs. Did she hate it? If she said yes, she would be lying. The truth? She didn't hate it, and that was an issue. She liked it. She wanted there to be more, but she knew exactly what he was doing, and she fell into his trap like an idiotic lamb. Maybe he was more of a lion than he gave himself credit for because she let him take control—let him make her feel every emotion in the book. 

Yes, she could very readily admit that she was jealous of his interaction with Pansy. The witch could open him up and expose him without even breaking a sweat; meanwhile, if Hermione ever mentioned Narcissa Malfoy, Draco would chew her into next Sunday. 

It was infuriating. 

Groaning, Hermione tossed onto her back, staring up at the charmed ceiling. She wondered if he knew how wet she was then in the library. If he could feel her breasts against his thin Oxford. If he knew that every time his mouth grazed over her throat, she whimpered at the immediate pleasure that shot between her thighs. 

"Ugh!" she grunted, tossing her head back and forth as she kicked off the duvet and sheet. 

The room was quiet—actually, the entire house was practically dead, given Harry slept just as soundly. She honestly hated men's ability to fall asleep so readily when she spent most of her night circling every thought in her head. 

The cool air kissed the heated space between her thighs, making her hyperaware of the slickness between them, dampening her cotton kickers. God… 

Her heart pounded frantically within her ribcage, echoing the thundering hooves of a thousand galloping horses. Would it be so bad if she… touched herself? If she allowed herself that release she'd been aching with since earlier today? 

That tiny voice in her head told her no, but every bit of her felt wrong. 

But maybe… maybe she could. 

Slowly, Hermione reached up, grabbing her breasts in her hands. They ached with heavy want as if they’d been waiting to be felt, to be sucked upon until she couldn’t take it anymore. 

No, what she wanted was to feel Draco's wet mouth against her like it had been against her neck in the Ministry library. She wanted to feel his thigh between her legs again, relishing in the firm ridge of him as he brought her close to the edge. Did he know? Did he know how close she was and how he left her writing wet and wanting? 

With the part of her thighs, she opened them up for the vacancy of the room beyond. She was hyperaware now of how wet she was down there. Even through her knickers, she could feel it.

She rolled her nipple between her thumb, allowing her back to arch off the mattress. A sick part of her knew that if she closed her eyes, she could pretend that it was his hand playing with her. Or she could picture him, sitting in her chaise lounge, watching her—studying her. Silver eyes heated and focused on her spread thighs as arousal dripped obscenely onto her sheets. There was a need within her that wanted this to be real (even if it was the most non-Hermione Granger thing she'd ever done). She wanted to hear him whisper from the shrouded corner what a 'good girl' she was being and how he was so pleased with the mess she was making for him. 

A whimper escaped her as she slid her hand down the planes of her bare stomach, feeling the cotton edge of her knickers.

This was so damn wrong, but even as she searched her moral compass for a reason to stop—she couldn't find one logical explanation. It's not like she hadn't done it before, but it was never as… explicit as this. Never this needy, where she now knew what it felt like to have his mouth on his throat and his words in her ear. 

'I could ruin you, Hermione Granger, if given the chance. I could ruin you, and you wouldn't survive it.' 

No, she wouldn't survive it, and she knew it. 

Rolling her hips, she arched against her hand, sliding it down to the apex of her thighs where that sensitive spot throbbed with need. She spread her fingers apart, outlining her folds, feeling how soaked she was, dripping in arousal. 

If she were being honest, she'd never felt this way before—not when she first touched herself after witnessing Pansy and Draco in the shadowy alcove or hearing the stories about the other girl's first time. Not when reading her erotic romance novels. She didn't feel like this ever with Ron. Never. He never made her this… wet. He never once made her this aroused, and sex felt more like a chore. Now, she was writing on her one hand, two fingers dipping between her slit to feel her walls as they trembled. 

Slowly, she brought her fingers back up towards that sensitive bud. She began moving then—faster, quicker as she sought pleasure. 

She needed… Merlin, she needed release. She needed Draco to come in here and give her what he teased earlier today. She wanted to be weak for him because she needed relief.

“Oh, God…” she whimpered.

'That's not my name, Granger,' she could practically hear him say. 'Now open those legs wider for me, love. Let me see you.' 

Spreading her legs wider, the arousal dripped onto the bedsheet below. 

This was utterly insane, and she couldn't even bring herself to imagine what she looked like—eyes glassy, head thrown back, t-shirt hiked up to her breasts. 

Arching into her hand, she ground her palm against her clit. With swift, clumsy movements, her fingers continued to work, stroking through the sticky arousal. That feeling began to build, creeping up as it tingled in her legs, warming her arms and chest with that humming sensation that filled her to the brim.

She was close. Gods, she was close.  

'Come for me…' his phantom voice echoed in the room. 

Stars burst behind her lids, revealing constellations. She saw the moon and beyond as she chased her own orgasm until she couldn’t breathe any longer, and her vision was clouded with fragments of phosphenes. 

Her own damn galaxy. 

When she finally came down, her back slowly rested on the mattress. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt before as her limbs still tingled. Sliding her hand out from her knickers, she let it fall limp at her side as she stared at the charmed ceiling, watching those constellations wink back at her. She almost found herself wanting to know why Regulus Black charmed his ceiling this way, and she knew the magic was ancient and complex, considering she tried to recreate it over and over again. Who did he do it for? Did he love her? Him? 

It was the question for the ages. 

Yet, the longer she stared at the ceiling, the more she could make out one singular constellation in the galaxy: Draco.  

* * *

Hermione stared blankly at her bowl of grapefruit the following morning, feeling the memories of last night set in. 

She thought she'd feel better (getting off and such), but she felt worse. She blamed it again on Draco because that seemed like the rational thing to do. The truth of the matter was she slept better than she had in months, but her dreams were filled with thoughts of him. And not very appropriate thoughts. Nope, because that would be the easy way out, and apparently, Fate wanted none of that for her. 

Dammit.

Harry shuffled into the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. His messy hair, sticking up in every direction, made her smile as he sat across from her. She'd given up long ago trying to tame it with her own fingers, knowing it was, unfortunately, genetic. 

Sometimes, she wished she met James Potter, just to compare the two—but she would never tell Harry that, given the ache he felt at their loss. 

Harry pushed his wire-framed glasses up his nose, meeting Hermione's gaze. "Sleep well?" he asked, and of course, he just had to bring that up. 

Warmth prickled her ears as she hummed, returning her attention to the bowl before her. Honestly, she hated grapefruit and didn't know why she insisted on eating it. Something about her trying to be healthy, or whatever. 

"How's Malfoy?" he asked. 

Hermione jolted, clanging her knees against the underside of the table. "What?" 

Did he know? He couldn't know, right? Her best friend was a horrible Occlumens and Legilimens, and she gave up on that project for the second time when Robbards asked him to learn. Said it made his brain all fuzzy and gave him a proper headache. 

Harry's dark brows knitted together. "You alright, Mione?" 

"What?" she squeaked. "Fine! I, uh, sorry—thought I felt something over my foot." 

His earthy green eyes went wide. "Do you think we have that rat problem again?" 

God, she really hoped that they didn't, but she only nodded, muttering something about getting Crookshanks on it. Actually, speaking of her part-Kneazle, she hadn't seen the creature in about a week.

She was the worst parent in the world. 

"If you want," Harry was saying, "I can take Malfoy off your hands today. Need to go over some questions for him, anyway. Supposed to get his wand back in the next few weeks, but I don't trust him. He's hiding something." 

Hermione worried her bottom lip. She wondered if she should tell Harry about the fact that she saw Draco do highly skilled wandless magic in his home, and that he had 'borrowed' a house-elf. Theo's 'free' house-elf or not—it was still a house-elf, and she didn't believe for a second that the Ministry knew about it. 

Yet, she kept her mouth shut as she shoved the tart citrus fruit against her tongue. So gross. 

"Want to grab lunch today?" Harry asked, changing the subject. 

Hermione nodded her head reflexively. "Sure thing." 

* * *

"You're acting rather dodgy this morning," Pansy sighed, tapping her manicured finger against her forearms as the two waited in the queue at the coffee and sweets cart.

Her mouth was practically salivating as the bitter scent of coffee and warm, buttered croissants filled her nostrils. 

Ignoring the witch, Hermione stood on her toes, trying to figure out what was taking so long. The Ministry atrium buzzed as employees spilled from the emerald Floo-entries, shaking off the droplets of rain from the outside world. Above, on the ceiling, ominous storm clouds cast dark shadows along the obsidian floors—a reflection of the Muggle weather, she learned, and similar to the charmed ceiling of Hogwarts. 

Most would say that the constant onslaught of rain and the gray London skies made them lazy and sluggish, like sap dripping from a pine, but it was the polar opposite for her. An elixir to the surrounding melancholia. Something about this weather made her feel more alive, almost as if she could conquer anything in the world. 

Something she desperately needed today if she was going to survive her two and a half hours with Draco Malfoy. 

The queue shifted forward once more, allowing the delicious, aromatic scent of coffee to swirl in the air on a cloud of steam. Filling her lungs, Hermione took a deep inhale, letting it seep into her veins. Only two more customers, and she would have that delicious caffeinated goodness in her hands. All she had to do was— 

"Hello, Parks," a rich, deep voice mused that sent heat to her veins. 

Turning, Hermione was met with pale, moonlit eyes—eyes that she felt on her last night, even if it was just a figment of her imagination and deeply-rooted desires. Warmth blistered her cheeks at the thought. 

Draco nodded his head in greeting. "Granger." 

“Good morning, Dray,” Pansy replied smoothly before gazing beyond Draco's shoulder purposefully. “Huh? Would you look at that? Darlings, as much as I'd love to stay and have a chit-chat—there's someone who I need to talk to." 

Hermione's eyes widened as she sputtered. But Pansy was already giving her a peck on the cheek before disappearing into the throng of people. 

Damn her.  

“Parks didn’t have to speak to anyone, did she?” Draco smirked. 

Heat traveled quickly up her throat, the words lodging there. Her lips parted with a breath, but before she could say anything else, the line shifted forward as the barista asked Draco for his order. She didn't even have it in her to argue that she was here first and, therefore, she should be the one to order first. Also, if Draco Malfoy was this perfect, Pureblood gentleman, he should let her go first, regardless. 

No, she was too exhausted, and honestly, her mind felt foggy and confused. 

So, she just stood there, letting the surrounding chatter fill her mind. If she was honest with herself, she felt unsettled. She felt uneasy about what she had done in the privacy of her own room and about the man standing before her dressed in another set of bespoke dress robes. Today, they were a rich indigo, and she had the strangest notion that they matched the stormy sky above. 

Draco must've finished his order because he turned around, but instead of stepping out of line, he handed her a cardboard cup. 

Brow furrowed, she looked down, noting the slightly milky swirls. She looked up at him, lips parting. 

"A dash of cream and one sugar," he explained with a crooked grin. "Just how you like it." 

"But how did you—?" 

"Know?" Draco shrugged. "You order it quite often from William." 

She didn't know what to say. Honestly? What could she say? He just got her tea order right—something neither Harry nor Ron knew, and they'd seen how she made it for years at the Gryffindor table. Not even her own parents could get it right (always forgoing the sugar), and that was saying something. 

That unease mingled with tingly warmth as she kept her lips shut and followed him toward the lifts. Their coupled tension felt like a live wire, prepared to go up in flames at any minute, but she didn't want to think about that as she stepped into the lift. 

Distracted, she wasn't looking where she was going until she collided with Draco's firm, muscular back. The accordion doors to the lift slid shut, locking them in. Only then did she realize they weren't the only ones within the box-like machine. 

Draco stepped to the side in a skilled move, revealing a tawny-skinned male. 

Blaise Zabini. 

Of course, he was dressed impeccably, like all Pureblood wizards. His pin-striped suit was perfectly tailored to his narrow shoulders and towering frame. He wore emerald-encrusted cufflinks and shiny patent-leather Dragonhide loafers. It was disgusting how much wealth seemed to ooze off him, and yet he just stood there, remaining perfectly cool and collected. She instantly remembered the night at the Bitter Raven and how he and Theo Nott watched her intensely. It was the same look his sable gaze tracked her with right now, noting how Draco's hand was protectively clasped over her waist, steadying her.

Wait? When did that happen? 

A sly, unnerving smirk toyed on the wizard's full mouth. "This is a surprise," Blaise purred, yet there was something bored about the way he said it, as if he had somewhere better to be.

"What are you doing here, Zabini?" Draco mused.

Hermione tried to focus on the conversation, but all she could think about at that moment was how his hand curved around her waist, pressing over her belly. Heat radiated from them, making her bite her lip to stifle the whimper that bubbled there. His fingers practically covered the entire surface area, making her painfully aware of their significant height difference. Was he always this tall? And when did he get so close? 

Blaise turned his attention to Hermione. "I haven't had the chance to properly thank you for babysitting my boy, here. Made my fall social calendar that much lighter so that I don't have to pick him up off the bathroom floor when he gets too drunk. I'm sure that—" 

"Blaise!" Draco snapped, tone filled with warning. "Enough." 

But the wizard just shrugged, glancing at the dial over the door. "I'm just showing my gratitude." 

Draco huffed. 

The lift dinged, and Blaise stepped off on the floor she knew was reserved for the Magical Sports Confederation and Regulations. She barely stepped foot over there, considering Quidditch was for barbarians, and she had absolutely no interest in the sport. 

Baise gave one dip of his chin towards Draco in a knowing greeting before the doors closed again, leaving them alone. 

With a gasp, Hermione peeled herself away from Draco. She practically threw herself across the lift, needing to breathe. Whirling, she glared at Draco. "What was that about?" she asked, hoping she sounded firm and direct. 

"Nothing," he mumbled. 

"Oh, no!" She wagged her finger at him. "Not nothing." 

Draco scrubbed a hand over his mouth, jaw flexing. "Can you just drop it, Granger?" 

"No!" 

"You're utterly insufferable." 

The doors to their floor opened, and she didn't wait for him as she stormed out, feeling her frustrations rise with each click of her Mary Janes against the tiled obsidian floors. The emerald walls around her felt like they were caving in, tilting like she was at an amusement park. It didn't help that she could still feel the press of his hand over her stomach, holding her in that protective way. And really, she wanted to be mad about it, but she felt more confused and painfully aroused. 

This was not how she wanted to start her day. Not one bit. 

The doors to her office flew open, and she ignored William's stuttering and gawking stare. She knew Draco was right behind her, and she tried to steady her breathing as she set her tea down on her desk and shrugged out of her outer robes. The door closed with a resolute click, tightening her skin over her bones. 

"Let's get some things utterly clear here," she said, noting the pitch in her words. "I am the one calling the shots—not you, Mr. Malfoy. And if you recall, your cooperation is what will determine if the Ministry sees that you are fit to remain in society and not head back to Azkaban. Do I make myself clear?" 

When he didn't answer, she turned, feeling her frustrations boil to the surface. 

Draco sat, one leg crossed over his thigh, and his shirt unbuttoned again in a casual way she wasn't used to. His molten, moonlit gaze was solely on her as he rubbed his fingertips over his full mouth. She had the overwhelming sense again that he owned this office rather than it being her own, and it made her skin crawl. 

"I'm going to tell you something, and you're going to listen before you open your gods-damn mouth, Granger. Alright?" Draco's words were harsh against the morning light, reflecting prisms over the wooden floors of the room. 

Still, she held her breath, not saying a word. 

"I could only trust a few people in my life," he told her pragmatically. "Growing up, Theo and Blaise were the only ones really—along with Parkinson. They were…" his words drifted off as his eyes took on a faraway look. 

"Like Harry and—" 

Draco's silver gaze turned harsh. "Don't you fucking dare compare them to your friends! You don't understand the utter shite we went through. The things we all had to witness. Blaise? Maybe not. He was raised with a silver spoon in his mouth, and his mother was wickedly cunning to keep him out of all the Pureblood propaganda bullshit. Theo?" Draco swallowed thickly, shaking his head. 

She worried her bottom lip, desperate for him to continue. This was the most she'd gotten out of him in weeks, and it fueled her in ways she couldn't explain. It was like the more he opened up, the more she could clear away the cobwebs and darkness. The more she felt her own strange relief, as this was her cross to bear. 

"I was raised with Theo," Draco went on. "I'm sure there are photographs of us tucked away in my mother's dressing table of the two of us. At school? My father told me that I needed to be a man—'grow the fuck up,' is what I think he said." Draco laughed coldly. "Fucking bastard. So, I picked the two biggest idiots I could find and made them my 'friends.' Crabbe and Goyle were right idiots whose brains revolved around food and later more… male thoughts. I don't even think Crabbe saw a pair of tits before he died, though." 

Yet, even as he said it, she could hear the remorse. It was a low ache, like the loss of his friend. 

Draco sighed, meeting her gaze. "I can put a label on those two all I want, but the truth in the end is that they weren't really my friends. Theo? Theo was always there, whether I wanted him to be or not. I think my mother knew that I would need his pushy nature to help me. I think she always knew what Lucius would do in the end—destroy us." His lips curved down deeply. "Baise and Theo were the only ones to really ground me when all I wanted was for the world to end—when I was terrified to leave my mother alone in that house." 

She could only imagine what fears coursed through his head when he had to sit in classes at Hogwarts, knowing that Voldemort lived in the stone walls of Malfoy Manor with his mother. God… 

"Back there? With Zabini?" Draco gestured towards the door as if Blaise were on the other side of it. "That was him challenging me. No harm in what he said, but he wanted to get a rise out of me—a reaction." 

"Did he?" she asked. 

Draco only shrugged. "Why did you get jealous over Parks yesterday?" he countered, changing the subject. 

"This isn't about me," she told him. 

"Yeah, it is. I just gave you a key look inside my head, Granger. It's only fair that you let me do the same." 

Could she let him have a look inside her head? Better yet, would he like what he saw when he managed to worm his way in? It was pretty. No, that right was taken from her during the war when her innocence was stolen and the proper ease of a teenage fantasy. Instead, she had to survive on her skills alone in the Forest of Dean and keep Harry alive. She had to fight in the war with all her might because one mistake—one slip—and she'd be dead. All it took was a distraction. She didn't even allow herself that reckless choice when Ron kissed her in the Chamber of Secrets.

But this? This felt dangerous and rather reckless, but she found that she was just that with him. 

He peeled her apart like some Muggle Biology lesson. He searched every inch of her until she was practically naked in front of him with one look alone. Still, she wasn't ready to let him know that. Maybe she would never be able to open up to someone like this, given the years she spent suppressing her anxiety and nightmares from Ron. The minute that she didn't, when the two of them were still dating, Hermione had scared him back to the burrow for a week. It was one particularly bad nightmare where she woke up screaming bloody murder, and Ron had bolted.

Maybe that should've told her something back then, but she didn't listen. 

Standing, Hermione walked around her desk, coming to before him as she braced herself against the edge. Gripping the smooth surface, she leaned forward. "I wasn't jealous," she told him. 

Draco cocked his head. "Want to try that again?" 

"I'm telling you the truth," she said with a tight grin. 

He hummed, nodding as if considering this. Without another word, he stood. She was painfully aware of her disadvantage as he stepped up to her, towering her and crowding her against the edge of her desk. Every inhale she took, she could feel him filling her lungs, consuming her. 

She gripped the edge of the wooden structure, tilting her head back to gaze up at him. "What are you doing?" she whispered. 

But Draco didn't respond as his gaze searched her own. 

Responsively, she parted her thighs, feeling her skirt hitch up. Draco found the space between them like two magnets drawn together. It should've bothered her—how he commanded the situation—but it didn't. 

In fact, she could readily admit that she liked this. 

"Right, Granger. We're going to try this again." He leaned in, and she inhaled the absinthian scent of him deeply as her thighs spread wider to accommodate his presence between them. It filled her veins, helping her ignore that familiar flutter in her belly. 

This… this was dangerous territory. Indeed. 

"Why were you jealous yesterday?" he asked again. 

Hermione sucked in a breath, searching his gaze. "Because it was easy for you to talk with her," she admitted, uncertain if it was even her speaking those words that she should've kept hidden but flowed out of her, like bubbling wine. 

Yet, she wouldn't admit any more to him. She wouldn't admit how it readily bothered her that he was so closed off with her, and yet she saw the light that ignited in Draco's eyes when he spotted Pansy. She saw the ease with which they chatted like old friends, which she supposed they were. Ugh. It made her absolutely, positively mad. It made her want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. It made her want to fire Pansy, but sadly, Hermione needed the witch to help her run the department properly. 

Draco leaned in closer, breath dancing over her face. "I see," he hummed. 

She wanted to ask exactly what he saw, but her courage left her. Instead, she was filled with that unbridled ache in her bones and heat between her thighs. It was intoxicating and addictive, like her own brand of a Muggle drug. She shouldn't want this (and she knew she said that to herself before), but she couldn't find it in herself to care about what she wanted and didn't.

This close, she could almost make out every pale lash and the subtle freckles that she knew would be more prominent in an Italian sun. She could count the intricate fissures of his irises and how there was a dark ring of slate around the haunting silver with flecks of obsidian. It reminded her of a star, and she felt like his namesake was that much more correct. 

Shifting forward, her breasts brushed against his chest, just like they had the day before in the library. And it was pure and utter madness. 

Maybe she was allowing him to consume her, or maybe he was driving her to the brink of insanity because, without another thought or even realizing what she was doing, Hermione crashed her mouth into Draco's own and kissed him. 

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger was kissing Draco Malfoy. 

She was kissing him, and every bit of her couldn't believe it. 

His mouth was warm, pliant against hers, tasting like the first fall of snow and wintery pine. He tasted like coffee and something darker that she wanted to drown in—something that slithered here from Eden. 

Honestly? It was softer than she expected, hesitant, and yet there was a control within him that she could feel vibrating around her as she hitched her thigh around his waist, needing him closer—needing more. She wanted to coax that response out of him, and she wanted him to break. She wanted to see just what this man could do after she spent hours fantasizing about it in the safety of her bedroom with her hand between her legs. 

She could feel the sharp, unforgiving edge of the dark wooden desk against the backs of her thighs. The stormy skies charmed in the atrium did nothing to illuminate the space, casting them in shadows as if they were in some haunted castle, weathering out the downpour only to become trapped. She felt him everywhere, even if he wasn't touching her—his presence, his head, the way he molded against her lips. 

Hermione threaded her fingertips through his hair, tugging slightly. It felt like finely woven silk, precisely what she expected. Except she assumed he used some sort of pomade or styling cream. It wasn't like anything she had ever felt. She wanted to bury her face within the strands, inhale, and memorize it. 

A low, primal sound escaped him, sending a bolt of electricity straight to her core.

For a moment, she considered that she possibly made a mistake, a colossal miscalculation, and she knew better than to rely on Fates. She didn't believe in Divinations, and yet, this felt kismet.

There was a breath, a beat before something within Draco's resolve snapped like a rubber band against bare flesh, and he attacked. Fingers weaving into her hair, he yanked her head back to deepen the kiss and take control. Everything tasted like sin and wanton abandonment, and she knew then that there was no going back. Draco Malfoy was utterly uncontrollable. A beast. A monster wearing the skin of a man, and she didn't care. 

Moaning loudly (a sound she didn’t even know she could make), she pressed her body against his, spreading her thighs wider for him even though all she wanted to do was squeeze them together and relieve the terrible ache inside. His mouth molded over her own, swallowing up all the needy sounds as his tongue swept through her mouth without permission or request, dominating her own. 

She allowed him—let him take control without question or reserve. Maybe it was foolish of her, but she didn't have it in her to care at this moment in time.  

Electricity danced across her flesh like a live wire, tingling the tips of her fingers that somehow became wrapped around the crisp Oxford over his chest. She wanted to unbutton it—feel his bare, tattooed skin under her own. 

Honestly? It was delirium and madness all wrapped up together in one.

Really, Hermione thought she knew kissing, but this was—Hell, this was an entirely different world she hadn’t discovered. Was this what she’d been missing? All these years? Between the fumblings with Ron in dark rooms (because he refused to turn the light on) and the quick, unsatisfying sex that left her lying on the mattress, wanting? 

Teeth brushing against her bottom lip, that slow, delicious pleasure rose within her belly. The heat created a desperate tug toward him. Spine arching, she needed more, feeling that moan throbbing behind her lips, filling him. 

Draco claimed the opportunity to sink deeper, tongue exploring with greed and ecstasy.

It was almost like he already knew her body as his hands grabbed her waist, pulling her closer and yet pushing her away. She relished in the scrape of his palms over her stocking-clad thighs. The pads of his fingertips as they hiked up her skirt, moving purposefully until they found bare skin and the fastener that held her garter up. 

Hermione's breath hitched as Draco found the edge of her cotton knickers. 

"What?" he hummed, continuing with his explorations as his knuckles grazed over that throbbing part of her. "You're awfully quiet now. Don't have anything to say?" 

But she couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe as he pulled away, feeling the weight of his gaze on her and that maddening smirk. 

Draco chuckled darkly. "No? Huh. Shame." 

Hermione bit her lip, waiting for his next move in whatever game they played. The silver within his irises blended into pools of molten mercury as they watched her, waited with a breath, as his fingertips slipped underneath the band of her knickers. 

"Fuck…" Draco groaned, the sound deep and guttural and utterly primal. 

Yeah, she had to agree because fucking hell. 

And right now, she really didn't have it in her to care about her silly little swear jar. In fact, if Draco knew that was what she was thinking about, he'd probably laugh right in her face. 

"Spread your legs wider," Draco commanded, and Hermione eagerly obliged, painfully aware of how much this was like her fantasy last night in the comforts of her bed. 

The raw elements of her office kissed her, mingling with the heat that radiated off him. All she wanted to do was arch up into him… feel his proud arousal there. Would he let her grind against him again? Just like how she'd done in the library a day ago? And God, was that really only a day ago? 

Her thoughts instantly ceased the minute she felt his fingers hook over the gusset of her knickers and pull them to the side. Warmth flooded her skin as molten heat coursed through her at the realization of how exposed she was here and now—utterly vulnerable. Wet. She was so damn wet all because of him. 

Draco laughed lowly, thumb swiping over her bundle of nerves. "Why are you blushing, Granger? I have to say I love the color red on you. Though not as much as green." 

She didn't know what to say—how to respond. 

Gaze trailing down to where his hand moved under her bunched-up skirt, Draco groaned, lips curling. He swore again under his breath, the sound filthy. "I know I should've asked you before my hand found its way here, but I'm asking now: may I?" 

Hermione's moan escaped her without rhyme or reason as she arched back. "Yes," she breathed. 

"Good girl." 

And that was all it took. 

His fingertip sank into her folds, spreading them. “You’re so fucking perfect. So damn perfect that I could do this for hours—watching you writhe on me. Would you like that?” He peered at her through thick lashes and hooded eyes. “Want me to taste you until you can’t feel your legs anymore? Because if I had it my way, Granger. Fuck, I would put you in my bed and never let you leave. You would come so many times, you wouldn’t even know your own fucking name.”

At his declaration, Draco slid one finger inside her, and he was right because Hermione Granger forgot her own name. Literally. The cool metal of his Malfoy signet ring kissed her heated flesh, earning a pleasurable shudder she didn't think her body could make. 

It was so wrong that this was the thing that would potentially get her off—his ancestral jewelry, worn by Malfoys before him and the ones that were to come after. 

So damn wrong. 

Biting her bottom lip, she whimpered as he pushed another finger inside of her. It was too much—his thick finger was too much. There was a slight burn there as his thick finger moved deeper and deeper. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t pleasurable either, and Draco seemed to notice. 

Pulling out, he circled her entrance again, gathering the arousal there. Each stroke felt like torture, fueling the disappointment.  

"You're—gods, Granger. You're so fucking tight." His gaze never left the space between her thighs. "That's alright. We'll get you there one day—just got to take our time with you." He was rambling now; his own resolve vanished. "Work you up to taking my cock." 

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, stabilizing herself as that voice inside her screamed: Yes! Yes! Yes! 

The sounds of his fingers were obscene as they moved in her, coaxing out that spot that she could never quite reach. Even at those desperate moments when she turned on her stomach and tried to get herself off, she never could. It was a damn curse, but now he was rectifying it with each drag and pull.

"What do you need, Granger?" Draco asked. 

Hermione didn't quite know, but her voice was breathless and pathetic whenever she tried to speak. 

Seeming to understand, Draco's other hand gripped the nape of her neck, angling her head back. Every bit of her wanted to look away from his gaze—wanted to stop holding that holy eye contact between them—but she couldn't. 

She felt like she was drowning in a sea of moonlight, and she wanted to bask in it. 

"You want to come?" he taunted, arching a pale brow. "Want to come right here? On your desk? By my hand? A Death Eater’s hand?" That low, dark laugh escaped him. "Didn't think you were that type of witch, Granger. All messy and writhing on my finger—desperate." 

Hermione bit her lip. Yes! God, she was precisely that. She was that kind of witch, and she would readily admit it even if she knew this was breaking about a thousand and one different rules. 

A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment. 

"Mione?" Harry's voice called through the heavy wood. "You in there?" 

Hermione yelped, only to be silenced by the palm of Draco's hand over her mouth. Yet, his fingers between her thighs didn't stop as they continued to move, filling the room with the sounds of her slickness. 

Her breaths came in shallow gasps, feeling her heart hammer against her chest. 

"Hermione?" Harry called again, tone concerned. 

Draco removed his hand from her mouth, slipping under her blouse at her waist until he could feel bare skin. Leaning over, his breath was warm against the shell of her ear as he told her: "Answer him, Granger." 

"Y-Yes!" she squeaked, realizing that her voice didn't entirely feel like hers. 

God, how could it? Not when his thumb flicked over her clit in a decisive motion and stars formed around her vision. 

"Are you alright in there?" Harry asked. When she didn't answer, he added: "Remember? We were supposed to have lunch together at the Leaky today." 

Oh, crap. Right. 

Draco stepped closer, mouth grazing over her jaw, and his canines teasing that sweet spot that made her whimper. "Tell him you're just finishing up something," he whispered, voice like steely velvet. "And if you agree to come over to my flat tomorrow to let me cook for you, I'll let you come. Right here. On my fucking fingers."

The canaries swirled around her head, confusing her. She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe. Yet, she readily obeyed him as if it were the easiest thing in the world. 

"Y-Yes!" she called. "I'm just… oh, I'm finishing up something." 

Draco's thumb brushed against the bare skin of her waist in a soothing gesture, contrasting the steady pump of his other hand between her legs. "You're doing so well," he murmured, breath hot against her neck. "Keeping quiet. Such a good girl, Granger." 

Warmth flooded her cheeks at his words and the blatant fact that Harry was right outside the door. This was so damn wrong. Really and truly. Utterly wrong. 

Yet, she wasn't making any move to stop him or tell him no. She knew that if she did, he would listen, and this would all be over. Honestly? She didn't want that. Instead, she wanted this madness. She’d never felt more desperate in her entire life—with her skirts hiked around her waist and her knickers pulled to the side. How his strong, large hands held her still. 

"Now," he mused. "Say you'll come over to mine for dinner tomorrow night." 

Hermione gasped, trying to glare at him, but it lacked conviction. "I told you, I—oh, Merlin!" His finger hooked against that spot inside of her, and a whimper escaped her. "I told you I—I can't." 

"Wrong answer." 

"Mione?" Harry knocked again, harder this time. She knew that sound; he was anxious. "I need to be back in an hour for a meeting with Robbards." 

Draco chuckled softly, the sound radiating through her, sending undeniable warmth into her toes. "Potter's getting impatient. We wouldn't want him barging in here, seeing his best friend with her thighs spread wide and writhing on the fingers of a convicted prisoner, now would we?" 

It shouldn't be hot—his words—and yet, they were. 

The arousal between her thighs thickened, and she was almost confident there would be a puddle on the desk in the aftermath. She'd never been this turned on before and never this close to coming just by a man's fingers alone. 

But this really wasn't just any man, was it? No, this was Draco Malfoy. 

"Say yes," he mused, arching a brow. 

Her mind raced. Dangerous… dangerous… dangerous. Reckless, really. Completely unprofessional. It wasn't rational (the thoughts within her head), yet she felt it was the easiest thing to nod and whisper: "Yes." 

Pleased, Draco pressed against the spot one more time, and it was like a dam burst within her. Hermione arched back, thighs quaking with his ministrations as she tried to keep quiet. Stars immediately erupted behind her lids, blinding her with ultraviolet light. Every constellation danced like she could map each one with her fingertips. Her magic sparked, and the lights flickered, and Draco watched every reaction that she made with a smug, cocky grin.

She didn't know how long it took her to come down, but eventually, she sagged boneless against her desk, fingers digging into the malleable wood. 

Slowly, Draco pulled his finger out of her, and she couldn't help but watch him as he dragged it up to his mouth. His pink tongue sucked against the digit down to the silver Malfoy signet ring covered in her arousal. 

This… this really shouldn't be that hot, and yet it was. It was filthy and wrong. And she wanted to see him do it again. She wanted to beg him to let her return the favor, dying to know what he tasted like when she was on her knees. 

But he stepped away from her. 

With shaky legs, she slid off her desk, righting her knickers and skirt. She didn't have to look in a mirror to know her lips were swollen with the ghost of his mouth, and her hair was tangled with the undeniable evidence of what they just did. Turning around, she couldn't look at him as she tucked her blouse back into her pencil skirt. 

"So, I'll see you around seven?" Draco mused. 

Brows knitted, Hermione turned around. "Excuse me?" 

He was leaning against her bookcase, leg crossed and arms folded over his chest. "You agreed to come to dinner with me, Granger. Don't tell me you're the sort of witch to go back on her promises." 

"I—?" she started, feeling that warmth creep up into her cheeks again. 

Draco tsked. "Seven it is, then." He pushed off the shelf, prowling towards her, and she tried to ignore the pulse between her thighs, begging for more. It was selfish, really. Reaching forward, he tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "Better get going, Granger. I suspect the Chosen One might not take kindly to being kept waiting." 

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy realized that he had made a critical mistake when he invited Hermione Granger over.

One: he was about to have her sitting at his table, drinking his wine, and eating his food. And that alone was enough to make his head spin, considering it felt like a rather filthy (if not wildly indecent) dream that he'd imagined many times before.

Typically, in his so-called fantasy, the night ended with her swotty little mouth wrapped around his cock. Dirty, unspeakable things. 

Two: he let her get under his skin at the Ministry.

Okay, fuck… so, he could blame Blaise for that and their unfinished business in the library. But he saw how Blaise's coffee eyes heated when he looked at her. The wizard's mind was practically projecting his depraved thoughts onto Draco. 

It was one thing for Hermione Granger to be utterly oblivious to the way wizards ogled her in the Ministry, but it was another for his friend to do the same damn thing. 

In fact, the next time Draco saw Blaise Zabini, he was going to murder him. 

Not literally. Fuck no. Well, okay, maybe he would if action didn't end up with him in Azkaban, he would. So, instead, he ignored the wizard's missives and Floo-calls and told Theo to tell Blaise to go fuck himself. 

It was just as effective. 

Draco didn't like to admit when he slipped up or fell into a load of shit that was his own making. And his interaction with her in her office was definitely one of them. 

Still, he couldn't get the feel of her tight cunt out of his mind or how she whimpered so prettily, as he gave her that pleasure he knew she needed. Given the way her fingers dug into his shoulders, enough to leave crescent moon marks he studied that night in the mirror, he could only assume that no other wizard had been able to get her off like that. Plus, she was so damn wet. 

When he cleaned his fingers of her essence, it took him slapping up metal-shrouded Occlumency walls, or else he was about to get on his knees and make her come on his tongue. Hell, he didn't care if Harry fucking Potter was right outside the door. If he wanted to listen in, he could. 

But somehow, that thought only made Draco more irritated. The whole… sharing thing. Maybe he could blame the only child in him, but he knew that wasn't it. 

No, it was something else. 

Shaking off the memory, he focused on his task at hand. Whether he regretted inviting her over (or coercing her by making her come on his fingers), she was set to arrive any minute now. 

The steady, warm scent of Roma tomatoes, basil, and oregano filled the dreary apartment like a kiss on a warm summer's day. He had Kip go out and purchase a lovely Barolo—something ridiculously expensive that he knew she wouldn't appreciate, but it made him feel like, well, a man. 

What did that say about him? He didn't know—couldn't know. This was the first time he felt normal, which honestly terrified him. 

Uncorking the wine, the aroma of brambly berries, cherries, clove, and fig framed by mouthwatering acidity and tannins filled the room. The dry wine was sweetened by the Nebbiolo grapes harvested in late October in Northern Italy. This was his favorite blend of Barolo—the king of wines. It was known as one of the most prestigious, age-worthy, collectible wines—one that his father had collected over the years. But the Malfoy cellar was filled with every bottle imaginable. 

It was fucking ridiculous, really. 

With a groan, Draco returned to the simmering sauce on the stove, dipping his pointed finger in the crimson liquid. Yeah, okay, he could work with that. 

There was a knock at his door. 

Rolling his shoulders down his spine, he glanced down at his fitted black t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans that Theo insisted he buy. 'It's the style now, Dray,' the git had said in that arrogant way of his. 

Not that he wanted to dress in three-piece suits every day, but they'd become a comfort to him before the war—a suit of armor, if he was being literal about it. 

Draco ran his fingers through his pale blond locks before he opened the door. He didn't know if he should've prepared himself more or reinforced the Occlumency walls in his mind, but the sight of her standing there on his stoop knocked the wind from his lungs. 

He tried to school his features and not stare as he took her in. Fuck… 

Hermione was dressed in a flowy, long-sleeved floral dress that rested just below her knees and cuffed at her wrists. The pale blue and cream pattern fit every curve on her body, dipping slightly in a V-shape at her breasts. There was a small slit up the side that revealed her tanned, smooth thigh. He realized then that he'd never seen her without long sleeves, and a part of him wondered if it was because of the words that his psychotic aunt carved there with the cursed blade as he was forced to watch on. 

It was like a punch to his gut as her screams echoed within his head for the first time in a long time. The way he watched as she writhed on the floor, begging Bellatrix to stop, and that she didn't know. The way that—

Hermione must've been saying something because she looked at him expectantly. 

Fuck me.

Stepping aside, he let her in, watching her hips sway as she went down the short hall into the living room. 

Gods, he needed to pull it together.

He needed to fix whatever leakage there was within his mental walls because now was not the time to hear her piercing screams in his head or remember that horrible day at Malfoy Manor. He'd already suffered enough in Azkaban when the Dementors came around, and he was forced to relive it over and over again. Even before that, when he knew that Potter, the idiot Weasel, and Hermione escaped, he'd lay in his bed and try to block out her cries.

His nightmares got worse as time went on, filled with her. Actually, he couldn't even step foot into that drawing room afterward, knowing her blood stained the ancestral floors. 

Draco quickly shook off the thought, knowing it wouldn't get him anywhere, as Hermione dropped her coat over the back of his club chair. He noticed how she looked around again, her curiosity piqued at the changes made. 

Did she know how easy she was to read? 

"I'm making Cavatelli Abbrabita," he told her. 

Hermione turned around, doe-brown eyes wide. "Perfect." 

Yeah, he really wanted to bristle at her apparent unease, but refrained. They'd already gotten this far, and he didn't want to send her running just yet.

What was the thing she kept always harping about? Progress. 

Right. That was what they were doing. Fucking progress.

Draco walked around to the kitchen, grabbing the open bottle of wine. Pouring the blood-red liquid into a crystal-clear wine glass, he watched as the legs dripped down the side. This was a good fucking bottle. Job well done, Kip. 

Handing her a glass, he went to pour his own, watching out of the corner of his eye as she took in the lack of decor on his walls and any sort of photographs that provided evidence that he A) had friends and B) had a life outside of their sessions. 

He would tell her what she needed to know, and that was it. 

"Sit—" he gestured towards the barstool at the counter. "It's going to be a little before it's ready." 

Dragging her plump bottom lip between her teeth, she obeyed. He couldn't help but think about how she listened even better when he had her writhing on his finger, telling her to be quiet, and he'd let her come. Fucking hell.

Ignoring the increasing arousal threatening to press against his jeans, he grabbed the spoon off the counter and began stirring. "Did you have a good lunch with Potter?" he asked. 

In the reflection, he could see the flush of her cheeks. Good. 

"I… did," she said slowly, taking a sip of her wine. "Harry said that he's impressed with you." 

Draco's brow curved. "Oh?" 

"You're doing well with your progress, and you should have your wand back soon." 

Closing his eyes, he sucked in a breath. Turning to face her, he said in a calculated tone: "Granger, as… thrilling as it is to know that I'm getting my wand back after four long weeks. I don't particularly want to talk about that right now." He gestured between them with his free hand. "Me and you? We're having dinner." 

There was a breath before she asked: "A dinner as what?" 

"Whatever you want it to be." 

"Friends?" she suggested. 

He wanted to laugh at that because in what world were they friends? Draco didn't have friends who were girls—and no, Pansy Parkinson didn't count.

Okay, yes, she was a girl, but she was different. She was just… Parks. He didn't really know how to explain it. 

He also didn't think that 'friends' shoved their hands up other 'friends' skirts and got them off. He didn't think they would giggle about it later and braid each other's hair.

No, because right now? Right now, he wanted to pick her up, place her on the counter, and live in the space between her thighs as his appetizer, entrée, and dessert. He wanted to utterly ruin her so she wouldn't be able to let another man touch her. He wanted to wipe that surprised look off her face whenever he walked into a room. 

Draco Malfoy wouldn't be kind about it. No, he wasn't that type of man. He would fuck her rough and hard. Worse? He knew, judging by how he couldn't get two fingers inside of her the other day, he wouldn't be able to do just that.

Which really fucking pissed him off. 

He blamed the Malfoy genes—or maybe it was the Black ones. Sirius always walked around like he had a big enough dick (if Draco was being quite frank). 

The sound of sizzling garlic filled the air as he continued making the sauce. He could admit he liked Theo's renovations to the quaint kitchen with a butcher's block counter, stainless steel appliances, and brushed metal cabinets. It was cold, just like how he felt inside, never able to shake off the chill of Azkaban. A stark contrast to the rustic Italian meal he was making for her. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she fidgeted nervously with the stem of her wine glass. She'd barely taken a sip since he first handed it to her, and he wondered if he slipped into her mind, if she would be questioning that it was poisoned. 

"What?" he asked finally, tone clipped as he stirred the sauce. 

Hermione blinked, startled. "Nothing."

"No," he pressed. "Something's on your mind. Go on, Granger. Spit it out." 

"I just…" she twisted her lips. "I'm still shocked you know how to cook. That's all." A nervous laugh escaped her. "First coffee, and now this? It's a lot to process, Malfoy. Not really what I expected from you." 

"You mean a spoiled Pureblood Heir?" he mused. "Ex-Death Eater and all that?" 

Hermione nodded. 

The silence between them stretched, punctuated only by the soft scrape of the wooden spoon against the pot and the occasional clink of her wineglass. Gods, her nervous energy practically vibrated around the room, mingling with the magic in his veins. For as uncomfortable as it was, it was also strangely addictive. 

Hermione sipped her wine then, and he could feel the question that pressed against her lips. "I imagine your childhood didn't involve much time in the kitchen," she said softly, finally. 

And there it was.

Gods, she always found a way back to this aggravating conversation. 

Sucking in a breath, he abandoned the sauce as he faced her head-on. "My childhood really didn't involve doing much of anything useful other than enduring Pureblood tutors who taught me penmanship, how to sit, how to dance, and eat a fifteen-course meal." He kept his tone cold, detached, as though he were reading from some history book. "But Kip? The house-elf you met? He taught Theo and me how to cook. Theo's mother was… different. Sweet. She was Pureblood—an Avery—but she didn't act like it. She kept us sheltered and let us do things that I don't think my father would've been too… pleased to learn." 

An ache settled over his breastbone when he thought about Lady Nott and her tragic death at the hand of Theron Nott—a death that Theo was forced to witness. 

It was one of those fears that stayed with Draco after his third year when it happened, and Theo came back to school… differently. It was to be assumed when the wizard watched his mother die. Yet, the idea that it could happen to Draco's mother, and there would be nothing he could do to stop it. Divorce wasn't an option, and he knew Lucius had… unorthodox ways of keeping Narcissa in line. Unfortunately, Draco also knew that (unlike Theo) he couldn't stand bravely in front of Lucius's wand because he was a coward then. 

Really, he was still a coward, but he liked to think that Azkaban changed him—hardened him. Ruined him. Stole his soul and all that bullshit. 

Hermione didn't say a word as she let him speak, and he was honestly grateful. 

"I know you know all the disgusting things that my father has done, Granger," he went on. "Lucius Malfoy is not a good man. I don't think he ever was, and sometimes I wonder if that was just the unfortunate way he was raised by his father—my grandfather. Lucius used to bring me into his study, and—and he would teach me how to 'command respect.' He'd say, 'Boy, you need to learn how to manipulate people—make them fear you!' I thought it was normal. I thought that, gods, this was how I should live my life. Theo's father beat him, so maybe I was lucky that was the worst I got with mine. You know?" 

Emotion clouded Hermione's whiskey eyes. 

"When Lucius got locked away in Azkaban, I was given two choices: join the Death Eaters or watch my mother get—" he swallowed down the bile in his throat at the word he feared. There was a breath before he finally met her gaze. "I think you can conclude on your own which choice I made, Granger." 

A single tear trickled down her cheeks, and he had to close his eyes. 

He really didn't want her pity or her sadness. He hated it when people felt that way. It was one of the reasons why only Theo and Blaise knew the truth behind his choice to become a Death Eater—Draco didn't want to see his mother raped, beaten, and used like some Nocture Alley whore, all because this was a punishment for Lucius's failure to the Dark Lord. 

Shaking his head, he turned back towards the sauce. "Alright, Granger—now you get to answer one of my questions: Why Weasley?" 

She sniffled, wiping away the emotion that painted her face as she steadied her nerves with a glass of wine. He didn't blame her. This was all some heavy shit he really didn't want to drag up, but they were trying this new thing—honesty. 

When she didn't answer, Draco glanced over his shoulder at her. She was staring at her crimson wine, lip pulled between her teeth. 

"It was… easy," she finally admitted, looking up at him. "Everyone just, well, expected it. I mean, that's what I always thought. Ronald was just… there. And growing up, I always felt like I was being pushed towards him whenever I went to the burrow or stayed with them for winter hols." 

"That didn't mean you had to date him," Draco pointed out, grabbing two plates from the cabinet. 

"No," she sighed heavily. "I guess you're right, but saying no to Molly Weasley wasn't very easy. She was like a mother to me when mine didn't understand this world." Hermione gestured around. "It felt safe." 

"Again, safe isn't a reason, Granger." 

"Isn't it?" she countered. "We all live in this world, looking over our shoulders and terrified about what comes next. I can't tell you the last time I went to bed without a thought in my head and woke up the same." Nervously, she rubbed at her sternum, and he realized that he'd seen her do that before, back at school, whenever she looked a bit too frazzled in the library or during an exam. "I obliviated my parents before the war." 

He blinked, a bit taken aback by that admission. Of course, he had an inkling about it, given he was one of the Death Eaters who—

Draco shook his head. 

No, that memory was quickly shoved back into the vaulted box and masqueraded with other memories. He couldn't think about that one—not now, with her sitting right there. 

"So, the Weasleys just felt like my family," she was saying, and fuck, he hated himself. She let out a soft, humorless laugh. "He said that we should date, and I said yes because I didn't want to be alone. But look at me now. I'm single, and I have a thousand people every day who want to be my best friend, but no one makes an effort. I feel… alone. He screwed someone else in our bed, and I caught him in the act. Yet, all he could say to me was that I never had sex with him anymore, and it wouldn't happen again. Like it was… God, like it was my fault." 

"It's not your fault, Granger," he said coldly. "He made that choice—not you." 

"I could say the same thing about you," she whispered, eyes open like a damn book that he craved to read. "You joined Voldemort's cause because you had to, not because you wanted to." 

He didn't want to talk about this anymore. Not when he felt that undiluted blood-hungry anger in him over what Weasley did to her.

Jaw clinching, bitterness raised unbidden within him, swimming in his veins until he couldn't see or think. His fingernails dug into the edge of the wooden counter, knowing that half-moon marks would be left behind. There was nothing he could do—nothing he could say to make this situation any better, and that killed him. Every natural instinct in him wanted to storm out of this apartment and find that idiot and beat the living daylights out of him. 

Plating their food with a little more force than necessary, he set it down across the counter. 

"And Krum?" he asked, wanting to change the conversation. 

"What about him?" she asked. 

"Why didn't you date him?" 

Hermione rolled her eyes. "That was nothing. He was…" She shrugged, trying to find the right words. "Honestly? He was really annoying. Sweet, yes, but annoying. He always wanted to talk about Quidditch and—and God, I hate the sport!" 

Unable to help it, he snorted at her outburst. The sound filled the room, chasing away the tenebrous poltergeists that lingered in the corner. 

"You were always at Potter's games, though," he mused. "Though you were obsessed." 

"Me?" Hermione pointed to her chest. "I went because I was a good friend. Harry needed support. He didn't have a family cheering him on in the stands. I knew how much it meant to him for me to be there." 

Draco could remember all those times when he played against Gryffindor, and his mother and father would come to watch him from the stands. The times when they would lose against the Lions, and Draco would find himself behind a tent flap while his father slapped him across the face and told him what a gods-damn failure he was. 

Shaking off the thought, he walked around the counter, claiming the stool beside her. "Eat," he told her. 

Hermione hesitated, but finally picked up her fork. The two sat in comfortable silence before she finally shoved the warm pasta into her mouth. 

"Oh my God," Hermione moaned, eyes closing as she swallowed. "This is… unreal." 

His lips twitched, pleased by her pleasure. Everything she did pleased him, and that honestly scared him a bit. He didn't want her to get under his skin, yet he craved for her to live there. He wanted to keep her talking because he found that he liked the sound of her voice. 

It was fucking infuriating. 

Taking a sip of his wine, the notes of cherries and chocolate licked at his senses. He really needed to thank Kip for the selection. That little house-elf was a damn genius sometimes, if not a bit annoying. 

"Why did you ask about Victor?" Hermione's voice broke him out of his thoughts. 

Draco looked at her, arching a brow. "Just curious. You went with him to the Yule Ball, correct?" 

Though he knew that she did. 

It was one of the first times when he noticed the swotty bookworm. Okay, yeah, he noticed her before in class when she raised her hand excessively, and the fact that her hair was a tangled mess. Plus, the fact that she punched him in the nose and broke it left him with a slight kink within the once-perfect aristocratic bone structure. He never got it fixed, though, and he didn't really know why. 

Hermione nodded, taking another bite of food. 

He remembered when she entered the ballroom on Victor Krum's arm, and every damn girl in Slytherin became green with envy. Really, the only one who didn't say something nasty under their breath was Pansy, as she remained poised on Draco's arm. She only said, 'Periwinkle is a lovely color on her.' It reminded Draco of lavender more. He remembered he'd asked his mother if he could cut some stalks from her garden and put them in his room that summer. 

But that night? After the ball? Draco had been reckless—fucking possessed. Pansy had been bugging him for months now to take her virginity, and without thought or care, he did. Draco had pushed Pansy up against an alcove after he watched Hermione sit on the stairs, sobbing into her hands over something Weasley did. 

Again, he should've punched the idiot then. 

So, with Pansy's scarlet lips on his neck and his dress robes shoved to the floor as he hiked up her onyx dress and pulled her knickers down her legs, and fucked her roughly, trying to get the image of another out of his head.

When he was done, he felt awful, but Pansy (being utterly Pansy) only grabbed his cheek and smiled and said: 'Don't worry, darling.' 

That was before his growth spurt, but the witch was always willing to let him take his frustrations and troubles out on her. Honestly? He couldn't ask for a better friend than Pansy Parkinson. 

With a heavy breath, Draco asked her: "Why did you hire Parks?" 

He'd been curious from the minute he saw her signature quill and familiar script in the reception of the department. 

Hermione pressed her hand to her mouth, swallowing. "Have you met her?" she laughed. "She walked in one day and said she needed a job. She gave me a list of reasons why I should hire her. We were… having trouble keeping people on, and well, you've met William." 

Draco rolled his eyes. 

"She said she wanted to piss off her parents and that she was highly organized and would prove her worth." Hermione shrugged. "Couldn't really say no." 

"The witch is persuasive," Draco mused. 

"You're telling me. She gives me a migraine about three times a week." 

Draco's brow furrowed. "Migraine." 

Hermione blinked. "Oh, right—um?" He watched as her brain churned. "It's a Muggle headache. Like… sorta like the ones you get after having too much whiskey." 

"You've had whiskey?" 

She bit her lip again, and Draco craved to grab it and taste it himself. "Can I tell you a secret? Sirius gave me some fifth year. Christmas. Harry doesn't know. But Sirius found me in the library. I think I was upset over something Ron said, and we shared a glass." 

Warmth bloomed in his chest at the image she painted for him. The darkness of the Black family library with rich velvet curtains and peeling crimson wallpaper, with those mahogany shelves filled with books on Dark Magic. A bushy-haired Hermione, curled up on the settee, cradling a Baccarat glass in her hands with amber liquor—Odgen's, he could only assume.

Sirius was a single, Pureblood Bachelor. Odgen's Finest was the brand for that sort, and he knew as much from Theo's collection. 

"Why didn't you tell Potter?" Draco asked. 

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know. I think at the time… I didn't want him to judge me, and he was stressed with things. Then Sirius died, and that memory would've hurt him in the long run. Harry loved Sirius—he was like a father to him." 

That unease filled him again as he thought of Sirius's death. The last Black Heir was Draco's family, too, but the relationship was never there. Sometimes (mostly recently), he wondered what could've happened if their families weren't disconnected—if his mother never married Lucius and ran away like Aunt Andromeda. 

He was thankful that the two were close now, bonding over war and lost memories. 

Hermione finished her wine, but when Draco reached to grab the bottle, she waved him off. "I really should get going," she told him. 

Without a word, he nodded, standing as he collected their dishes and glasses. He could feel her behind him, following him into the cramped space with her offering to help. They moved in silence, and strangely, Draco found it comforting. It helped ease his mind, knowing someone else was here with him instead of just his thoughts. 

Hermione stepped next to him at the sink, handing him one of the plates. "You know, you're not a bad person," she said. 

Her words caught him off guard, and he paused. He looked at her then, angling his body. "You barely know me, Granger." 

"I think you forget I went to school with you for six years—seven if we want to count that last bit." 

He stared at her, taking in the fullness of her lips stained with the cherry notes of the Barolo, and he found himself wanting to take it from the source. He wanted to know if she'd be just as pliable as she'd been in her office as he kissed her for the first time. 

Well, she kissed him, but whatever. Semantics. That would be the first and last time that he let her take control like that. 

Fuck. 

Hermione stepped closer. "Malfoy, I—?" 

Without thought or repercussions for his actions, he grabbed her, and molded his mouth to her own. Hermione gasped, the shocked sound filling him at their proximity, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss and sink into her, tasting her—savoring her. She reminded him of a rainstorm in the forest and the first taste of firewhiskey. It was sin, and it was temptation. It was like coming up for air in a crisp lake on a hot summer day. There was honey dripping off her tongue and filling his veins with light. 

It was breathtaking, and he wanted to drown in it. 

He didn't know what came over him, and maybe it was a fever inside of him, but his hands found her waist as he lifted her up and onto the counter, ignoring the clash of porcelain and glass around them. His fingers tangled within her curls. Honestly, he expected them to be coarse and tangled, but they felt like Pindlyid spider thread to him. Luxurious to the touch.

Gods, he always wanted to know what it felt like. 

Hermione whimpered, moaning and opening to allow his tongue to find more access. He took full advantage of it, savoring the kiss like it was his last one on earth. 

He moved his way down her jaw and throat, feeling her throbbing pulse under his tongue. He liked that he could get her this nervous and worked up. He liked that she was so easily molded in his arms. He also liked that she wore those silly little cotton knickers—cheap little things. 

Pushing up her dress, he groaned as he felt the molten heat between her thighs. Fuck… Did she know it was ridiculous how soaked she got? How he'd fantasized about all the ways he could make her come, just to see that pretty little space there? 

"M-Malfoy," Hermione moaned, and he prepared himself for her to ask him to end this moment. "We—God! No one can know," she gasped out as his mouth found the underside of her jaw. "I mean, really, Malfoy, it’s in your contract. This is highly inappropriate and unethical, and—oh!"

Draco grinned against her neck. "Do you ever just shut up for one second, Granger?" 

He was determined to get her thoughts to quell that it almost felt feverish. He wanted to bring her delirious pleasure again and again until she couldn't think straight—let alone walk. He wanted to see what she looked like when she fell apart on his tongue and cock, because knowing how she whimpered on his fingers and thigh wasn't enough. He was desperate. He was a fucking animal, and it felt almost primal of him as he lifted her around his waist and carried her towards the sofa. 

He knew this time would be quick and haphazard between them—time for sweet, lovemaking, or whatever she secretly wanted would be for later. 

See, Draco Malfoy didn't make love, he fucked. Hard. Rough. He would ruin her. 

He held her close as his mouth continued to mold against her own, kissing her, ravishing her… tasting her. His teeth grazed her throat, nipping as he earned a delightful mew from her lips and the whisper of more. 

Yeah, that was enough permission for him.

Unceremoniously, he dropped her onto the sofa, watching her curls bounce against the pristine and ridiculously expensive fabric. Theo would murder Draco if he ruined this, but he didn't really fucking care.  

"I've been thinking about this all night," Draco told her, leaning down over her as his hands bracketed either side of her head. "Wondering if you'll let me touch you again." 

"Really?" she squeaked. 

He hummed, heated gaze trailing down the length of her. "Take off your dress, Granger." 

Wetting her lips, she obeyed like the good fucking girl she was, and Draco preened at the notion. What else would she do for him? Get on her knees and suck his cock until he exploded down her throat? Let him edge her for hours until she was a whimpering, pathetic mess? Let him fuck her hard and rough as he bent her over the table? 

His length throbbed at the thought. 

Hermione fumbled with the back, working it free as she unzipped the material. It pooled around her waist, exposing her perky, uncovered breasts. Holy hell. They were round, perfectly full—enough to hold them in his hand. The aroused peaks of them were rosy, darker than the rest of her perfect skin, and begging to be sucked. 

Gaze trailing lower, she shimmied out of the rest, letting it drop to the floor.

Her body was toned and fit in ways that screamed she took care of herself. He'd seen her months after the war (mainly in the Prophet, since he was locked away) and knew she'd been nothing more than skin and bones. Now? She held subtle curves, and her abdomen was taut with muscle. A purple scar spanned over her ribcage, looking like a lightning bolt where violet tendrils burst over her flesh. Around the edges, it was lined in crimson, and Draco knew it was a Dark Hex that should've killed her. 

Anger against the unknown wizard that had done it filled his veins, but he quickly shut it down. One day, he’d ask her. 

He let his gaze follow over to her arm—her left arm—and it was almost poetic how the word seemed to match his Dark Mark, now covered by tattoos.

Every bit of him wanted to look away, but he couldn't. He'd been there when it happened, and he'd done nothing to stop it. What could he have done, though? Throw his body over her own? Tell his aunt to stop? Scream and yell and cry with her own pain? His father would've Crucio'd him on the spot, and Bella would've killed Hermione Granger. 

Worse? He would’ve had to live with that for the rest of his miserable life.

Looking away, he could feel the insecurity rolling off her, but he couldn't bring himself to convince her otherwise. The sick part of him wanted her to think that he found the markings on her body grotesque and disgusting because it would be easier than telling her the truth. 

So, instead, he slid up his Occlumency shields and morphed into that cold, hard thing as he told her: "Take off your knickers." 

If he weren't listening, he would've missed the whimper that escaped her—the pathetic, desperate sound.

Hermione obeyed and slid the cotton material down her thighs.

"Spread your legs," he told her, focusing solely on the space there as she did just as he asked. Gods… 

Draco prided himself on holding it together, but right then and there, he felt like a pre-teen boy who'd just seen a cunt for the very first time. It was slick and dripping and fuck. He knew that this need was only for him. Not for anyone else in the world—Draco fucking Malfoy—and that made him downright feral. A monster that pressed against his skin, wanting to have a taste. 

His finger slipped into her wet cunt, groaning at the feel. "Gods, Granger," he swore, gaze unable to leave the space between her thighs as he watched his pointer finger move in and out of her. "You're still so damn tight—need, gods, need you to loosen up for me, baby. This isn't going to work." 

Hermione whimpered, tossing her head back against the sofa. "What—? What do you mean?" 

He wanted to laugh because he couldn't very well tell her that if he tried to fuck her now, he wouldn't even be able to get the tip in. He thought about shoving down his jeans, showing her his throbbing, thick erection, and letting that swotty brain of hers come to her own conclusions. 

Hell, that might just work. 

Without a second thought, he undid his jeans with his free hand, just enough to release himself. Still pleasuring her (because he really didn't think he could stop), he rubbed his length once, then twice. Hell, the Dark Lord could hold a wand up to him, threatening to kill him, and he wouldn't even blink an eye. Maybe he was getting addicted. 

Innocently, she looked up at him. "Can I?" 

Draco had to bite his tongue, nodding as he watched in rapt awe as her tiny hand wrapped around him, barely covering his throbbing length. If he ended up back in Azkaban, this memory was enough to last him a solid lifetime. He knew it. 

And as he heard Pansy say time and time again back in school: 'Spank bank-worthy material.' 

Arching a brow, he met her gaze then, noting that her pupils were nearly blown and her pouty lips were parted as she just held his heavy length in her hand. "That's why," he mused. 

Hermione swallowed thickly. "I… uh, see." She looked back down at his angry, purple, dripping head, taking in the indigo veins to the small patch of pale hair around the base. "I don't think that's going to… fit inside of me, Malfoy." 

Draco couldn't help but smirk. "No, it's not." 

"Glad we can agree on that." 

A soft burst of laughter escaped him as he leaned over, mouth grazing her own as he whispered: "But it will… eventually." 

The shutter that escaped her filled him with smug satisfaction. Yeah, he would work her up to it—stretch her, prepare her for him. By the time he was done, he'd ruin her for anyone else, and that was a promise. Her tight little cunt would be so molded to him that there wouldn't be anything else to bring her pleasure in this world. 

It occurred to him then that he couldn't do this to her—fuck her. 

One, she thought way too damn hard about everything, and two, he didn't want this to be the last time. He wanted her craving him and crawling back here, pathetic and needy. He wanted her to walk out of her, go back into her bed at Grimmauld, and think about how he could make her feel. 

Maybe he was evil deep down, but he really didn't fucking care. 

"We'll get you there," he repeated, moving off the sofa to come kneel. His cool fingertips danced over her knees, positioning her as he spread her thighs wide, revealing that glistening, pink cunt. 

His mouth immediately watered, and all he wanted to do was drink from the source. 

Whimpering, Hermione watched him as he kissed down her throat before getting on his knees before her. Smirking, he kissed her right inner thigh as he angled it on her shoulder. The scent of her danced around him, making his mouth water as he craved that honeyed taste he'd only had the chance to sample on his fingers. 

It was fucking delicious. 

He looked up at her, holding her gaze as he flattened his tongue over the silken slit. Wet… so damn wet and so sweet. 

"Oh, God…" she moaned, throwing her head back against the sofa. 

Pushing out her thigh more, he opened her up for his viewing pleasure. Pink and perfect, and all his. He would get her off at least once (if not more) before he fucked her. 

"Fuck, you’re so beautiful," Draco whispered into her, making her shiver. "This is just… gods, Granger, I’ve been dying to taste you for so long." 

"Please," Hermione whimpered, arching as she tried to make contact with him. 

Draco tsked, placing a palm against her lower belly, holding her still. She needed to learn patience because he wouldn't ask again. The idea made his cock turn to steel between his thighs, pressing against the seam of his denims where he placed it back haphazardly inside. 

"I'm going to get you there," he promised her, curling his finger inside of her. "Going to get you nice and ready for me, Granger. Don't worry. Going to force you to sit on my cock and watch as I open you." 

Slowly, he lathed over her clit, feeling it harden and throb underneath his touch. Gods, she tasted delicious, like sin and sunlight. He could drink this all day, bottle it up, and create a potion from it. A whimper of desire poured from her lips as he latched onto the bud, suckling it, before running back down and swirling at her dripping center. It was like music to his ears, and he wondered just how many more sounds he could pull from her tonight—if she would let him.

Unfortunately, that was the gods-damn question of the hour, and he really fucking hated it. 

Toying with her arousal, he slid one finger inside of her. Fuck, he had already been prepared for this from the moment they began, but she was so damn tight. He was determined to get a second in her tonight, stretching her out and preparing her for his cock. Hermione just needed a little help, and Draco felt altruistic in getting her there. 

"Please!" Hermione gasped desperately, fingers fisting the fabric of the sofa. "Please, Malfoy! Please!" 

Pumping his finger inside of her, his tongue dragged down to her entrance, slipping alongside it. Preparing her, opening her, tasting her. The walls around her trembled and quaked, begging for that delicious release. 

Yeah, that was one damn thing he knew he was good at—making a witch come on his tongue. He wasn't about to let her down either, determined to show her what she'd been missing all these years with fumbling idiots. 

With a few more skilled strokes of his tongue and the pump of his fingers into her, she propelled off that metaphorical cliff with a cry. Her back arched off the sofa, her dripping center writhing against his face, covering him in her release. He groaned as he felt her arousal slide off his fingers and into his palm. 

That sick part of him wanted to take a photo of the moment, for her to see the flushed crimson that specked her chest in beautiful blotches. Maybe he'd invest in a Pensive and make her watch herself fall apart over and over again. Make her see how utterly perfect she looked coming for him and only him. 

He kept working her until he felt her pull away, whimpering at the sensitivity. Reluctantly, he removed his finger, giving one last savoring lick to her swollen cunt before he sat back on his haunches. Hermione immediately closed her thighs, chest heaving as she watched him with glassy-lust-filled eyes. 

No, that wouldn't do. 

Leaning forward, Draco brushed his knuckles against her cheek. "So fucking sweet," he murmured, lips curving into something devious. 

Hermione blinked, gaze drifting down at his erection shoved back within the confines of his jeans. He didn't bother buttoning them. He watched with rapt curiosity as she reached forward. Gods, he wanted her to touch him—wanted her to wrap her pouty little mouth around him, but at the mere thought, something inside of her wavered.

Hell, it was a feeling he hadn't felt in a very long time: guilt. 

He'd forced her to come here and took advantage of the situation. He'd claimed her and devoured her, letting sex cloud their judgment. 

See? This was why he wasn't a good man. He didn't deserve anything that she was willing to give him. 

"No," he told her, words turning cold and harsh. "Not tonight." 

That damn lip found its way back between her teeth. After a minute, she asked: "Why?" 

"I said not tonight!" Draco snapped, standing. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He turned, running his fingers through his tousled pale locks. With a breath, he said: "I—Granger, you deserve something better." 

She didn't answer him after that or press him. Hell, she didn't argue with him with that fire he'd come to know over the past month. And he wondered if he royally fucked up there. 

Yeah, he wanted her—wanted to watch her under him, naked and writhing. He wanted to watch as he slid into her slick, tight heat, but that wasn't in the cards tonight. He needed to get her there, and his resolve was wavering right now. He wouldn't do it—not tonight. If he fucked her, he'd ruin her and make her a complete mess. He'd hurt her, and that wasn't something he particularly wanted to do. 

Standing, he offered her his hand and helped her up. He watched as she got dressed silently, and a part of him hated himself for it. They walked towards the fireplace, and he offered her the floo-powder. 

When she turned around, her whiskey eyes were open and bright, filled with something that terrified him and sent excitement through his bones. "How do you know what I deserve?" she asked, her gaze holding his own. 

Because you're good, and I'm not, and the things I wanted to do to you tonight weren't precisely proper. But he couldn't tell her that—he wouldn't tell her that. 

She was right about earlier; they were breaking about a thousand different rules, and fucking her senseless wasn't in his contract. Or maybe he missed that part. 

Either way, it wasn't right, and they both knew it. 

So, Draco sucked in a breath, one hand on the mantel as he told her: "I'll see you next week, Granger. Enjoy the rest of your night." 

Chapter Text

The Ministry atrium was a hive of activity on a November morning. Heels clicked against the marble floors, conversations humming in the background, and the comforting, rich aroma of coffee wafted from the cart at the corner. 

Hermione stood in the queue, fingers drumming against her arm lightly as she waited with equal parts annoyance and anxious tension. The line moved at a glacial pace, giving her far too much time to think, and thinking led to one person in her mind: Draco Malfoy. 

Ugh. Really. Ugh. 

She shifted on her toes, craning her neck as though to get a better vantage point over the pointed hats and poofed-up hair of Ministry workers and Wizengamot members rushing to their morning appointments. A part of her hoped this might give her a better view—as if she might see him. 

Every bit of her kept telling herself that it didn't matter—that he didn't matter, even as she shifted her gaze to the lifts for the umpteenth time—but that felt foolish and useless. It was Wednesday, and she hadn't seen him since last Thursday when he cooked her dinner and made her, well, have the best orgasm of her life. Honestly? She didn't even know men were capable of such things with their tongues. The best Ron ever did was fumble around with her. It was embarrassing to admit that no one had done that before—go down on her. 

Or what had Ginny called it once? Oral?

Whatever. The technical terms didn't matter. Not when she felt the resolute disappointment inside of her and the innate failure that screamed at her that he didn't want her, and she wasn't what he expected or thought. She was too much for him, and he couldn't handle the baggage that came with her. A part of her didn't believe it, but after the way he practically shoved her into the floo and told her he'd see her next week—which was now this week—she could do it readily. Ugh. 

Okay, so, he didn't shove her into the floo; he told her rather pragmatically and responsibly that they shouldn't be doing this. He was acting as the voice of reason where her brain was all riddled in clouds of post-orgasm bliss. But now? God, now, she was resorting to seeking him out (stalking him, really) as she waited in the queue at the coffee and sweets cart. 

It was pathetic, really. 

And yet, his absence now felt like a weight pressing down on her, cold and heavy. 

Honestly, though, Hermione blamed Harry for his lack of appearance. Apparently, the D.M.L.E. requested that Draco spend four days with them. Whatever. She didn't care. 

She nibbled on her thumbnail, taking a mental inventory of her outfit today. She picked it with him in mind, and she absolutely hated that tiny voice that whispered: 'You care.' The charcoal dress was far too short—honestly, inappropriate where it fell to her mid-thigh—and she paired it with some new Dragonhide boots Harry got her last Christmas. She knew they were expensive because of the soft, buttery material, but Harry refused to let her exchange them for something else. 

Would Draco like them? She wondered, only to snap herself out of that thought. 

God, she needed to pull it together. This was getting ridiculous. It's not like they were anything. But that night had been… complicated. Heated. Confusing. One minute, he was muttering against her bare thigh about all the things he wanted to do to her, and then, when she tried to reciprocate the action, he shoved her away. It was just like those moments in her office when she wanted to peel back his layers.

Long story very short: he shut down, and she watched his Occlumency shields slide methodically into place with practiced ease. 

Since then, Hermione has been left to her own devices and forced to wrestle with the kaleidoscope of emotions he had awakened within her—emotions that she didn't even know existed. 

She shifted on her feet, trying to soothe her unease, knowing she was being ridiculous about the whole thing. 

Why was she even thinking of him like this? Honestly? Never once had these… thoughts of him come into her mind. Not at school and not during or after the war.

For so many years (mostly in school), Draco Malfoy had been a constant thorn in her side—a sneering, arrogant boy who delighted in making her life miserable. When he told Harry and Ron that the last time the Chamber of Secrets opened, and it was only a matter of time before another Mudblood died—how he hoped it would be her next. When he cast the Densaugeo spell in their fourth year, forcing her incisors to grow several inches. Okay, so she could thank him for that. Whatever. How about when she caught his eye across the room in Potion's sixth year, and Theo snickered whenever she got the answer correct? Or the moments when she caught his eye through spiraling, swirling steam, his pale hair curled around his ears and nape. How she watched his pupils dilate in the hazy aura. 

She knew he once represented everything she despised: prejudice, entitlement, and cruelty. 

But was he the same man? Or had something changed? Was there redemption there? That was her task, after all, given to her by the Minister, himself, to determine if Draco Malfoy might be redeemed. 

Hermione shook her head, forcing herself to look away from the crowded atrium. 

Yep, she was being absolutely, positively ridiculous. A proper idiot. If this were Ginny, she'd scold her friend for having her head in the clouds and say she didn't need a wizard to make her feel complete. It was just one night together—and she could barely even call it a night since he sent her home seconds after he made her fall apart on his tongue and told her she deserved better. It wasn't as if they were an item or anything. For Merlin's sake, she had absolutely no claim to him, and she doubted Draco would take kindly to any sort of label. 

Yet… that pertinacious tightness in her chest refused to loosen. 

She couldn't help but wonder if she'd done something wrong. Did she say too much that night? Not enough? Pushed him too far? Asked him to do something he wasn't ready to do? Oh, God! Did she take advantage of him? She was practically his therapist, and she'd crossed that invisible line drawn between client and provider. She let him ravage her like some character in one of her romance novels and then told him it needed to be a secret. 

What. An. Idiot. 

Hermione straightened her shoulders and stepped forward in the queue, thankful when her favorite barista greeted her with a wide, cheerful smile. Crons had been working at the coffee and sweets cart for about a year now, and the two always chatted about small things that offered a much-needed distraction. Today, Crons's shocking magenta hair reflected off the dim light in the atrium, adding a bit of warmth to the otherwise dreary November day. A week didn't go by that the half-elf/half-wizard didn't do something different to his hair. 

"The usual?" Crons asked, arching his hot-pink brows. "London Fog?" 

Hermione nodded, mouth salivating as she eyed the blueberry scones. She really shouldn't, but every bit of her just wanted a bite of the gooey, warm goodness that was freshly baked with a Stasis Charm in that glass case. 

Crons went on to prepare her London Fog, chatting about the latest gossip around the Ministry. Hermione really tried to pay attention, but her focus kept drifting back over her shoulder as if a certain someone might appear. 

"For you," Crons's voice jolted her out of her thoughts. He handed her the steaming cup with a wink. "Busy day ahead? You seem distracted." 

Hermione let out a short, soft laugh. "Always," she told him with a faint smile, clutching her to-go cup like it was her lifeline. 

"Well, knock 'em dead, Granger! And show them who's boss!" 

"Sure, you aren't looking for a job up there?" She jerked her chin to the upper floors, encased in enchanted glass. One of those was her office. "I could sure use someone like you in my department." 

Crons only laughed, lips stretched wide to reveal the diastema between his front teeth. "No, ma'am! I perfectly like working here and not being controlled by the bureaucracy!" He punched his fist in the air. "Fuck the man! Am I right?" 

Biting her lip, she shook her head as she raised her cup in the air before heading towards the lifts. Fuck the man. That should be on a placard on her desk, and the thought made her smile. 

Yet, even the slight reprieve from her pleasant conversation with Crons did nothing to help the thoughts swirling in her head. Her boots clicked against the polished onyx floors, echoing like a dinner gong in her skull. Everything just rattled about, blending with the buzzing activity around her.

Reaching the lift, she stepped inside. Of course, today, of all days, the compact car was packed to the brim, and she found herself pressed against the corner like some farm animal. Ministry employees kept squeezed in, even with the grunts of protest. She would've felt claustrophobic if it wasn't for the residual doubt, disappointment, and whirlwind longing inside her chest. Ugh. 

Not today—she couldn't feel like this today. 

From the minute she woke up this morning, she planned to be as productive as possible. She had a stack of reports to complete and needed to write the report she'd been putting off on the patients at a newly formed hospital strictly for magical creatures and werewolves. 

Honestly, Professor Lupin would've been so proud of her. 

The accordion-style doors were just about to close when a pale hand shot through, halting them. Draco stepped inside with that air of lazy confidence that sent a steady throbbing need between her thighs.

Hermione's breath caught—sharp and unexpected. She didn't know if it was a sigh of relief or panic that escaped her as she met Draco's hungry, determined gaze. 

Looking down towards the floor, she felt him move beside her, uncaring that the car was ridiculously full and he had to shove away a grumbling wizard. His galvanic presence beside her devoured her. It was ludicrous how he practically towered over the car patrons, consuming the entire space that some even shifted away or got out before the doors closed. She tried not to acknowledge him (because, after all, he was the one ignoring her this entire week), but every brush of his hand against hers sent a jolt of awareness through her. The space was suffocatingly small—or God, maybe that was just him? She tried to keep her breathing even, tried to ignore the way his scent—clean, sharp, and intoxicating—wrapped around her like a second skin or a spell. 

Hermione tightened her grip on her cup, biting her lip. She tried to ignore how his ice-cold, long fingertips toyed with the hem of her dress. Electricity zapped through her, coursing in her veins to the place between her thighs. 

Breath hitching, she silently cursed her body for betraying her. Why? Why did he affect her like this? 

Yet, wasn't this exactly what she wanted? Him to notice her? Him to want her? Him to stand right next to her? Now, she was questioning her rationale and seriously wondered if she should check herself into St. Mungos by the end of the day. Were they even accepting patients?  

The lift began its slow ascent—or maybe it was fast?—and she could feel the heat radiating from their proximity. 

Gingerly, his hand brushed up her thigh, over her arse, before resting on her lower back. It was feather-light but deliberate, entirely hidden from the other occupants. Dangerous. Oh, this game was so bloody dangerous, and he was playing it (and her) like a fiddle. 

The worst part? She wanted to play, too. 

Hermione stared straight ahead, heart hammering with the battle of maintaining her composure, even if all she could think about was him. Merlin, his touch, his scent, and the maddening nearness of him. God, she just wanted to drown in it and let herself give in. Never in her life had she wanted to turn around, wrap her arms around someone's neck and snog them senseless, consequences be damned. She wanted to remember what he tasted like because her lips craved it with a fevered, delirious passion. 

The lift chimed, the accordion doors slid open, and Hermione jolted. What was happening to her? 

With what little resolve she had, she rectified her composure as she mumbled her apologies to the wizards and witches blocking her path as she stepped out of the car. She didn't know if she should be terrified or thankful the minute she heard the lift doors close and the familiar whoosh of the machine. They were alone. Level-6 was empty, save for them. 

Unfortunately, she could feel him behind her with every breath she took. 

The sound of her boots clicked against the polished obsidian floor, mingling with the soft thud of his expensive Dragonhide loafers—a rhythmic counterpart to the chaos of her mind. It felt like a game again as he stalked behind her. No… he prowled. When she slowed, he slowed. When she picked up her pace, he followed suit. Cat and mouse. Lion and lamb. Serpent and rabbit. Either pairing Hermione made, she ended up being the idiot. 

Lips parting, she opened her mouth to say something—maybe snap at him—but before she could form those words, Draco grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a small, dark supply closet.

The door clicked resolutely shut, shrouding them in the shadowed space surrounded by Mrs. Mulpepper's Cleaning Supplies and Pegasus Printing Paper. She barely had time to register what was happening before his hands were on her, and the world tilted on its axis.

"Miss me, Granger?" he murmured, voice low and rough, and she couldn't decide if she wanted to hex him or snog him senseless. 

Both seemed like extremely plausible options. 

Without conscious thought, Hermione grabbed him, yanking him towards her as her mouth connected against his own. The heat between them vibrated with a dizzying thrum between her sternum. Her breath caught on an inhale, filling her lungs with ecstasy. 

This… this was what she wanted. She wanted to melt into him and allow him to take and take and take until she was no more. She really didn't care, and maybe that was her first issue because she always cared. It was in her blood and carved into her bones. She always thought and calculated her next move with Arithmancy equations. She did nothing rash or unplanned. Her body didn't work like that.

And yet, Draco managed to unwrap everything with a few simple words and the feel of him against her. It was madness, really. 

Draco wasted little time taking what he wanted from her, ignoring how they stumbled over old brooms and wooden mop buckets. It was hardly romantic, but she didn't care. His tongue overpowered her own, catching every moan and whimper that escaped her throat. Every bit of her wanted him to consume her, take her, mold her to his own will. If he wanted her soul right now, she'd gladly give it without question. 

They broke apart, earning a frustrated growl from Hermione in the absence of his touch. No! No! She wanted more and was thankful when he moved his path towards her jaw, teeth taunting over her tender flesh. 

"Did you think about me?" Draco's breath was hot against her throat, open-mouthed, grazing her pulse like he wanted to drink from it like some vampire. 

"Y-Yes," she whispered, fingers latching onto his shoulders. 

"What did you do when you got home?" 

Squeezing her eyes shut, she let him hike up her dress around her waist as he lifted her against the shelves. The wood pressed into her spine along with the bottles of cleaning supplies. "I—?" she started, but she couldn't bring herself to say the words: I touched myself to the thought of you. 

Draco chuckled darkly when she didn't answer, as if he just knew. Maybe he did, and she wouldn't question it. 

His hand slipped over her breast, toying with her peaked nipple through the material. Pulling away, he arched a brow at her as he asked: "No bra today?" 

Hermione worried her bottom lip, confirming what he already knew. 

Really? What could she say? She didn't want there to be lines, and okay, she might've had this in mind as well. Whatever. She'd reflect on her choices later when her head wasn't so fuzzy at the proximity of him and all the sinful things that were circling her mind like a clogged drain. 

Bending down, he held her gaze as his mouth enclosed around the clothed tender peak. Hermione whimpered pathetically, watching the material darken into Payne's Grey with his mensurations. He lathed and tugged and worshiped her right breast until moving to her other. 

God, that damn tongue of his was something else. It should really be studied. 

His other hand traveled down to the hem of her dress, pushing it further until he found the seam of her knickers. She already knew what he felt, and warmth crested her cheeks. She was impossibly wet—soaked. Yet, he seemed to love it in a way that no man or wizard ever had before. Well, she couldn't really compare since she'd only been with Ron, but even then, he never gave her this sort of confident praise when his hand slipped beneath her sleep shorts once in a blue moon. 

Draco shook his head. "You know, this dress is way too short on you, Granger," he scolded, words hoarse. "Watching you this morning, prancing around? Fuck. Do you know the thoughts that were going through everyone's mind? How many sleazy wizards wanted to bend you over their desks and show the Golden Girl a good time?" 

Gasping, she arched into him, tightening her thighs around his waist. 

"But they all think you're such a good girl," he hummed. "Don't they? They don't know how filthy you are… letting me play with you in the dark. Isn't that right?" 

Only a squeak came from her, and Draco took that as an answer enough to slide his hand under her knickers. She made a mental note to buy some nicer ones, maybe something with lace? Did Draco even like lace? Of course, he did. He was a red-blooded male. He probably thought it was pathetic of her to wear these cheap cotton things that she bought in a ten-pack from Marks & Spencer. 

His finger swirled at her entrance, taunting her, and she couldn't help but whimper at the sensation—the already fullness that consumed her. It never felt like this when she tried to please herself, and she wondered how he got so damn good at this. 

"Always so fucking wet," he growled, sliding one finger in. He swore under his breath, moonlit eyes glowing in the tenebrous dark of the supply closet. "Do you think you can take another, Granger?" 

She bit her lip, nodding. She wanted this, though. She wanted to feel his thick fingers inside of her, pleasuring her. She wanted to feel consumed by him until she didn't know where he began, and she ended. 

"Is that a yes?" he asked, waiting. 

"Y-Yes!" 

Draco laughed, darkling, pumping in and out of her channel. Slowly, he pushed in a second finger alongside the other, and they both moaned at the resistance, but she tightened her nails on his shoulders, silently telling him not to stop. 

Sweet Merlin. All she could think about over the weekend was the feel of his thick, heavy length in her hand as she stroked him—how her fingertips barely touched the girth. It was obscene, really. Ridiculous that a man could wield such a weapon between his thighs. But Hermione was persistent, and she was determined. Right now? She wanted to conquer all of them and didn't particularly care that she was staring at stacks of printer paper. 

"You're just so gods-damn tight, Granger," Draco groaned as his mouth lathed over her collarbone. "I don't think I can—fuck. I can't wait again if I get you alone. Do you know how hard it was over the weekend? Thinking about this? About your taste?" 

"Please," Hermione moaned. "Just—God, Malfoy! Just do it." 

Honestly, she didn't know what she was asking for, as the words in her head became a blubbering, jumbled mess. But she wanted something—anything. She would be good for him, she swore it. She would let him do anything if it meant getting her to find that sweet, sweet pleasure. 

Pausing his movements, Draco shook his head and met her gaze. "I don't want to hurt you," he told her, and for a moment, as she watched him, she wondered if he was talking about their actions right now or something else. 

Shaking her head, she whispered, "You won't." 

"I will." 

Every bit of her wanted to argue with him—wanted to fight back with that lioness fierceness, but she didn't have it in her. Instead, she remained quiet as he worked out the thoughts in his head. 

Eventually, he began again. His fingers kept moving in and out while his thumb circled her throbbing bundle of nerves. It felt like he already had her memorized, playing her like an instrument. "You need to be able to take me," he growled, pressing his forehead against her own. "Because I won't be gentle, Granger. When I fuck you—it won't be sweet lovemaking. Got that?" 

She could imagine it then, making her arousal drip onto his palm. The idea of him taking her from behind, hands grabbing her arse as she moaned into a pillow. She clenched around him as she thought about how… full she would be in a way she had never felt before. 

It was utter madness. The insanity that she needed to be remedied, but only he had the elixir to solve all her problems. 

"How—?" Hermione swallowed thickly. "How will you do it? Prepare me?" 

He seemed startled by her question, but quickly schooled his features. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, and she tracked the movement, gasping. "I'd lay you down on my bed," he began, eyes turning glassy at his own imagination. His finger curved inside her, sending that tingly warmth down to her toes. "I'd make you spread your legs like you did so nicely for me last Thursday." 

Oh, sweet Merlin. Sweet, sweet Merlin. 

"I'd start off like we did before," he continued. "Just one finger inside of you—maybe I'd get on my knees and play with you with my tongue." She whimpered, and he laughed. "Oh? You liked that, didn't you?" 

Yes! Hermione wanted to scream. 

"I'd get you nice and open, Granger. So gods-damn wet that you'll be making a mess of my sheets. You'd have to be able to take three of my fingers, though. That's the only way it would work. Do you think you can do that?" 

Hermione bit her lip, nodding obediently, because… holy hell. 

"You'll be a good fucking girl, won't you?" he asked, words vibrating against her. Methodically, his thumb brushed over her swollen bundle of nerves, and she jumped. "You're doing so well already." 

Hermione didn't know how to think at that moment—she didn't know how to compute simple words or phrases inside her head. All she could do was throw her head back, neck bared as she released, squeezing his fingertips and digging her nails into his shoulders through his finely tailored dress robes. Stars danced over her vision, clouding her senses, and she didn't even know if she could even breathe. It felt reckless and unpredictable. Perilous. Yet, it felt like the world was coming together and falling apart simultaneously. It was the moon and the stars, and she wondered how in the hell she'd been missing this for so long. 

Slowly, she came down from her high, her chest rising and falling in staggering pants as Draco still pumped his fingers within her. Against her, his erection pressed with a reminder, and she wanted nothing more than to get on her knees for him and please him—taste him. 

But Draco (seeming to understand) shook his head as he slipped from between her thighs. Disappointment wrecked through her. Did she do something wrong? Did he not want her to reciprocate the favor? 

Hermione tried not to let the thought get to her as she felt him adjust her against the shelf. One hand, still holding her close, with her legs wrapped around his narrowed waist, Draco dragged his fingertips up to his lips. She watched in awe as he groaned at the taste of her. Really? Why was that so damn hot? 

Molten silver holding her own, mingling like the ether of a potion in some dingy classroom. She felt her world narrow in confusion, uncertain of his next move as he leaned in, breath dancing over her jaw. The heat ghosted against her flesh, and she mewed at the feel. 

"I can't get enough of—" But Draco's words were cut short as light flooded the space, bright and unyielding, with the unmistakable groan of the wooden door. 

Cursing in what Hermione believed was French (or maybe Italian), Draco shifted them, covering her the best he could. It really wasn't much given their positioning: her legs wrapped around him, and his painfully evident erection standing at attention. Worse? Her dress allowed little to the imagination, and there was a clear wet spot over her breasts from his ministrations earlier. 

Vision clearing, Hermione could finally make out the lithe, petite figure in the doorway. Oh, crap… 

"Well," Pansy purred, sable gaze trailing up and down at the scene. "Isn't this a surprising sight, indeed?" 

Chapter Text

Pansy's manicured brow remained curved as she took the two in. "Here I was fetching things for our dear Minister when I somehow stumbled upon an ex-Death Eater and my current boss."

Hermione didn't know what to do as she stood there, blinking and painfully aware of Draco's impressive arousal pressed against her belly. The heady tension that consumed the space like a Nebulus Charm. The world tilted, shifting and morphing, and Hermione didn't know how to hold on except by the firm grip of her fingers around his lapels. 

A whimper escaped her. Fuck. 

Pansy's sharp gaze flickered to Draco. "I'd suggest you go find Potter and have him deal with you today." 

As much as Pansy's usually bossy nature annoyed her when Hermione was, in fact, the boss, she was grateful for it right now. 

Draco slowly let her down onto her own two feet, and Hermione had enough decency to right herself behind him, away from Pansy's view. Yet, the witch just tapped her manicured onyx nails against her pale forearms as she waited. 

"Nice to see you again, Parks," Draco grumbled. 

"It always is, Dray," Pansy countered. 

Laughing softly, he leaned over and gave the witch a soft kiss on the cheek. Hermione hated it (really), but she couldn't deny the green monster that raised its ugly head within her and glared. The jealousy that she felt once more over their familiarity. God, wasn't this the exact issue that put her in this uncomfortable position in the first place? 

Draco glanced one last time over his shoulder at Hermione before turning the corner. The lingering look left her confused, and a resounding emptiness that she couldn't place. 

Closing her eyes, Hermione couldn't bring herself to meet Pansy's gaze. Instead, she just pushed past the witch and hurried towards her office. Pansy was right behind her, the excitement and morbid curiosity bubbling off her like champagne. She mentally prepared herself for the line of questions that were sure to come, moving almost robotically as she greeted William before entering her office. 

This was not how Hermione wanted to start her Tuesday. 

The second the door closed, Pansy pressed her back against it. A bubbling giggle escaped her—a complete contradiction to the feline curve of her cherry-red lips. It felt just as dangerous as the moments with Draco had minutes ago. Maybe it was a Slytherin thing. 

"Spill!" the witch commanded. "Now!" 

"I—?" Hermione pressed a hand to her brow. "I don't—? Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!" 

"Okay," Pansy drawled, pushing off the door as she stalked closer. "One—you need to tell me when and where you and Draco happened because what I just saw wasn't the first time, and two—did you just say fuck?" 

"I have a swear jar now," she mumbled. 

"Oh, I think you have more than just a swear jar from the looks of what I just saw in that supply closet, darling." 

Hermione groaned, sagging down into the Bergere chairs before her desk. This was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. What was she thinking? What was even going on inside her head? She was lucky that it was only Pansy who caught them because who knows what might've happened if it was Harry or god-forbid Kingsley. 

"Please don't tell anyone," she begged, peering up at the witch. "Please." 

Pansy folded her arms over her chest. "Is that really what you think of me? That I would run out of here and betray our friendship?" 

Hermione worried her bottom lip, feeling the tender skin there from Draco's mouth. The thought sent unwelcome heat pulsing between her thighs, reminding her of another pleasurable ache from his fingers. Really? Now wasn't the time, not with the mix of nerves in her system and lingering self-doubt. 

Sighing heavily, Pansy took the seat across from Hermione. "I'm your friend. Or, I like to think we're friends, given our time together. I know I'm never going to fit into your perfect world with Harry and Ginny and once-upon-a-time Ron—although, screw him. But I am your friend." 

Pansy's sincerity made a warmth pulse in Hermione's chest beyond her ribcage—a feeling she really only felt with a select few. 

"You are my friend, Pans," Hermione told her honestly. 

"Good!" the witch huffed, raising her chin. "Now, when did it start? And be honest!" 

Hermione glanced at the door and back again. "I don't know… maybe the day you came back before Italy? Maybe before that?" 

Pansy squealed. "Naughty, naughty witch! Oh, tell me more." 

"I went over to his place, and he cooked me dinner, and… well—" A warmth crept over Hermione's cheeks that she couldn't contain. It spread like Fiendfyre and heated every square inch of her. 

Another girlish squeal escaped the dark-haired witch as she squirmed in her chair. Honestly? She'd never seen Pansy Parkinson act like this—all giddy and excited—and the image made Hermione curious. Hell, she thought the witch would be furious over the fact that Draco had her pushed up against the supply closet shelves. 

Hermione groaned, her brain feeling all jumped and confused. "I need a drink," she mumbled, slouching in the chair. 

"You know what?" Pansy stood, smoothing out her velvet skirts. "I couldn't agree more." She reached out her hand, helping Hermione stand. Placing her palms on Hermione's shoulders, she leaned in conspiratorially. "And you know what else I think we need? A shopping day. Let's play hookie." 

Hermione's lips parted, but Pansy was already flittering about the room, gathering Hermione's things. 

"I can't just… play hookie," she sighed. "I have reports to file and things to get done." 

Pansy glanced over her shoulder, the blunt ends of her bob swaying. "That's what William is for. C'mon, darling! My parent's accounts at Twillfit and Tattlings are just calling my name!" Her gaze slowly trailed up and down Hermione's frame. "As… cute as this whole ensemble is, you need a new wardrobe, and I've been begging you for months." 

"I—?" Hermione started to protest. 

"No!" Pansy held up her hand. "My treat!" 

* * *

The bell above the door chimed as Hermione stepped into Twillfit and Tattlings, and the world transformed into something out of a dream. The shop was impossibly elegant, with crystal chandeliers dangling from the vaulted ceiling, their light refracting into tiny rainbows that danced across the walls. Above, the ceiling was painted with a moving fresco of witches and wizards draped in timeless finery. The figures seemed to glide across the ceiling, nodding in approval as customers entered the shop below. The air smelled faintly of lavender and cotton, with a subtle undercurrent of something rich and expensive—like aged wine or rare silk.

Hermione’s gaze darted to the walls, which were covered floor to ceiling with bolts of fabric. They shimmered and sparkled with an inner light, shifting as though alive. Some swirled with constellations, others glimmered like water under moonlight. Entire racks of pre-made robes hovered in the air, enchanted to rotate gently and display their fine embroidery, delicate beadwork, and jeweled embellishments.

Tiny house-elves darted about, their hands quick as they picked up scraps of fabric and tidied up after patrons. She wondered if they were here by choice, though she already suspected the answer.

"Close your mouth, darling," Pansy drawled, her tone amused as she breezed past Hermione.

Snapping her jaw shut, her cheeks burned as she hurried to follow Pansy’s confident stride. Of course, the Pureblood witch moved as though she owned the shop. Her tailored black robes swished elegantly around her ankles, her sleek dark hair deliberately catching the light.

God, Hermione had never even stepped foot in this place before, given it was strictly known as a shop where all Purebloods frequented. Yet, she'd spent hours drooling at the well-curated windows of the modiste. It was like Wizarding Britain's own version of Harrods. 

"Ms Parkinson!" 

Hermione turned, catching sight of a witch gliding towards them. Every movement she made was graceful, as if she were floating on a cloud. Her striking scarlet hair fell in perfect waves, framing her high cheekbones and alabaster skin. A small beauty mark rested above her full, ruby-red lips, and her pale green eyes sparkled with a sharp intelligence. Hermione felt suddenly plain in comparison. She had an air about her that reminded Hermione of Fleur, and she wondered if the attendant was part Veela. 

The woman greeted Pansy in the European way, her deep emerald robes swaying with the movement. Holding Pansy’s hands, the witch stepped back to admire her. "It has been too long, Ms Parkinson!" 

"Don't I know it," Pansy laughed. 

"I've been waiting for your arrival!" she said. "I have a lovely new pantsuit I just designed with you in mind." 

"As tempting as that is—we're not here for me," Pansy purred, turning on that charm that could only be described as Pureblood.

"Oh?" 

Pansy stepped aside then, and the red-haired woman's gaze shifted to Hermione. Her expression was unreadable as her sharp eyes swept over her, taking in her clothing. Hermione fought the urge to squirm under the scrutiny, feeling like a fly in a jar. Recognition seemed to dawn because the attendant gasped. 

"Sweet Morgana! And bless my soul!" the woman gushed, her tone both reverent and delighted. "It's Hermione Granger! The Golden Girl, herself!" 

Hermione cringed inwardly at the title, wishing she could shrink into the nearest bolt of fabric. "It’s just Hermione, really," she mumbled, but the woman seemed oblivious. 

"Where are my manners?" Pansy hummed, wrapping her fingers around the crook of Hermione's arm. "Darling, this is Madam Griselda—owner and head Modiste of Twilfit and Tattlings." 

Madam Griselda's lips spread wide. "The honor is all mine! I cannot believe it! We’ve been waiting for this moment, my dear," Madam Griselda declared. 

"You have?" Hermione squeaked. 

With a snap of her fingers, a small army of attendants appeared out of nowhere. They wore crisp black-and-white uniforms, with pink measuring tapes draped around their necks like living necklaces. The tapes moved sinuously, their ends curling and twisting as though eager to leap into action.

Hermione felt a slight shiver run down her spine as one of the tapes flicked toward her, almost like a snake sniffing the air.

"Step onto the platform, if you please," Madam Griselda said, gesturing toward a small dais surrounded by enchanted mirrors.

Hermione hesitated, but Pansy gave her a gentle push. “Up you go,” she said cheerfully.

Reluctantly, Hermione stepped up, feeling exposed under the scrutiny of the posse of attendants and Madam Griselda’s keen gaze. She barely had time to protest before the measuring tapes sprang into action, wrapping around her arms, waist, and legs with startling precision. She felt like a doll being spun and measured, her arms lifted, and her hair swept aside as the attendants worked. She shot Pansy a pleading look, but the witch was absolutely no help. 

This might've been Hermione's version of hell. Really. 

Pansy twirled a lock of her sleek black hair around one manicured finger, her sharp green eyes fixed on Hermione with curiosity and amusement. "What do you think, Griselda?" she mused, glancing towards the redhead witch. "She's the head of a powerful department and needs to play the part." 

Madam Griselda nodded enthusiastically. "Couldn't agree more! I'm thinking five new dress robes, several blouses with the new fabric I picked up in Paris, and…" she tapped her chin. "Does she need any formal wear?" 

Pansy grinned like a serpent. "There's a New Year's gala coming up that she's supposed to attend." 

Hermione's lips parted as she looked back and forth between the two. It was like a Muggle tennis match, and she didn't know where to begin. The rules were confusing, and she was completely and utterly out of her element. 

"Pansy," Hermione began, finding her voice. "This is generous and all, but—" 

"No buts!" Pansy declared, sinking onto the velvet settee and accepting a flute of golden bubbling champagne from an elf. "I know you've been ignoring that invitation on your desk for weeks now, but it's the perfect occasion to show yourself off." She curved her cherry-red lips slyly. "Among other things." 

"Pans…" Hermione warned.

"Nope! Don't want to hear it!" 

An elf appeared beside Hermione, and as much as she hated the servitude, she was desperate for the glass on the silver tray. Grabbing the flute, she downed it in one go, hoping it would steady her nerves. It didn't. 

Madam Griselda clapped her hands, and an attendant brought out a bolt of fabric. It shimmered like liquid moonlight, its surface rippling with hues of gold and silver. It looked almost alive, catching the light in a way that made it seem like it were covered in tiny serpent scales.

"This," Madam Griselda said, her voice reverent, "is incredibly rare. Perfect for someone as unique as you, Miss Granger!" 

Pansy squealed, reaching out to touch the fabric. “Hermione Granger! You have to have this! It’s stunning.”

Hermione stared at it, feeling both awestruck and horrified. It had to be expensive, given the material and the way it practically glowed under the crystal chandelier. This was far out of her pay grade, and there was no way she could afford it. 

Madam Griselda sketched furiously with a Quick-Quotes Quill, the design coming to life on parchment. The gown was long and fitted, with a dragon-like spine of silver and gold scales curving down the back, dipping dangerously low to just above the base of her spine. It was daring. It was—

“This is scandalous,” Hermione murmured, her cheeks heating.

“It’s perfect,” Pansy countered.

Madam Griselda and Pansy began chatting animatedly about the design, their voices fading into the background as Hermione turned to the mirror.

Her reflection stared back at her, and for a moment, she felt like a stranger. She was out of her element in this world of opulence, and it set her teeth on edge. Her curls were unruly, her dress suddenly felt childish, and a pang of insecurity shot through her. The boots felt cheap, even if she knew Harry spent far too much on them in the first place. 

Could someone like Draco Malfoy ever see her as someone who belonged in his world? 

Better yet, did she even have the right to think those thoughts when they'd only kissed three times and he'd only ever returned sexual favors? 

Ugh. She felt foolish. Silly, really. She hated the vulnerability that came with these thoughts—the way they made her feel exposed. This wasn’t who she was. She was pragmatic, logical, and in control. She didn’t moon or worry over men, least of all Draco Malfoy.

But no matter how much she tried to rationalize it, she couldn’t deny the truth that had been growing quiet inside her: she felt something for him.

The reality? She hadn't expected to feel anything for him other than professional obligation, and that was an issue. Somewhere along the way, something shifted. It was hard to reconcile those memories with the man she watched open up Adagietto. Those quiet, unguarded moments that revealed glimpses of a man shaped by a childhood of hatred, pain, and horrors.

It was rare, but it was there. 

Honestly? It was like peeling back layers of armor, discovering something raw and unexpected underneath. It was all the sinew muscles, revealing the truth that she never expected to find in the veins of his ancestry and upbringing. Now, when she thought of the Draco that she knew in this present timeline, she could see a man who wanted redemption, even if he was too proud ever to admit it. 

Maybe she was getting ahead of herself. 

That sour, spoiled feeling curdled within her belly. The sense that she didn't have a proper grip on reality and couldn't make up or down. 

It felt even worse than back then—pre-Ron and post-Ron. God, she remembered the way she felt during those last months (or maybe even more) of her relationship: the constant questioning, the quiet but relentless voice in her head telling her she was broken and that she wasn't enough. The way he'd been distant, and she blamed herself. The hours she spent second-guessing every action, every reaction, every word passed between them. 

Hermione made a vow to herself never to feel like that again. Yet, she couldn't help but wonder about the what-ifs—the idea and unease that festered like an infected wound in her belly. 

The thought slipped into her before she could stop it: what if Draco was only using her to get what he wanted? 

She'd thought about it before, and after his ambush today, she wondered how much of that tiny voice inside her head was true. God, she was his superior, after all, and the one who would ultimately sign off on his release from his six-week probationary period with the Ministry. Between her and Harry, they were the ones who decided if Draco Malfoy could be redeemed. 

The bitter tang of self-doubt crept in, mingling with the familiar ache of humiliation. Tears pricked against her lids, blurring the mirror in front of her. 

Pansy's gentle hand jolted her out of her dark thoughts. "Darling?" she asked softly, gently. "Are you alright?" 

Hermione bit her lip, meeting that sable gaze in the mirror. "I don't—? What am I doing, Pans?" 

"Here?" Pansy mused, arching a manicured brow. "Well, you're shopping with me, love, and I'm spoiling you rotten. But I have a feeling you're not talking about that, are you?" 

Hermione shook her head. 

"I see," the witch hummed, glancing over her shoulder at the line of attendants and Madam Griselda. "Will you give us a moment?" 

"Of course, Ms. Parkinson," Madam Griselda replied. "Let us know when you're ready." 

"Oh, just pack everything up and charge it to my account," Pansy said with a wave. "Will need to send Ms. Granger's things to Grimmauld Place. I'm sure you have the Black ancestral home on file. Yes?" 

Eyes wide, Hermione gawked at Pansy, but the witch only brushed her off. God, she never loved or hated the witch more. But right now, she couldn't find it in herself to care about the ridiculous number of clothes that Pansy just bought for her. That would have to be a conversation later when she had her wits about her. 

Pansy grabbed her hands and guided Hermione down onto the lush crimson velvet chaise lounge. Around them, remnants of the day's extravagance, including bolts of shimmering fabric and wool for pantsuits, littered the floor. 

"What's going on inside your head, darling?" Pansy soothed. "And don't lie to me. You know I can sniff it out of you, and you Gryffindors are such horrid liars." 

Hermione huffed a laugh, watching Pansy grab the open bottle of champagne off the table, filling their crystal glasses to the brim. 

"I think—?" Hermione hesitated, watching the golden liquid. "I'm making a mistake." 

"How so?" the witch asked, reclining against the sofa. Pansy looked entirely at ease, and Hermione couldn't help but be jealous. 

"I don't know," she mumbled. "But he's my… God, Pans, he's my client! And don't even get me started on how wrong this all is!" Hermione could feel her panic rising as it occurred to her then how utterly reckless they were. "What if—? You heard what Kingsley said. I mean, hell, it's in his contract that there can be no romantic relations!"  

"Did the Minister catch you?" Pansy asked. 

"Well, no, but—but you did."  

Cool fingertips pressed against Hermione's lips, silencing her. "Then there's no issue," Pansy pointed out. "I'm not going to tell anyone."  

"How can you say that? There's a huge issue," she muttered, shaking her head. "I can't do this! He can't do this!" 

It was the truth. It was reckless what they were doing, and she knew that if they were caught by anyone but Pansy Parkinson, the fault would utterly fall on Draco. Why? Why and how could she be so stupid? 

Her thoughts were spiraling so beyond control that she didn't even hear the curtain open. If she had, she might've tried to escape sooner, as Ron's image reflected back at her in the mirror. Great. 

"Mione?" Ron seemed shocked, cerulean eyes squinting as if not really believing that it was her. "What are you doing here?" 

Pansy scoffed. "Shopping, Weasley. What does it look like?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Hermione countered, ignoring Pansy's remarks even if they brought a smile to her lips.  

Ron crossed his arms, gaze darting between the two witches. "Neville's wedding," he explained. "Hannah insisted we all get our robes done here." 

All that golden warmth from the champagne fizzled out. Between work, the break-up, Draco, and, well, everything—it slipped her mind. She knew the invitation was pinned to the silver fridge down in the kitchens, and Harry had mentioned it once or twice, given that he was in it as well. 

God, maybe she was losing her mind. 

Ron, seeming to notice Pansy, turned his attention solely to her. "What is she doing here?" he asked. "Hanging around with snakes now, Mione? Didn't think you would stoop that low." 

The gasp that escaped her was sharp and uncontrolled as she glared at her once-friend and boyfriend. "Ronald! That's uncalled for!" Her nails dug into the malleable flesh of her palms, hoping to stifle her annoyance. "Plus, you know we work together." 

Pansy rolled her eyes, glancing down at her manicured hands as if determined to find something wrong. "Save your breath, darling. Weasley is just here to pick a fight, and I have tougher skin." 

"Serpent skin," Ron muttered under his breath. 

Yet, the anger that was inside Hermione couldn't be quelled by the words that Pansy said. What right did he have to come in here and disrupt her peace? None. Absolutely none. He lost his right to even hold a sliver of concern for her when he decided to take another woman into their bed and screw her on their mattress. He lost the right when he ruined everything they had. But honestly? She could count it as a blessing because now she knew it wasn't how she wanted to be treated, nor did she want to find herself with someone who would judge her and her friends—the supposed 'company' she kept. 

Pansy must have said something to Ron because he looked pleadingly at her and whined, "Mione…" 

The nickname (that she honest-to-god hated more than anything in this world) hit her like a slap. 

She straightened her chin, lifting it defiantly. "You should leave, Ronald. Or go get on with whatever else you were planning on doing." 

That pathetic, simpering look immediately vanished, replaced by one she saw repeatedly when she did something wrong back at school and later on in their relationship. The cruel judgment he held for her when Victor invited her to the Yule Ball, or the time during sixth year when Ron was convinced that she and Harry were secretly dating. The wicked curse that the locket placed on him made him scream at them before abandoning them in the Forest of Dean. 

He looked at her like she was a stranger, and that crawled under her skin, festering all her insecurities and doubts. 

Shaking his head, he turned, only for his attention to focus on the table, where a few delicate scraps of lace and silk lay. It was the remnants of the lingerie that Madam Griselda proposed to Hermione, but she immediately shut the shopkeeper down. 

"Guess that explains everything," he said with a humorless laugh. "I should've known you were screwing someone else." 

The words hit her like a punch to the gut, dousing her in equal parts flame and ice. She could feel the tears spring against the lids, threatening to spill over as the world blurred, and the shop became a ringing buzz in her ears. 

Seeming to notice, Pansy stepped closer. "Careful, Weasley," she said, tone deceptively calm. "You're in my territory now, and I won't tolerate anyone acting holier than thou." 

Ron snorted. "Like I care what you think, Parkinson." 

"Oh?" Pansy arched a brow. "You should, arsehole. Because I could ruin you with the snap of my fingers. Now, you made your point. I suggest that you leave." 

"I have every right to be here," Ron laughed. "You can't—" 

"Madam Griselda!" Pansy called. 

The witch appeared almost instantly, scarlet hair catching the light. "Yes, Ms Parkinson?" 

Pansy gestured towards Ron. "This man is finished here."

Sounds filled the room, but Hermione could barely make out a thing as Madam Griselda and her attendants escorted Ron out. She could barely even stand on her own two feet as the world around her wobbled, and the tears cascaded down her cheeks. All she could hear were the words inside her head: 'I should've known you were screwing someone else.' 

Whore. Wasn't that what she was? A big, old slut? 

Hermione collapsed onto the sofa, hands trembling as the weight crashed down on her. Her throat burned like an iron was placed there, and her skin felt dry and chafed. Despite her best efforts, a tremor escaped her, and she let out a sob. 

"Oh, darling," Pansy cooed, taking the spot next to Hermione and grabbing her hand. Her thumb rubbed circles over the soft skin. "He's an idiot. Totally not worth it, in my opinion, to shed tears over." 

She wanted to say something—anything—but the words were stolen from her. She hated crying, knowing that it made her feel weak and worthless. It made her hate every bit of herself that she tried so hard to fix and couldn't.

What did that say about her? 

Pansy handed her a fresh glass of champagne. "Drink. This will fix everything." 

Obeying, Hermione sipped the golden bubbles, letting them soothe her belly. Yet, the storm inside her still raged with her insecurities. Glancing up, she met her gaze in the mirror, taking in the watercolor blotches over her throat and cheeks. Her lips were swollen, and her brown eyes were bloodshot. 

She looked like a mess. 

How could Draco want this? Want her? How could he even want to touch her? 

Squeezing her eyes shut, she looked away. 

"What's on your mind?" Pansy asked. "And don't say nothing because I know it's something. You're like a gods-damn open book, darling." 

Unable to help it, Hermione laughed. "Malfoy said the same thing." 

"Of course he did," Pansy sighed. 

Hermione looked at the raven-haired witch then. "I'm making a mistake." 

But Pansy just shook her head. "I don't think you are. Not one bit. And if you let that redhead idiot get under your skin, I will hex you. Don't let someone like him question who you are. You're stronger than this—than him. Want my advice?" Pansy arched her brows. "I think you should stop looking at the past and focus on the future. We all make mistakes, but the past doesn't define us. If it did? We wouldn't be friends, and we are friends, yes?" 

Hermione bit her lip, nodding her head. 

Pansy squeezed her hand. "Take a wild chance, darling. Take a chance on those who need it; I promise it will be worth it. Who cares about rules? The best ones in life break them." 

* * * 

Hermione didn't know what came over her as she nearly ran through the streets of London. She tried to talk herself out of it and mostly blamed the champagne in her system, but Pansy's words were like a beacon. 

Maybe Pansy was right—maybe it was time to stop looking back and start moving forward. 

The crowd around her blurred as Hermione moved through the throng of evening pedestrians, dodging umbrellas and hurried commuters. The air was damp from the cool November rain earlier, the faint scent of wet pavement mingling with the street vendors. Her curls were wild, untamed by the mist clinging in the air, but she couldn't care less. Not with each rise and fall of her chest in determination, and the thoughts in her head that were swirling like a sandstorm. 

She darted across the busy intersection, ignoring the honk of the black cab. 

The reality? Hermione spent so much of her life making excuses for people, for their flaws and their failures, bending herself backward to make everyone happy and the roles they wanted her to play. Her entire life was about the 'Greater Good' and doing what was right. Following the rules, setting boundaries, and choosing the logical path. 

With Ron? It was easy to accept the narrative, but it wasn't enough. 

But with Draco? God, not that there was a Draco yet, considering she didn't know how he felt or if he even wanted this to go beyond a casual hook-up. But with him? He was everything she shouldn't want—dangerous, dark, brooding, and could crawl under her skin and settle there. 

It was everything that she knew society wouldn't want, but she did. 

She wanted this. 

Somehow, in the mix of the lust from this week—and the first time Draco teased her, coaxing pleasure from her and worshiping her, even if they couldn't complete the act—she realized she wanted this. She didn't care about the rules anymore or what might happen if Kingsley found out about their… well, whatever this was. She hated her job—hated the way it was handed to her on a silver platter with her Order of Merlin. 

No, because what she wanted was him. She wanted whatever he was willing to give her, which terrified her. 

The realization hit her like the rumble of the Underground beneath her feet. She wanted him. Not just his touch or the thrill of their stolen moments in libraries and supply closets. No, she wanted him—all of him—scars and tattoos and all. It was maddening and complicated, but so was she. 

Hermione might've tried to bury her demons, but she had them just like him. She had nightmares, and she had fears. She had a scar on her arm that proved her survival and her worst. 

Her lungs burned as she buzzed up to his flat, taking the stairs two at a time. Her resolve remained unwavering despite the resolute pounding of her heart. 

With a fist raised to his door, she prepared to knock, but the door swung open before her knuckles could make contact. 

Draco stood in the doorway, his sharp, aristocratic features framed by the golden setting light beyond. Her gaze trailed down his bare chest, swallowing thickly at the sight of him dressed in those damn sweatpants that should've been illegal. His silver-blond hair was tousled, as if he'd just woken from a nap. 

Leaning against the threshold, his muscled arms crossed over his chest, he mused: "How can I help you, Granger?" 

Chapter Text

Hermione was breathless, her cheeks flushed, and her heart raced as she met his silver gaze. For a moment, neither of them moved, the air between them thick with unspoken words. Yet, all she could focus on with the dragon peeking out over his shoulder in curiosity. Its eyes were almost alive, studying her—watching her. Each of his dark tattoos rippled with the movements of his muscles, and she wanted to reach out and touch them. 

"You're staring, Granger," Draco mused, dragging her out of her thoughts.

Hermione swallowed thickly. "I would apologize, but you should really wear a shirt if you don't want people to stare." 

A low, rumbling laugh escaped him, filling her with undeniable warmth down to her toes. "Is there a reason why you're here?" he asked. 

Oh. Right.  

Mustering up all her Gryffindor courage and the speech she prepared on the way here, she peered up into his dark grey eyes. She felt almost dizzy—drunk as she said: "I hate my job." 

Honestly? She really didn't know why she said it, but it was the first thing that came out of her mouth as she stood there in the doorway of his flat, sweaty and out of breath. 

"You wanted the truth?" Hermione went on. "You wanted honesty? Well, there you have it, Malfoy. I hate my job. And can I come in?" 

Draco didn't say a word as he stepped aside, allowing her entry into his flat. She bobbed her head in thanks as she made her way to his living room, turning around to face him. 

Alright. She could do this. She'd been preparing on the walk over here exactly what she was going to say and all the reasons why she wanted this. Now? She just needed to tell him. 

"I've hated my job from the minute it was given to me," she went on. "It was handed to me, and if you know anything about me—I hate favored treatment. I want to work for my merits, and this wasn't one of them. And before you came along? I was bored and didn't really have a purpose with my work. I know… I know. I sound stupid and whiney about the whole thing. But I almost quit that day Kingsley gave me the task of… well, you." 

Draco didn't take his gaze off her as he stood there, arms folded over his firm chest. 

"I follow the rules," she sighed. "I have a terrible habit of making people's lives easier before my own, which is why I think Kingsley gave me the job. I'm a fixer, and I know it's annoying, and sometimes, I let other people dictate my life."

"I told you, Granger, I'm not something you can fix," Draco said coldly. 

"And I know that," she blurted, needing to get the words out. "I know that. God! I don't think that about you. Not at all. But with you? The other night?" Hermione gestured between them. "With this? It doesn't feel like that. That felt… real." 

"Did it?" he drawled. "And how would you know what real feels with me?"

"I'm being serious!" 

"So am I." 

A shrill groan escaped her as frustration boiled to the surface. "Stop it! Stop that! Stop—just stop!" 

Draco only arched a brow, and she wanted to smack him. Or, better yet, she wanted to punch him again. He was due for it. Honestly. It had been since third-year. Nine years. Nine!

Matching his stance, she folded her arms over her chest. "Look, you can try to masquerade as someone who doesn't give—give two flying fucks!" Draco's brows rose even higher at her words. "But I can see right through you, Draco Malfoy. I know you." 

Slowly, he stepped towards her, crowding her against the hearth. "Do you know me, Granger?" 

"Yes," she said resolutely, raising her chin—challenging him. "I know you, Malfoy. I know you put on a façade when things get hard, and you push people away when things get real… raw. I know you're trying to push me away, even if you're being absolutely bipolar about the whole thing." 

"And how am I doing that?" he drawled lowly. 

"Avoiding me? Sending me on my merry way and closing off? Cornering me in elevators and broom closets after ignoring me for days?" 

His lips twitched. "Did that bother you? That I didn't come to seek you out the next day?" 

"Yes!" she admitted honestly. "It—! It—!" A groan escaped her as magic sparked at the ends of her honey-brown curls. Ugh!

"It what?" 

God, she hated how he pushed her buttons, but she also knew he challenged her. This was a breath of fresh air compared to all the times her emotions, frustrations, and feelings were swept under the rug and buried without cause or care. 

No, this felt… good. It felt genuine and honest. And maybe she was being utterly ridiculous about the whole thing. Maybe she was out of her damn mind, knowing that she was breaking about a thousand unspoken and spoken rules—rules about who she should be, how she should act, about the invisible line that they crossed before they both even knew it. 

But right now? She didn't care about the rules. 

She wanted out. 

She wanted… well, she wanted him. 

Hermione sucked in a breath. "I don't care if this is wrong, or if you think I deserve better." She held up her hand, stopping him. "You don't get to decide what is right and wrong for me, Draco Malfoy. Not anymore. So, with that being said and everything laid out on the table between us, you need to know that I want—I want you. And I want you to take me to your room right now, and lay me down on the bed, and do all those things you promised because I can't stop thinking about it, and yeah."  

Draco's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "When did you decide all this?" he asked, curious. 

Hermione huffed. "Today. Post-broom closet." 

"Post-Parks?" 

She bit her lip, nodding. "Post-Parks." 

Silence filled the space between them, the weight of their unspoken feelings like iron on her shoulders. 

Hermione loosed a breath, preparing her monologue that she repeated in her head on the walk over. "I don't know where this is going, Malfoy. But… God, I can't deny this—" she motioned between them. "It's complicated, isn't it?" 

Slowly, he stepped closer, smooth, uncallused hands cupping her cheeks as he brushed his thumb over the curve of her bones. "Complicated is all I've known, Granger. I hope you can understand that. It's all I know. Can you accept that?" 

Her lips twitched into a small smile. No more running. No more hiding.

"I'm not asking for much here," she told him.

"No?" Draco arched a brow. "Just for me to fuck you, isn't that right?" 

Warmth bled into her cheeks, making her feel feverish with that undeniable intoxicated feeling again. It was something that she wanted to drink down and bathe in. She wanted it to swallow her whole and never look back. 

The back of his knuckles brushed against her jawline as he murmured, "I love it when you blush like that." 

More heat invaded her face then, and Draco laughed softly. Bloody hell. This man.

After a stretch of silence, she told him: "I think I'm being completely rational about this whole thing. Like I said, I'm not asking for much, and I know the risk we're both taking. But I… Malfoy, I want to be a bit reckless. I don't want to follow the rules anymore. I'm done living by other people's rules. I just… I want to feel something. Anything." 

Without another breath or word, Draco leaned down and kissed her. 

It wasn't like any of their other kisses. No, this kiss was rough, devouring, and primal. He mapped out the inside of her mouth, not wanting to leave an inch of her that he had yet to discover. She didn't know up from down as the world around her tilted on its well-balanced axis. The sounds that filled his small flat were needy—all laborious breaths and wanton moans.

God, most of them were from her. 

They stumbled backward, unable to keep their hands off each other as their clothes—or mostly her clothes—became piles on the floor of his living room. She was vaguely aware of her knickers finding their way onto his sofa before he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. 

Laughing, she swatted at his back, but Draco only landed a firm smack on her arse as he kicked open his bedroom door. The wood creaked as he stepped inside, tossing her onto the bed. 

It was the first time she'd been in his room. Honestly, she expected something reminiscent of Malfoy Manor: opulent, dark, and dripping with upper-echelon grandeur. 

This… this was not it. 

The room was modern, almost minimalist, with clean lines and understated elegance contradicting everything she knew about Draco Malfoy. The walls were painted the same dove grey as the living room. The three small, grimy windows were framed with soft russet-brown velvet curtains—not the heavy things at Grimmauld. His bed was a sleek, low-profile design with pristine white linens and a dark textured throw at the end. The headboard was made with curved, hand-carved onyx wood. Over the floors, he had a simple, pale grey antique rug. 

There was no art on the walls, and the only other piece of furniture in the room was a matching black console, which held a crystal decanter of amber liquid, a few well-worn books, and a file folder she couldn't quite make out. 

"Not what you expected?" Draco's voice cut through her thoughts, laced with amusement. 

Blinking out of her stupor, she met his gaze. "I—no, it's not," she admitted. "It's very… modern. I thought you'd—" 

"That I what?" he interjected, strolling towards her until he was at the footboard. "You thought it would be all heavy curtains, antiques, ornate furniture, and a chandelier or two?" 

Warmth pricked at her cheeks. "Uh… yes? You know, more Malfoy Manor."

"The Manor is an ancestral cesspit," he told her, and she didn't miss the coldness in his tone. "It's my parents—not mine. This—?" He gestured vaguely around the room. "This is mine. Big difference, Granger."  

She bit her lip, nodding. 

"Just because I'm curious, exactly what did you imagine for me?" he asked. 

Hermione looked around, picturing it. "I thought you would have some grand four-poster bed and a collection of Slytherin memorabilia—maybe even a pet snake." 

"I fucking hate snakes," he told her, shuttering as his hands wrapped around the edge of the footboard. "Ironic, isn't it? That a Slytherin and a Malfoy hates snakes." 

"I hate rats." 

"Who doesn't?" Draco mused before he asked: "And what's your bedroom like, Granger?" 

Hermione's lips twitched. "I sleep in Regulus Black's old bedroom. Lots of black wood, but I did get rid of the Slytherin memorabilia. Lots of blues now." 

Draco chuckled, the sound low and warm, filling her down to her toes.

As his humor died down, she was suddenly aware of his heavy, piercing gaze on her. She realized then how naked she was on the bed, lying there and having the most platonic discussion with him about his decor. 

"What are you thinking about right now?" he murmured. 

"That I'm… uh, naked," she told him honestly. 

Draco nodded his head as if considering this. "And in my bed," he pointed out. 

"And in your bed." 

Slowly, he walked around, and she met him on her knees as they watched one another. It felt like some ancient dance between man and woman that she hadn't learned but somehow knew in her bones. A call. A whisper. A praise. 

Hermione's heavy gaze roamed over him, taking in the bareness before her. It's not like she hadn't seen him shirtless before, but this felt different. There was something utterly holy and devout about the moment, like she was kneeling at an altar, praying. Her fingertips moved over his chest, toying with the dark ink, down to the carved abdominals, before brushing over the large freckle at his left hipbone. She wanted to lean over and worship his tattoos—ask where and why he got them—but she stopped herself.

There would have to be another time for her avid curiosity.

Slowly grazing her fingers across his stomach, she stroked over the blonde line of hair smattered there. She felt the soft curls before tracing the line down to the tops of his sweats. 

She looked up at him through her lashes. "May I?" 

"Yeah, fuck…" he groaned, tossing his head back as her palm brushed over his erection. It felt like steel against her fingertips. 

She slid down his joggers, releasing his throbbing cock from the confines. They pooled to the floor as his length bobbed against his stomach—thick and weeping. Every bit of her wanted to taste him; she wanted to feel him heavy and throbbing on her tongue. 

Swallowing, she wetted her pink, swollen lips, unable to take her gaze off of him. Fuck. And there were some more Pounds in the swear jar. 

Honestly? Did that really count right now? 

As much as she hated the vulgar word, it was really all she could think of as she leaned forward and gave a tentative lick to the angry purple head of his length. He tasted salty and perfect—nothing like what Ron tasted like. Not that she was comparing them or anything. Her hand began stroking him, using the dripping need as she spread it over his length. 

God, how was it possible for him to be this… big? Thick and heavy. She was nearly drunk on the thought, needing another taste. 

Hermione sat forward, closing her eyes as she widened her mouth, lowering herself down. The stretch was obscene, and the part of her that she didn't think existed wanted to know what she looked like as she took him in her mouth and on her tongue. There was no way that she would get all the way down to the base, so she continued to stroke him, starting at the root, until her knuckles brushed her lips. A determination filled her with each grunt and moan of 'holy fucking hell, Granger,' and 'you look so fucking good like this' that he made. 

The recognition of her work only fueled her further. She needed to hear more—needed that praise that he was so willing to give, and she would take in return. 

Opening her eyes, she peered up at him through her lashes, meeting his dilated irises. Warmth pooled between her legs, and she nearly swore that she felt herself dripping onto his bedsheets. 

Draco's fingers traced her jaw, dragging down to her throat, where he felt himself stretching the tiny passage. "You look incredible right now," he groaned. 

Pulling back, she heaved in a gasp of air. 

"Fuck…" Draco murmured. "You don't need to keep going. I want—?" 

But she didn't let him finish as her tongue traced his slit, tasting the salty essence of him. It filled her veins like a drug, consuming her, and she wondered for a moment if it was possible to become addicted to this action—giving him head. She never really liked it with Ron. Or rather, he was more eager to get her on her back and end the activity before it even began. She didn't think they even spent more than three minutes on foreplay in their five-year relationship. 

Was this what she'd been missing? All this time? 

Hermione began again, needing to feel him heavy on her tongue. Placing her hand on his base, she began to work the areas her mouth couldn't reach. Each stroke and lick and moan made Draco more feral as his hips moved of their own accord, pumping into her mouth, deepening the sensation.

God, she liked this. Like really liked this. 

She liked how she pleased him and made him almost desperate as his hips thrust into her open mouth. She liked how the taste of him became more prominent with each stroke from root to tip.

Better yet, she wanted to show him just how good she was for him. 

"Hermione! Gods!" Draco shouted, pulling away from her painting. His silver gaze was glassy, filled with that unmistakable need. "You're—Salazar, I was about to come." 

"But what if I wanted you to?" she whispered, pulling her swollen bottom lip between her teeth. 

Draco swore under his breath, leaning over to kiss her, claiming her lip for himself. When he was finished, he told her: "The first time that I come inside of you won't be your swotty little mouth, love. It'll be your sweet cunt, and when I'm done, I'm going to fuck my come back inside of you where it belongs." 

A pathetic squeak escaped her at his filthy words. 

"Lay down on the bed," he commanded. 

Obeying, she did just like he asked. The surrounding linens swallowed her, making her crave to melt into the bed. Of course, he would have ridiculously expensive bedding. 

Draco moved, coming to hover above her. "You listen so well," he hummed. "Are you always like this, Granger?" 

Unable to help it, Hermione arched her hips up into him, feeling his bare length against her dripping center. She wanted nothing more than for him to spread her thighs and claim her like he said—she wanted everything that he was willing to give. 

Draco's gaze trailed down the length of her naked body, as his fingers found their home between her thighs. They both moaned as he methodically rubbed against her swollen bundle of nerves. 

This was… madness. She never had a man bring her this close before without any other stimulation, and she wanted to thank him and curse him at the same time. 

"I can't decide how I want to do this," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "Where do I want to start with you?" 

"A-Anywhere," she told him. 

"Anywhere?" His silver gaze found her own as he shifted down, and his free hand pinned her hips to the mattress. "That's an awfully big ask that I don't think you're prepared for." 

She wanted to tell him that she could take it—that she was stronger and more resilient than she looked, and she was sick of people thinking otherwise, but she held her tongue. 

Bending over, his mouth found its way to her throat, toying with the overly sensitive skin there. All thoughts seemed to be lost when she felt his finger slide inside of her, pressing against that spot that made her see stars. She wondered then if she was already about to climax—if he could really make her come already. Hell…

His mouth touched every single surface he could find. It was almost like he was starved, as if he had never felt another human in his entire life. He lathed over her breasts, mouth enclosed around her peaked nipple. She gasped and arched against him, barely realizing that he slid another finger inside of her. 

What did he say before? That she needed to fit at least three. God… 

"You're soaked," Draco mumbled, mouth open against her breast. He sounded just as desperate and raw as she felt. "So tight—so good, baby. You're doing so damn good for me."

She whimpered at his words. Yes, she wanted to be good for him.

Her hips bucked, trying to move against his hold on her, but he completely overpowered her. With every tug and pull of her aching peaks, she was close to coming undone. She tried to focus on holding out—on not wanting this to be over—when her climax slammed into her like a freight train. 

Back bowed, she cried out: "God! Draco! I—" 

The smirk on his mouth was nothing short of feral as he watched her with rapt attention. There was no more silver behind his gaze; now, only solar eclipses clouded his vision. He looked dangerous, like a wolf in the forest. He looked almost mad and drunk off of her as she was off of him. 

This… this wasn't normal. She knew that, and yet, she didn't have it in her to stop it when she could feel another wave cresting and his fingers curling inside of her in that greedy way. Her hands fisted the bedsheets, eyes unable to leave his as he watched her, and she watched him. 

"You're close again, aren't you?" he growled. "Dripping all over my hand. Gods… you should see yourself." His gaze dipped to where he pleasured her. "You're fucking soaked." 

Yeah, she was vaguely aware of that, given the sounds that filled the room, but she didn't have it in her to care. In fact, she spread her legs further, whimpering at the praise he gave her when she did. 

"I'm—?" she tried to find the words. "I think—?" 

"Yeah?" he hummed. "It's alright, Granger. You can come again. Going to get you nice and open for me… pliant like a damn doll. Need to stretch you out so you can take my cock, because I won't wait another day." 

Her lip dragged between her teeth, tender to the touch.

Honestly? She didn't think she could wait, either. She was so sick of sofas and broom closets, and she wanted him to shag her senseless on this very bed. 

That unyielding warmth tingled up her limbs, warming her as it settled in her core. Draco sat back on his haunches, watching her, using his other hand to stroke his thick, swollen cock. The sight was nearly obscene as she watched him slide his two fingers inside of her, and every bit of her wanted to ask him to try a third. 

She could take it. Hell, she was Hermione Granger, and she was determined. 

The wet sounds of her filled the room, and she whimpered, arching up and undulating into him. "P-Please," she begged. 

"Please, what?" Draco asked. 

"I—?" she tried, but couldn't find it in her to ask. God, all she wanted was for him to take control—to make her fall apart again. 

"C'mon, Granger. Use your words." 

Bloody hell. "Tongue!" she blurted, gasping for the air she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Use your tongue on me! Please!" 

Draco chuckled darkly as he leaned over, breath hot against the already heated center of her. "Like this?" he pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, inhaling deeply. "Fuck… Remind me to spend more time down here, Granger." 

Yeah, okay, that really shouldn't be that hot. 

Methodically, he moved, lathing over her center and his fingers. She could feel him then, spreading them in a motion she'd never felt before. Jolting, warmth oozed over her at the feel of his tongue slipping inside her channel. Holy Merlin and Morgana. That undeniable heat that started low in her belly as he kept manipulating and tonging her to the point of extinction. 

Hermione gasped, arching her spine like a taut bowstring as she cried out his name for the second time tonight. Her vision became spotty, and the world around her blurred. Phosphenes danced along the surface in a cacophony of technicolor light. 

The aftershocks rolled through her as Draco gave one last swipe to her sensitive bundle of nerves before settling between her thighs. 

"Are you sure?" he asked, and for a minute, she could've sworn that there was tenderness behind his words—hesitation. 

"Yes," she whispered, gaze tracking the movement of his hand around his impressive cock. 

"Okay." 

His right hand stroked the soft skin on her hipbone, soothing her as he lined himself up with her center. The angry head of him, dripping in pearlescent droplets of need, rubbed over her folds once and then twice, earning a whimper and a groan from them. She felt painfully vulnerable in that instant, watching him as he slowly, so slowly, notch at her entrance. Already, the stretch was too much, and she couldn't find the words to tell him to stop. 

No, she didn't want him to stop—that was the issue. She wanted this desperately, with a need and thirst that she couldn't quench until she felt him slide home. 

"Alright?" he asked, and she nodded. 

Pushing a bit further, he paused again, and she almost screamed in annoyance. 

Draco was holding back. His arms were trembling, and his jaw was clenched with a force that made her own ache. She didn't want him to hold back—she wanted him to let himself go and show her all the things he promised in heated moments. 

"Please," she whispered, fingernails digging into his shoulder. "More—I need you to move." 

Swearing under his breath, he slid further. "You're too damn tight, Granger. I need—gods, you need to relax. Breathe." 

At his words, Hermione loosed a breath she didn't realize she was holding, and her muscles relaxed as if she were boneless. It felt like a Calming Draught had been doused upon her, the air filling with that swirling scent that she couldn't place but reminded her of a memory long ago. 

"Good girl," he praised before sliding all the way home. 

Hermione arched, moaning loudly at the sensation. Never in her entire life had she felt so… full. There was not an inch of her that he didn't touch, and she realized that she always wanted to feel this way. 

Leaning over, his mouth grazed over the underside of her jaw. "You should see how you look right now. All stretch out on my cock." 

Hermione shuddered at his utterly filthy words. Bloody hell. 

Slowly, he began to move, thrusting into her in short, tentative strokes. Each time, he brushed against something that had her seeing stars and her hips angling to meet him match-for-match. 

"Fuck, Granger," Draco groaned. "You're unreal. Better than—you don't understand. Been wanting…" his words became incoherent the more they moved together. "So good. So damn good."

His fingertips pressed into her hips, and she knew she'd find bruises there come tomorrow, but she wanted them—she wanted to wear them like a tattoo. 

Hermione interlaced her hands in his hair, pulling him down until their lips touched again. "Draco," she moaned. "Oh, God…" 

He gripped the back of her thighs, deepening their movements as he filled her in long, languid strokes. They moved together in tandem, never breaking that holy contact between them as their moans filled the room. Really, she didn't think that he could achieve any more pleasure, but somehow, they both managed it as something ignited with each brush against her skin.

"Fuck!" Draco gritted his teeth, thrusting into her again and again. "You feel so damn amazing. So—gods, so fuckin' tight."

The tension between them built, coiling into a sharp bundle threatening to snap. Pleasure wrecked through her body without remorse, making her addicted to the feel. 

"Please," she whimpered. "I'm—please, I'm so close." 

Draco grunted, pulling her legs back further as he rolled into her. Hermione's walls fluttered, and her skin tightened over her bones as she neared the edge. She could feel it—feel him. 

In that millisecond, it felt like time slowed. The world around them stilled, and the dust moats paused. She never felt anything like this before. 

"Such—" he grunted, losing control as his hips snapped against her. The delicious sounds poured out of her parted lips, filling the room. Draco swallowed them up, like he was desperate for no one else to hear. "Such—gods, you're such a good girl, taking my cock like this. Fuck! Hermione!" 

Like a rolling wave out at sea, it seemed to build slowly, deliciously, before she came in an explosion. Her body bowed almost unnaturally, arching up into him as he filled her with his warm seed. She couldn't make up from down or right from wrong then, as she felt him contract, filling her so fully, she didn't think there was any room left. 

He collapsed against her, panting against her collarbone. "Fucking hell," he swore. "That was…" 

"Excellent," she grinned, running her fingers through his hair. 

Gently, he pulled out of her, and she whimpered at the loss. Seeming to notice, he propped himself up on his elbow, gazing down at her. "Are you alright?" he asked, fingertips mapping over the scar on her ribs. 

Humming, she felt drunk off how his silver gaze held her own, tracing down the length of her body to her thighs to where he spilled from her. 

Draco groaned. "Gods…" 

She felt him then—his fingers as they toyed with his seed at her entrance, swirling it around before pushing it slowly back in. His gaze was so hot that it held between her thighs that she almost felt entirely too exposed. She'd done nothing like this before with anyone, and the action was, well, really hot. It was almost like he wanted it to stay there, plant there, and grow. 

Warmth pooled in her belly at the thought. 

Shuttering, Draco seemed to notice as his attention snapped to her face. "Cold?" 

Aroused, she thought, but didn't say. Instead, she lied: "A little." 

Draco hummed, removing his fingers from between her spread thighs. She watched as he licked them clean, savoring the taste of her and him together. God, what did it taste like? Could she ask him? 

Maneuvering them, he pulled up the quilted duvet, wrapping it around her body as he settled in behind her. The room became shrouded in darkness with the flick of his fingers and a muttered incantation under his breath. It still shocked her how skilled he was at wandless magic when she could really only do a handful of spells. 

She made a mental note to practice more. 

Draco wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close to his chest, and she was aware of his growing erection nestled between her thighs. "Stay," he murmured. 

As if he had to ask. 

* * * 

"No!" a voice shouted. "NO! NO! Don't—!" 

Blinking, Hermione's eyes peeled open, only to be met in that thick, unyielding darkness. There was barely even the faint glow of moonlight as it leaked over the floor onto the unfamiliar tangled sheets. They certainly weren't the ones she bought in bulk that were a bit too scratchy against her skin. 

Where the hell was she? And why was she naked? 

"Please!" 

The sound made her painfully alert, panicked, as the low, guttural sound sent a chill cascading down her spine. 

She sat up abruptly, her heart pounding behind the confines of her ribs. It occurred to her then where she was: Draco's room. If that wasn't obvious, it was the man thrashing beside her, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven pants. 

"NO!" he screamed again, followed by a whimper. His contorted face revealed a sheen of sweat over his brow. 

"Draco?" she whispered, words gentle and soft as she leaned closer. Placing a tentative hand on his shoulder, she repeated his name. "Draco? Wake up? You're having a nightmare." 

He didn't respond, as his movements became more frantic. She could taste the sulfuric tang of magic in the air, sparking off his body like fireflies in June. His fingers blanched against the bedsheets, almost like he grappled with an unseen force. A monster in his dreams that commanded his mind. 

And something within Hermione broke at the thought.

"Malfoy!" Hermione said louder this time, shaking him firmly in the way she did for Harry when the same thing happened. "Wake up!" 

Immediately, his eyes flew open, wild and unseeing. It was like the man wasn't even there as he surged up, pinning her underneath him in one skilled movement. Panic surged through her as he took both her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head, while the other pressed against her throat—not enough to hurt, but fear rippled through her all the same. She was vaguely aware of their nakedness and the thickness she felt pressed against her hipbone. 

"D-Draco?" she whimpered, feeling his fingertips spread over her neck. Every bit of her wanted to tell him that it was okay—that she was here, but she couldn't find the words as her heart thundered within the confines of her chest, beating against his own. 

He grunted, eyes still holding that wild, untamed nature. They looked like molten ore as moonlight illuminated him. Dangerous and deadly. A concoction that she should've run far away from, but she remained still. 

"You had a bad dream," she told him. "Draco? It's me—It's Hermione." 

His breathing became ragged as his eyes locked on hers. "Granger?" 

She hummed, wiggling her fingers to get some blood back into them. "Y-Yes." 

"Is this—?" Draco's throat bobbed nervously. "Is this real? Are you real?" 

The words collided with her, dousing her in cool water like jumping into a lake in the dead of winter. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her gaze became hyper-focused on the expression he wore. 

She'd spent enough time with war victims and survivors to know that look: trauma and fear. 

His grip loosened on her wrists as his other hand slid down over her shoulder to the mattress beneath. 

Gently, slowly, she reached up, cupping his face with her palm. "Draco? It's me. I'm here. This is real. You are real." She said the words that she knew he needed to hear—words that others had to hear as well when they woke up in this state. 

His brow furrowed tightly, creating one line as he searched her face. "You're not hurt?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. 

"No," she assured him, thumb brushing the sharp, aristocratic angles of his cheekbones. "I'm not hurt. And neither are you." 

Every inch of her tried to remain calm and professional, even if their relationship had morphed into something beyond their actions last night. She ran through the protocol in her Muggle textbooks on how to properly handle this if it were anyone else. 

But that was the thing: it wasn't anyone else; it was Draco Malfoy. 

The vulnerability etched onto his features was unlike anything she'd ever seen before. It weighed against her as if she carried it, too, allowing it to seep into her bones and soul. 

Her chest tightened at the realization. 

Draco let out a shuddering breath before he collapsed against her, head falling into the crook of her neck. With uneven breaths, she felt him pant against her skin as his body trembled with the aftermath. Her arms wrapped around him then, fingers curling into his sweat-damp hair. Words slipped past her lips as she murmured those soothing phrases into his ear, feeling her own heart pounding in her chest. 

"Granger," he whispered, words guttural. "I'm—?" 

She hushed him. "It's alright." 

Draco nodded before pulling away from her, angling himself on his back before turning onto his side.

She didn't know what came over her as she crawled in behind him, wrapping her arms over the powerful muscles of his chest, holding him close. Her breasts pressed into his warm back, centering them as she held him tighter. 

He said nothing more. Soon, she felt his breath slow into even sighs. Tension bled from his frame as the room fell into profound silence, filled with the sounds of London City below. 

Loosing a shaky exhale, Hermione leaned forward, brushing her lips against his spine. "It's okay," she whispered, knowing he was already asleep. 

She didn't want him to hear her—or even feel how her lips grazed over his salty skin. She didn't want him to notice how she connected each dark mole on his pale, porcelain skin, memorizing it in the quiet of the night. Most importantly, she didn't want him to know how her mind raced with the events of the last few minutes. 

It was painfully clear that it wasn't his first nightmare, nor would it be his last. Darkness shrouded his mind, lingering there as it waited to strike again. God, she could only assume a man who had been imprisoned in Azkaban for five years and lived under the same roof as Voldemort would have them. Did every Cruciatus Curse haunt his thoughts? Did every death imprint itself into his brain?

She knew it did for her, and she hadn't experienced months of living in Malfoy Manor, only a day. 

The beating muscle in her chest ached for him in a way that didn't feel normal or safe. It felt dangerous, like stepping too close to a cliff's edge.

Yet, she couldn't deny the unmistakable warmth that spread over her limbs. Was it just the haze of everything that had happened in the past twelve hours? The haze of their joining and eventual sex? She didn't know.

She closed her eyes, letting her thoughts fade as her breathing synced with his. The rise and fall of his chest beneath her palm was rhythmic… soothing, and before long, sleep claimed her again. 

Somewhere, in the fog of dreams, she was vaguely aware that their breaths moved as one. 

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger did something entirely out of character when she woke up the following morning, finding Draco's head between her thighs and his tongue deep inside of her—she called off sick. 

Well, she'd done it before when she actually had the Muggle flu a few years ago, but this was different. One, she wasn't sick. Not in the slightest. And two, she lied right through her teeth in a letter to Harry that stated she was staying at Pansy's house in the countryside and wouldn't be back until Saturday morning. Honestly, she had never even been to Pansy's familial home in Devonshire, and she wasn't planning on it anytime soon. Still, the lie did its due diligence because Harry wrote back immediately.

And, of course, because Hermione never lied to her best friend, he told her to enjoy herself and that he'd see her when she returned. 

Also, not to rush and all that nonsense. 

Really, there had to be something utterly wrong with her when the guilt didn't trickle in, and she found herself, for a second time that morning, bent over the kitchen counter while Draco's head remained between her spread thighs. After that, he shagged her thoroughly and adequately until she was a blubbering mess.  

Hermione never felt so carefree or reckless in her life. There had to be some sort of malady for the sensation, especially when she found herself dressed in one of his button-downs with only her cotton knickers on. Now, the day had drifted away, blending into the golden twilight as Hermione sat cross-legged on the living room floor, balancing a carton of Lo Mein on her knee while Draco hogged the wontons.

Could life get any better? Honestly? 

The scent of smoke filled the room, mingling with the scent of takeaway Chinese. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering aureate glow of the fire. That was one thing she learned about Draco in their past twenty-four hours together—he hated any sort of light that wasn't natural. 

She didn't press the issue, and given everything, she really didn't need to. Still, she already knew that he was like a skittish Kneazle: one wrong move, and this might be over. 

That was the thing: Hermione didn't want it to be over. 

She felt like this was just the beginning for them, and that equally excited her and terrified her on both fronts. Her relationship history could be categorized as two prospects and one failed relationship. Though, could she really count Cormac as such? The wizard was an awful kisser, and she was accosted by him and his eager mouth more times than she'd like to admit in her sixth year, trying to make Ron jealous. 

Oh, if only she could talk to her younger self now and let her know the endeavor was utterly foolish. She should've just kept her head down, focused on her studies, and kept Harry out of trouble. It was almost funny how, when she was ignoring Ron and Lavender's snogging and Cormac's wandering eyes, Harry was obsessed with Draco being a Death Eater. 

If only she had listened to him then. 

Though what could she have done? Confronted Draco? Told him that she could help him? He would've laughed in her face and probably called her a 'Mudblood.' Maybe he would say that someone of his pedigree didn't need help from the likes of her. 

Whatever. She didn't really have the energy to reflect that deeply on their past. As Pansy had said, the past didn't define them, and sometimes, mistakes are made. 

Reaching forward, Draco grabbed a chopstick full of Hermione's noodles, earning a half-hearted cry of protest from her lips. Giving her a lopsided smirk, he resumed his place against the bottom of the sofa, stretching his long legs towards her. 

Hermione rolled her eyes playfully and set her carton aside. "You really can’t help yourself, can you?"

"I thought you already knew restraint wasn't one of my strong suits, Granger," he shot back, voice velvety smooth. 

Heat pooled low in her belly at the double meaning. Yes, she learned that readily in the night and day spent with him. The ease with which he could turn her bones into a gooey mess just by a simple touch or whisper against her bare skin. It was like catnip for her, and she wondered if he felt the same—the overarching need to be close to him and feel him on her, in her. 

It didn't help that the fire licked against her skin, warming the flush up her throat and into her cheeks. God, what was he doing to her? 

Sighing, she distracted herself by plucking up one of the pre-packaged fortune cookies. Cracking one open, the brittle shell split, revealing the tiny white slip inside. She scanned it, reading it, only to burst into laughter. The sound bubbled out of her, free and unguarded, filling the room. Smacking a hand over her mouth, she tried to stifle it, but it quickly became a snort. 

Embarrassment toyed with her already flushed cheeks. 

"What's so funny?" Draco drawled, clicking his chopsticks together as he fished out a dumpling from its container. 

Hermione held up the slip, blinking the tears from her eyes. "I don't really know?" She shook her head. "God, it's just so stupid." 

Arching a brow, Draco waved his chopsticks, encouraging her to go on. 

Controlling herself, she read: "'Your future is unclear, but your socks will always match.'"

"And what's wrong with that?" he mused. 

"What isn't!" 

"I don't see a problem, Granger. I think many people would be grateful for their socks to match." 

"Seriously?" Rolling her eyes, she snorted again. Really, she needed to stop doing that. It was highly unattractive, yet he didn't seem to care. "It's utter nonsense." 

"Alright," he sighed, setting down his container. Crossing his ankles, he tilted his head slightly as challenge gleamed beyond his silver gaze. "Maybe it's a metaphor for order in chaos. Or maybe—" his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper "—the universe is just incredibly invested in your sock situation." 

"Oh, my God!" Hermione groaned, lips twitching. "You're insufferable, Draco." 

"Are you certain about that? Or maybe you just find me utterly irresistible." 

She tried to ignore the way that her belly pooled with that delectable warmth or the way he reached forward, squeezing her foot, lingering there as his thumb brushed along her bare sole. 

"Go on—try your luck again," Draco mused. "I'll be sure to cross my fingers for the Fates for you." 

Rolling her lips, she rifled through the brown bag, fishing out another cookie. It cracked down the center, crumbling into jagged pieces in her lap as her gaze scanned the slip of paper. "'The greatest path forward is the one you have yet to see,'" Hermione read. Clearing her throat, she mused, "Alright, great seer. What do you think this one means?" 

"What do you think it means?" he asked, tone tenser than before. 

"I think…" she hesitated, choosing her words carefully. Finally, she looked up at him, meeting his gaze. "I think it means the future. The path forward to new beginnings." 

"And what path forward do you see for me?" 

She was a bit taken aback by his words—the flickering vulnerability behind them. It was so unlike him to ask for her opinion on his position or anything really regarding him.

Yet, she knew something had changed between them when she woke up in his bed to his nightmare. They didn't talk about it the next morning, but she felt his silent gratitude with every open-mouth kiss against her naked flesh and the way he praised her with his heated words in their moments of passion. 

Swallowing, Hermione whispered, "I was hoping you'd tell me." 

Silence filled the room, heightened by the crackling logs and embers licking up the hearth's brick. It crashed into her then, the tension that filled the room and Draco's stillness. His presence grew cold, flecked with icy hesitancy. Suddenly, that easy banter was no longer found, and she craved to snatch it back.  

With a breath, his piercing gaze flickered towards her own. "Are you asking this as the Head of the Department, Granger?" he asked, guarded. "Or as—?" 

"Just as me," she interjected briskly. "I'm asking this just as me, sitting here, with you. No strings. No files. Just me and you."

The intensity of molten mercury within his eyes softened into pools of moonlight as she watched a few bricks fall from his guarded shields. Those raw edges that were rarely exposed to her behind the mask of himself. 

Draco loosed a breath. "I don't know," he admitted, and she knew it was the truth, unlike those other times in her office. "I… I feel like I don't really fit in anywhere. Complicated would be a better word for it all, you know? My future just feels… uncertain." 

Twisting her lips, Hermione didn't say anything as she watched him. 

"I don't know what I want," he went on. "My whole life has always been planned out for me. Hell, my father made every move for me like I was some pawn on his chessboard, and now?" A cold, bitter laugh escaped him. "Now, I'm just some puppet on the Ministry's strings." 

Sadly, she knew what he meant because there were many times she felt the same way. She felt it when Kingsley approached her twice and offered her a job on a platter, eventually forcing her hand to sign on the dotted line with the disclosed terms she forgot to read. The ones where she had to show her face with 'The Golden Trio' at Ministry functions, charity events, and war memorials. She felt more like a trapped girl than someone who helped in the ultimate defeat of Voldemort. 

Yet, she was Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born witch who had two loving parents and was raised with that reciprocated warmth. While he was Draco Malfoy, son of Narcissa and Lucius, and knew nothing but coldness. 

"My father always wanted me to go into politics," Draco was saying, dragging her from her thoughts. "It's the easy way out—to just do that. You know? To take up the Malfoy House Seat in Wizengamot. It's expected. But… gods, I don't want to do that. I hate meddling politics and scheming. I dealt with it my entire life." 

One by one, more bricks fell from the sentry-guarded walls of his mind. She could see the openness there, blooming like a rose, and it nearly broke her heart. 

"I was forced to join the Death Eaters because they all thought that the Dark Lord was their answering grace." Draco shook his head. "From the moment I received the mark, there was always someone there grooming me for what I might become in the future." He paused, staring into the amber flames as they danced in his pale eyes. "The Head of the Dark Lord's military or his possible right-hand. The King of Torture. You name it—it was thrown out there." 

Hermione nodded slowly, digesting his words. Worse? She could imagine it.

"So, to answer your question again—no, I don't know what I'll do. Maybe nothing. Like I said, I've got enough money to be extremely comfortable when this is all said and done." The smirk that curved his lips was hollow as he continued to stare into the flames. "Isn't that the dream? What most people want? Money? To sit on their lazy arses and bathe in gold? Either way, it won't make me happy, but I don't really deserve happiness. Do I?" 

She frowned, picking at the hem of her shirt. “Do you really believe it? That doing nothing will make you happy?” 

His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

"Draco, I'm—" Hermione started. 

"I told you not to feel sorry for me," he told her coldly. "Gods, don't do that. Please." 

Worrying her lip, she nodded. 

Draco reached forward, grabbing another fortune cookie out of the brown bag. Snapping the shell with more force than necessary, he read, "'Love blooms when heart dares risk.'" 

"See!" Hermione gestured towards the crumbles in his hand. "Rubbish! It's not even a complete sentence." 

"Is that really what you care about?" he drawled, arching a curious brow. "Grammatics?" 

Rolling her eyes, she mumbled, "It's randomly generated nonsense. Hardly worth pondering over." 

"Alright then." Draco grabbed another one from the dwindling pile, tossing it to her. "What does that say?" 

"'The one who lights your path may not even know they're shining,'" she read out loud, arching a brow. "See?"  

"Seems fitting to me." 

"What? Mass-produced nonsense? They're vague enough for anyone to relate to them." 

The fire crackled softly as Draco leaned back, bracing an arm over the sofa cushions. 

It was hard to believe that moments ago, he was that guarded, closed-off man when she stared at the epitome of ease and cool. His platinum-blonde hair was tousled, curling slightly around his ears and nape and parting over his brow. The fitted T-shirt he wore did nothing to hide the hills and valleys of his muscles. God, he looked so different from the ex-prisoner who walked into Grimmauld wearing a suit three sizes too big, with atrophied definition and skin that clung to his bones. 

A miracle. Literally. 

Yet she knew exactly what all this meant in technical terms: progress. Draco Malfoy was progressing through the Ministry's Rehabilitation Program, settling in just how they wanted him to. 

Something about that coiled with unease in her stomach. Something she didn't want to acknowledge—not after the way he opened up about his past and his fears. 

"Whatever," she mumbled, tossing the paper fortune to the side as she tried to dismiss her thoughts. "It's ridiculous." 

"It's Divinations, Granger," he hummed lazily. 

Hermione huffed indignantly, feeling her tongue move into her usual rapid-fire tirade. "My point! Divinations are subjective interpretations and parlor tricks designed to fool people into thinking the future is some predetermined, inescapable fate. The very notion is absurd! You can't change the past, just like you can't predict the future. We shape our own destinies through choices and actions—not by reading stupid tea leaves and stargazing."  

"Ah. I see." 

She narrowed her gaze at him. "See what?" 

"Divinations was the one subject that Hermione Granger wasn't good at. Isn't that right?" 

"What?" she stammered. "No! I was perfectly decent at it." 

"Decent, yes, but not brilliant." The chuckle that pooled from him was warm and indulgent, making her cheeks heat. "I never thought I'd see the day when swotty little Granger wasn't good at something." 

"And what?" she pressed, curving her brow. "Were you good at it or something?" 

"Or something," he purred, yet she didn't miss the way his cocky smirk softened into something more nostalgic. "I got the talent from my mother. Or, that's what everyone said. She's cunning and extremely skilled at reading tea leaves. Some even claimed she had the Sight." 

"Seriously?" 

Draco shrugged. "She never outright said it, and I never blatantly asked her. But when I was little, she'd take me out to her rose garden at night, and we'd sit on this concrete bench and look up at the stars." His eyes hooded with the memory. "'Our little secret,' she'd say. 'Don't tell your father.' She'd point to a star and tell me the exact constellation and its meaning, claiming that the night sky had a way of creating stories for us. She believed that every action had a causation… a ripple effect predetermined by destiny." 

Hermione's lips parted with a breath. "And you believe that?" 

"Maybe?" Draco's expression became shrouded, unreadable. "I didn't use to. Hell, I thought it was just one more Pureblood tradition loaded with pomp and nonsense. But…" His lips twisted. "I told you about my parent's marriage and how it was arranged on Summer Solstice. Yeah?" 

She nodded. 

"The Sacred Twenty-Eight thought it would herald a monumental shift in our world. That the joining of two of the most prominent Pureblooded families would save them all when they brought about an Heir. But my mother? She struggled to conceive for years—until me." Darkness clouded his tone, sending a chill down her spine. "She saw me as her little miracle. A blessing from the stars. Malfoys don't name their children after constellations, Granger. That's a Black family tradition. I don't even want to know what my mother had to do to convince him to let her do that small, simple act." 

Unfortunately, Hermione had a pretty good idea. She'd read the reports on Narcissa Malfoy's trial and the admission to everything that Lucius Malfoy did to her during their decades of marriage. The Imperius Curse he used on her when she didn't do his bidding or act appropriately in public. The loyalty she still tried to show him, even now as he rotted away in prison. She knew enough from reading up on Pureblood traditions in the Black family library at Grimmauld to know that divorce wasn't an option, and most witches who did run away during their marriages were killed due to their magic suffocating them or being tracked by the wizards who controlled them. 

It was barbaric and Machiavellian at best. Sexist and everything in between.  

She wanted to change that—rewrite laws—but it was an ancient, centuries-old culture and world she didn't understand. Maybe she never would. 

"Either way," Draco sighed heavily. "My father saw me as a tool. I learned early on that if I mimicked my father, life was easier. If I played the part—acted, spoke, thought like him—things went smoother." His voice softened as his cheeks hollowed, revealing the valleys of his bones. "I was about ten when I found my mother sitting in her rose garden, staring at the sky. She had tears streaming down her face, and when I asked her what was wrong, she just pulled me into her lap and pointed at the darkness. The stars were so beautiful that night—so damn bright. She pointed out Cygnus and said it was the future—what her father was named after—always watching, always waiting for us to claim it." 

Somehow, Hermione managed to find her voice as she asked, "Did you believe her?" 

"Then? No. But when I was locked away in Azkaban…" Draco's words drifted off, and she could feel her heartache to reach for him. "Did you know in the North Sea, you can almost see every damn star in the night sky?" 

No, she didn't know that, but she didn't think he wanted her answer either. 

So, instead, she reached forward, fingers trembling slightly as she ignored the emotion surging through her chest, thick and overwhelming. Cracking it open, she read softly, voice wavering, '"Happiness will be found in the most unexpected places.'" 

Hermione looked up at him then, meeting his open gaze. Anyone who knew her knew she abhorred Divinations (as she so clearly argued before), but this? It felt… odd. It felt strangely real in a way that she knew neither of them wanted to acknowledge, like Pandora's Box. Kismet. And maybe predestination. 

Slowly, Draco moved, crawling closer as the distance between them vanished like smoke. Long gone was that raw, vulnerable emotion she saw seconds ago. Now, it was replaced with that heavy intensity and unspoken promises. 

"Maybe you're right," he murmured, voice husky. "Maybe Divinations is bullshit. But you must admit, Granger, that was pretty spot on." 

"How?" she whispered, lips a breath apart as his gaze searched her own. 

"For once? I'm really fucking happy." 

The word unraveled her composure like an old cardigan. And when his lips met hers? She felt herself being knitted back together again. 

The kiss was searing, blinding, and filled with the desperation they both sought between fortune cookies. Yet, something else lingered on the surface. Understanding? Gratitude? Thanks? She didn't know and didn't want to question it. 

All she knew was that Draco allowed her a glimpse inside himself, something so rare she was sure that finding a golden dragon egg would be easier. 

Draco's hands slid to her waist, pulling her firmly into his lap as her thighs fell on either side of him. There was an edge there—hesitant restraint, unlike all those other times. She wanted him to break—wanted him to give in and take control. A part of her wondered if she projected her thoughts enough that he might understand her cry of need. 

'Touch me…'

'Feel me…'

' Make me yours…' 

Hermione took action then with that determination in her mind.

She moved instinctively, shifting against him as if drawn by gravity itself. It was like she wasn't in control, only driven by the fire and resulting want within her. Nails clinging to his shoulders, she threaded through the soft hairs of his nape. She savored the sensation of his warmth and proximity. Every nerve ignited with desire as something terrifyingly close to joy and peace settled around them. 

The fire released a loud pop, startling her as he gripped her waist tighter, slipping under the fabric of the Oxford of his that she wore. The heat of his skin sent fire to her blood, tingling everywhere that he grazed. 

A moan escaped her then, and Draco took the advantage to slip his tongue into her mouth, tasting her, consuming her. His other hand threaded into her wild, tangled curves, angling her to get a better advantage, and she let him.

She wondered if this was normal—feeling this way. If this addiction that stirred in her was something that she'd be able to quit when their time was done. 

Right now? She didn't want to know the answer to that. 

All she knew was that no one had ever kissed her like this before. Not the awkward first kiss from Victor in the library. Not the sloppy mess that was Cormac. Not the eager one from Ron in the Chamber of Secrets, as if they thought they might die. 

No, this was something else. This kiss felt like Draco would, in fact, die if he didn't have her, and she was the only thing he needed to breathe. 

Melting into him, she arched her hips, rolling them against the arousal that tented his joggers. They both moaned then, hand tightening over her hips as he helped her move. They undulated against each other with that fierce desperation and devout want. It was a craving that she'd come to know. 

"Draco," she whimpered, feeling molten need pool between her spread thighs. Could he feel it? How wet she was just by the simple act? 

He nipped at her bottom lip, pulling it slightly. "Gods, you have no fucking idea what you do to me." 

Well, she had a pretty good idea, given the prominent ridge of him that she was currently grinding against like a feverish teenager. Every bit of her wished that the barrier between them would vanish and she could feel him—all of him. 

Heat pulsed down her spine, spreading through her limbs. 

Hermione continued to roll against him, panting almost pathetically as Draco watched her. His grip helped her move, sliding over the fabric that separated them. Tingly warmth pulsed up her spine, settling low in her belly. It spread like Fiendfyre, molten and ravenous, and she wanted it. 

"Yeah?" he whispered, lips parted. 

Hermione nodded her head, whimpering, "Yeah." 

"Okay," and that was all Draco said as his hands tightened around her hips, moving her faster over him. He worked her with skilled ease, forcing her arousal to bleed onto him from the space between her thighs. 

Was this really about to happen? Yet she knew it was as they both watched each other, panting and moaning. 

Somehow, she wasn't expecting it when her orgasm slammed into her, propelling her forward as she held those silver eyes. Her lips parted, and her body tightened, coiling like a rubber band against raw skin as she broke apart. It felt like it was ongoing, never-ending, as she continued to bury her nails into his shoulders. 

"Oh, fuck!" Draco cursed, thrusting against her clothed center as his body tremored. Warmth flooded her, pooling there. "Oh… fuck, Hermione." 

Panting, they both came down slowly, like floating from a cloud. Around them, it almost felt like the fire brewed hotter, mingling with their sweat-damp skin. 

"Well," he laughed, cheeks flushed and eyes dilated. "Can't say that I've done that before. Well, fuck, not since I was a pre-pubescent kid discovering PlayWizard for the first time." 

Unable to help it, Hermione giggled softly, shaking her head. "I'm sure it was just enlightening." 

"Oh, a purely educational read," he grinned wolfishly. 

She leaned in and kissed him soundly again, savoring their taste together. Whatever careful restraint remained completely dissolved as Draco claimed her mouth fully. Right now, there was no room for doubt or space for hesitation. Only their raw passion and unspoken words between them in the uncharted waters. 

Breathless, they broke apart, foreheads pressed together. "Hey," he whispered.

"Hi." 

His fingers brushed over the small of her waist as he toyed with the edge of her knickers. She could feel the weight of the word he wanted to say press against him. The simple grace that she knew still warred within him. Honestly? It would've been easy to push him, to break him open right then and there, and allow everything to spill between him. 

Yet, Hermione knew that wasn't the way. Not with him. 

Instead, she brushed her lips against his and said, "Let's go to bed." 

Chapter Text

The weekend passed in a blissful blur of the two of them wrapped up in each other, never able to get enough. Beyond their conversation the other night, they didn't broach the hard subjects anymore. Really, they mainly only spoke with their tongues on each other's bodies and whispered more.

If the Hermione from months ago could see herself now, she wouldn't recognize the wild, needy creature that stood proudly naked in Draco's shower, letting his fingers weave into her curls as he washed them. Or let anyone touch her hair, for that matter. 

The two of them had spent the entire Saturday in bed, tangled in sweaty sheets, before Draco insisted that they shower and change the bedding. She almost had to pick her jaw up off the floor, watching as he performed the most domesticated Muggle task in the world: making the bed. 

When she asked him how he learned that, he told her honestly, 'In Azkaban, we didn't have elves. I had to learn to do a lot on my own.' 

That was the only time they touched on the subject. 

"That feels good," she whispered, allowing him to rinse out the shampoo. "God, I could get used to this." 

Draco laughed. "Fucking same. Close your eyes." 

She obeyed. His hands wound into her long tangle of curls, earning a keening moan as his fingers scraped against her scalp. Once he was done, she tilted back her head, letting the water rinse away any remnants of soap. 

A low, keening hum escaped her as she leaned back into him. Wrapping his arms around her body, that intoxicating, comforting magic rippled off of him, meeting her own in comfort and recognition. Slowly, methodically, his hand splayed over her belly, toying with the edge of her starburst scar. 

She hummed, and Draco asked, "Good?" 

For how… uncomplicated he wanted this to be, this didn't feel like that. It felt intimate, loving, and playful. 

"Don't stop," she whispered, begging him to keep touching her. 

"Greedy witch," Draco mused, fingers traveling up her stomach, towards her peaked breasts. Fuck… 

The swear jar was now completely discarded. Honestly? She should've given up long ago when she first saw him sitting in Grimmauld. 

"Feel good?" he asked, massaging them in slow, tender movements. 

Hermione worried her bottom lip, resting her head against his slick chest. "I don't know," she told him. "Might need to keep going. I think you missed a few spots during the washing." 

"Oh?" he mused, hand traveling lower towards her navel. "Are you incredibly dirty, Granger?" 

She hummed, closing her eyes. "Possibly." 

"Ah, yes, filthy. Need a good, proper cleaning." 

"Maybe you just make me like that," she told him. 

Draco's response was only a low hum, but the vibrations continued over her entire body. 

Reaching forward, he grabbed his soap, lathering it into his palms. The woody, strictly masculine scent filled the steaming shower, clouding her senses of him. God, she wondered if she could ask him to let her take it home. Or even where he got it, because it felt like heaven and something she wanted to worship. It felt like breathing in during the cold winter months in the middle of a pine forest or peppermint tea. It felt like the first fall of snow and musk. 

It felt like him. 

His bare hands worked over her breasts, thumbs brushing over her peaked nipples as her flesh became taut. It was skilled, planned, as he continued to toy with her, pressing her subtlety against him as his thick erection notched against her spine. Lathering over her shoulders, he began his path back down, skimming the outside of her tender breasts to curve around her stomach. 

Warmth pooled between her thighs as she felt his head rest on her shoulder, watching the two of them together. God… 

Moving over her abdomen, he lowered until he reached the sensitive skin between her legs. It was only a ghost of a touch, yet it didn't stop her arousal and resounding whimper. 

"Enjoying yourself?" he mused, dragging his other hand back up to her breast as he teased her. 

Hermione bit her lip, nodding. 

Taking that as an answer, Draco's mouth pressed to the curve of her shoulder, drinking the droplets that pooled there from the steam sticking to their skin. A shiver coursed through her, pebbling her skin in goosebumps. 

"Cold?" he asked. 

"No," she whispered, breathlessly. 

Humming, his other hand cupped her before his fingers parted her center. She arched into him, but he quickly pulled her against him. "No moving, Granger. Can you be a good girl for me and stay still?" 

She nodded again, gaze trailing down to where his tattooed hands and arms held her, bracketing her against him. It looked obscene, the way her olive skin contrasted his pale, nearly perfect porcelain flesh, mingling with the onyx ink there. 

Honestly, she didn't think she was a tattoo girl before, but the image presented to her was quickly changing that fact. 

Fingers toying with their combined arousal at her entrance from earlier, spreading it over her.

That was another aspect she learned about herself in their past few days together—she liked it when he came inside her and didn't bother to clean it up. Instead, she found him always playing with it after their coupling, pushing it back into her and forcing her to keep it there. It was something she considered asking Ginny about (because she certainly couldn't go to Pansy about this), and she wondered if it was normal. 

"Are you sore?" Draco asked. 

Hermione shook her head. No, she was needy, horny… all the above?  

"Good," Draco hummed lowly, sliding two fingers inside her. Their vigorous activities only helped him ease in, and now there wasn't that tautness or pressure settling there. In fact, she almost craved more, wanting to be filled. 

God, something was wrong with her. She knew it. 

"Feel good?" he asked, slowly moving in and out of her. 

She sighed. "Yes, but…" 

"But what?" Draco pressed. "Use words, Granger. I can't read your mind?" 

Every part of her wanted to laugh because he could, in fact, read her mind if he wanted to. Yet, she appreciated that he didn't do it unwillingly. 

Whimpering, she arched into him. Thankfully, he seemed to understand. Not in the particular mood to play out the game she liked to call 'insanity,' Draco's third finger toyed around her opening. With restraint, he began sinking in, and she felt like she was dying in the best possible way. It was another union between them, something holy that Muggles did, kneeling at an altar. She never wanted it to end as she felt him begin to pump in and out, pushing and gliding along her walls. 

His name was a cry on her lips as her palm slapped against the shower wall, nails biting into the cool tile. 

"Fuck," Draco swore under his breath before he told her, "Bend over, grab onto the ledge—I need to see you right now."  

Hermione barely understood what he was referring to as she obeyed, grabbing onto the outcropping that held his masculine body wash and shampoo in expensive amber bottles. At this angle, her hips were back and her spine completely flat, giving him unhindered access to her aching center as he continued to pleasure her from behind. 

His fingertips pressed into her hips, moving towards her arse as he spread her open, groaning. "Gods, baby. You should see yourself right now—see how you're stretched around my fingers." 

The only answer she would make was a whine as her nails bit into the stone ledge. 

"Do you think you could take another?" he asked. "Being such a good girl, I think you can." 

God… what was he doing to her? With every curve of his fingers within her, she was nearly there. Her bones felt like jelly, and her mind was a pool of gooey warmth. With a few words, he managed to already coax out that pleasure and raw need that most couldn't find even with a magnifying glass. 

Really, he deserved some sort of medal. 

“Godric, please," Hermione whimpered. 

He growled lowly. "My name's not fucking 'Godric.' I don't see him right now making you come on my hand. Do I?" 

Her lids fluttered shut, arching more into him. 

"What's my name, Hermione?" 

"Draco," she moaned loudly. 

His name on her lips seemed to be his undoing as he pulled his fingers out of her, notching his cock at her entrance. Even with his preparation, it wasn't enough as she felt the thick head spread her wide. 

"Hold on," he told her, but just as he was about to slide home and fill her, a familiar thump sounded on the opposite wall in the living room. 

They both stilled, the shower steam curling around them as it filled the room with the mix of their arousal. 

Seeming to notice his hesitance, Hermione asked: "What—? What is it?" 

"Someone's here," he said coldly, pulling out of her. "Fuck." 

At the loss of him, she shuddered, feeling that icy ache slide through her. Ugh. Why? Whoever it was, Hermione was about to hex them six ways to Sunday for ruining what could've been. She even considered an Unforgivable, which was rather uncharacteristic of her. 

He grabbed her cheeks in his large palms. "Stay here. I'll be right back." 

"Okay," she whispered, allowing him to kiss her tenderly. 

Draco stepped out of the shower, closing the glass door. She watched through the warped panes as he wandlessly dried himself off, grabbing his discarded joggers off the floor as he shoved them on. With one last longing look toward her, he escaped out of the steam-filled bathroom. 

She hesitated, curiosity and concern nipping at her skin as she stared at the space he once stood. 

God, she knew she should've listened. Really. He told her to, and that innate part of her wanted to obey, but she couldn't help it as that other part got the better of her. 

Honestly? She blamed it on the incredulous ache that now throbbed between her thighs, because, apparently, getting interrupted by what could've been the best shower sex in the world wasn't on her agenda. It was really making her mind all muddy. 

Grabbing the towel off the rack, Hermione wrapped it around her body as she stepped onto the bathmat. Her steps were quiet as she padded to the door, cracking it open slightly to reveal the empty hall that led to the living room. 

It was then that she heard it. 

"Well, well," a rich, utterly posh voice drawled. "You're looking rather well, Dray." 

"Theo—" Draco's voice was hard, cold, and demanding. "What are you doing here? Both of you?" 

Both? There were two? 

As if an answer to her thoughts, she spotted a familiar, tawny-skinned male slowly making his way around the living room. His calculated gaze shifted like a predator assessing its territory. She recognized him instantly from their time in the elevator a few weeks ago. Blaise Zabini. And she could only assume that Draco was speaking of Theodore Nott. 

Oh, just excellent. Truly wonderful. Really. 

Draco shifted, coming into view in the mirror. He stood by the fireplace, arms folded over his bare, tattooed chest. The dragon on his back spread its wings, its eyes blazing beyond the magical ink. 

"Well," Theo purred, "you didn't answer my floo-calls or owls. Figured you might be dying or something. Keeled over and in desperate need of our help. We came to rescue you from whatever tragic state you've descended into. What are friends for?" 

Blaise laughed, the sound rumbling and deep. "Draco looks perfectly fine to me." 

"I think further inspection is needed," Theo huffed, grinning wickedly. 

Slowly, Blaise made his way around the room, gaze lazily sweeping. "Still a shit hole," he remarked with an air of disdain. "Even with Theo's attempts at decorating." 

"Hey!" Theo protested. "I take great offense to that." He turned to Draco, motioning widely. "This is excellent work from what it was, right?" 

Draco only huffed, rolling his eyes. 

Moving closer towards the hall, Blaise continued. Immediately, her breath hitched, and her nails bit into the doorframe, knowing he'd see her if he moved any closer. 

"What—?" Blaise sniffed the air. "Why does it smell like Chinese food in here? 

That licking heat quickly doused her fear as she remembered last night—the conversation, fortune cookies, and his searing mouth against her own as they moved like teenagers. Hell, she could easily classify it as one of her top ten orgasms, most of which were now claimed by Draco. 

The thought made the throbbing between her thighs worsen. 

Theo flopped down onto the sofa, sprawling as if he owned the place. "Seriously, Dray," he went on, "you didn't answer a single fucking message." 

"I was busy," Draco said carefully. 

Theo and Blaise exchanged knowing glances, and she could feel the resolute tension in the air spike. 

"Busy, huh?" Theo's grin widened as he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Sounds… mysterious." 

"Certainly," Draco drawled. "You know me." 

"That I do." Theo looked around. "But busy doing what, exactly?" 

Storm clouds darkened Draco's features. The hard edge of his jawline rippled as his shoulders tensed. 

She knew that look then—the struggle to maintain composure. But why? Weren't these his friends? She'd heard him talk enough about Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini to know they all held a special bond. Brotherhood nonsense, or whatever. The former, especially, given Draco's stories of their childhood. The idea that Theo was one of the only ones who knew Draco inside and out. 

Yet, something about the interaction bothered her. 

Theo stretched out lazily, hand brushing against the cushion when he paused. Carefully, he lifted the item into the air—a small scrap of familiar fabric. Oh, fuck. 

Her knickers. 

Arching a brow, amusement danced in Theo's cerulean gaze. "Well, well, Dray. Got something to tell us?" 

"No," Draco said cooly. 

The grin on Theo's face could only be described as devilish. "So, either you have developed a fascinating new fetish involving women's underthings, or… someone's been spending time here." 

Hermione pressed herself further into the door, hiding behind it. The beating muscle in her chest pounded so loudly that she was almost certain they could hear it. 

"Theo, drop it," Blaise warned, though his tone was more exasperated than serious. 

"Who?" Theo pressed, clearly ignoring the other wizard. "Come on, tell us? I thought we were friends, and you never kept one of your conquests a secret before. In fact, I'm almost certain you let me share with you that one time when—" 

"It's Granger," Draco snapped suddenly, words cutting through the room. "Those are Grangers. Now, give them back." 

That unmistakable stillness filled the air, curving around the door and suffocating her. She didn't have to see either of their reactions to know that whatever cocky grin was on Theo's face was now vanished. 

"Granger," Theo said slowly, as if not understanding. "As in Hermione Granger? Muggle-born? The girl whom you used to call—" 

"Theodore!" Draco growled. 

"Fine… fine," Theo sighed. There was a breath before he all but screamed, "Have you lost your gods-damn mind?!" 

Blaise groaned. "And here we go." 

"It's none of your business," Draco answered coldly. "Either of you." 

"Oh," Theo laughed lowly. "It's one hundred and one percent my fucking business, Draco Malfoy. It's my business when you're making stupid choices. Granger? Merlin, Azkaban must've really fried your brain cells. I didn't know their goal was to make idiots in there." 

"Out!" Draco's restraint snapped like a rubberband as that carefully crafted veneer shattered. "Both of you. Now." 

Not wanting to get caught, Hermione darted back into the swirling steam of the shower. Ducking her face under the water, she tried to calm her breathing, praying that she managed to conceal her emotions enough. Yet, she couldn't deny the insecurities that crawled their way over her skin and into her soul. The words she heard echoed in her head. Hermione Granger. Muggle-born. The girl whom you used to call a Mudblood. 

It was ugly, and it was cruel, but it was there, and it was an old wound that was picked at until it bled again. 

Even with Draco's defense, they gnawed at her resolve. 

Moments later, she heard the shower door open as Draco stepped back into the steam. 

Slowly, she peeled her eyes open, taking in the tense form of him standing there. Against his skin, the tattoos rippled faintly, both magical and not. It felt like he was a live-wire waiting to combust, with the sharp flicker in his gaze and the anger humming over his muscles. Magic, erratic and feverish, sparked off of him, licking over her in an equally dangerous and sensual caress. 

"Who was it?" she asked, keeping her tone calm, casual. 

"No one important," he muttered, stepping closer. 

Her lips parted, wanting to argue the subject, when he closed the distance, crowding her against the icy tile wall. His mouth claimed hers in a searing kiss, consuming her. The ferocity stole her breath away, devouring her own as if he needed it more than she did. Her hands trailed up the taut muscles of his abdomen, feeling the tattooed lines as she made her way to his shoulders, grounding herself there. 

A low, rumbling growl boiled within his chest as he tore himself away, pressing his forehead against her own. Their breaths came out in ragged pants as her breasts brushed over him. 

"What—?" she gasped. "What was that for?" 

Reaching up, Draco brushed his thumb along her jawline. "I just wanted to taste you." 

Hermione's breath caught as Draco pulled her close, encircling his arms around her wet body. The rapid cadence of his heartbeat pounded in her ears, betraying the calm façade he exuded. She wasn't an idiot, and even if she hadn't listened to his conversation, she'd know there were things he wasn't saying—emotions tangled up within his past, present, and future. 

Yet, she didn't have it in her to ask, fearful of what it all might mean. 

Chapter Text

Smoke wafted around the hazy room of the Blackstone, bathing their circular mahogany table in clove. 

Draco fucking hated this place, knowing that his father sat here countless times after Wizengamot sessions and hearings with his nose in the air. Hell, the club reeked of old money and even older prejudices that were beaten into ancestry.

The Blackstone was an exclusive lounge for Purebloods, started back four centuries ago by some of the founding Sacred Twenty-Eight members—mostly the Notts, the Malfoys, the Averys, the Blacks, and eventually the Lestranges and Rosiers when they came over from France. It was practically the wizard's version of Whites, considering most Purebloods refused to set foot in a Muggle-run establishment.

Fucking idiots. 

Dark wood-paneled walls gleamed under the glow of the ornate gas lamps, charmed never to extinguish, and the rich scent of leather and polish mingled with the cigar smoke. A golden fire roared in the massive stone hearth along the wall, surrounded by plush armchairs. Elves in their uniforms moved about, pouring decanters of aged Odgen's into the baccarat glasses of the patrons. 

Every corner of the room whispered of power and privilege, heavy with unspoken expectations. And he hated it. It suffocated him, drowning him with the weight of what it meant to be here—a Malfoy and a Pureblood.

Would they believe it if he told them that he was trying to rewrite the destiny that was chosen for him? If he wanted to be better? Do better. If he told them that he didn't want to be this man of means, living a life of meddling politics, Wizengamot sessions, and careless blackmail like Lucius had? 

That he just wanted to be… free? 

Draco shifted in his leather club chair, gaze focusing on the glass of untouched amber liquor on the table as Blaise and Theo chatted on. They had claimed a small four-top tucked in the corner, next to a portrait of Cygnus Black III—president of the club in 1925. 

Gods, he swore the raven-haired man with dark-as-night eyes was staring right into his soul, studying the group of Purebloods as if to deem them worthy. 

Draco didn't feel worthy. He felt wrong. Dirty. Cruel and unusual. It didn't matter how he described it because it was all the same. And he blamed it on the unannounced visit of the two wizards next to him, and the guilt they left him with in the aftermath. Honestly, the fucking nerve of them showing up and turning over his flat like it was sport. Okay, so they didn't do that, but they invaded his privacy and the start of what could've been fabulous shower sex with Hermione Granger. 

That was another issue: her. 

The fact that she'd come into his flat and stood in front of him and declared that she would not take no for an answer. What had she said? That she wanted to break all the rules? Yeah, well, she certainly did, and he would be remiss to mention that he had played equal parts in the act. 

It took two to fuck properly, and they did. Many times.

Picking up his whiskey, he swirled it around, letting the russet liquor catch the light. 

"What's on your mind, Dray?" Theo drawled. 

Draco glanced up, meeting that cerulean gaze. His irritation simmered, buzzing in his ears with that high-pitched sound. A part of him felt feral—protective… rabid—over the idea that they'd seen her clothes on the floor and found her knickers on his sofa. 

"Oh, get your hand out of your arse," Theo huffed, signaling for another round to their elf, Mippy. The wizard's gaze tracked over to Draco's unfinished glass and frowned. "Is this about the whole 'flat' thing? Honestly? We just wanted to see what was keeping you so… preoccupied." 

A low, unnerving chuckle came from the tawny wizard beside him, and Draco had to clench his fists to keep from lashing out. 

"It was… enlightening," Blaise mused, swirling his whiskey. "Didn't think you had it in you to conquer the swot. Good for you." 

Slowly, Draco sucked in a breath, steadying his nerves. Fuck. Were they really looking for a fight right now? He knew that while the Ministry let him extend his leash by several places in the London metropolitan area, a fight in one of the most prominent wizarding clubs would not get him a gold star in his next report with Potter—or Hermione, for that matter. 

Draco's fingers tightened around his glass as he took a sip. The warmth swam in his veins down to his toes, and he had to restrain himself from groaning, reminded of the taste of her.  

Double fuck. 

Did she know how much he craved the space between her thighs? How, this morning, all he wanted to do was continue to get her off as she writhed on the shower bench for him? How he would do anything—anything to get on his knees for her again? 

"Earth to Draco?" Theo snapped his fingers. "Wake up, sleepy head. Time to focus." 

Shaking his head, he met that ocean-blue gaze again. Theo had his mother's eyes and looks (thankfully). It was a blessing, considering that Theron Nott had mousy hair and murky eyes that always looked like he had poured scotch into porridge every morning. Honestly? Draco didn't know where Theo got his chocolate brown curls, considering Lady Esmeralda Nott had golden blonde hair like spun sunlight. She was beautiful—from what Draco could remember—and he knew that Theo missed her every damn day. 

Still, that didn't excuse the behavior that Theo was currently demonstrating, attempting to get under Draco's skin. Job well done, dickhead. 

Draco sat back in his chair as Mippy poured them all another round. "What do you want to chat about, mate?" he asked dryly. "The weather? The next Quidditch match between Bulgaria and Ireland? What new business adventures that Blaise is taking on? Take your gods-damn pick." 

Huffing, Blaise raised his glass. "You know my endeavors are all successful, Dray. Salazar, I've offered many times for you to come on board at the Bitter Raven." 

"I told you I'm not… interested in that right now," Draco sighed heavily. 

It was the truth, and while, yes, he'd love to invest in Blaise's current bar, he had other plans for when he was finally released from the Ministry's experimental program. One, was figuring out what the hell was going on between him and Granger, and two, was—well, he didn't know.

That was the problem. He didn't fucking know. 

When Hermione had asked what he wanted to do (in all seriousness) after the six-weeks were up, Draco didn't have an answer. Sure, he gave her some bullshit response the other night, but that was just what it was: bullshit. 

It had no rhyme or reason, because he didn't know. Yeah, he could've told her that maybe he wanted to start his own business or that he was considering buying the Daily Prophet just because he could. He wanted to buy the whole lot of the Wizarding Newspaper Conglomerate because he couldn't stand the articles that they wrote—not only about him, but about her. She never told him that it bothered her, and he didn't have it in him to ask, but he could see how her face twisted when William delivered a copy of the Prophet to her desk. The almost apprehension as if she didn't know if she would be the feature of the day's print. 

It royally pissed him off, slithering into his bones and rotting there. 

Sighing, Draco took a long sip of his whiskey. Fuck. 

Theo leaned forward then, grin sharpening. "In all seriousness, Dray, we need to know what's going on." 

"Going on with what?" Draco asked.

"Don't play dumb—you know what." Theo's gaze shifted towards Blaise and back again. "Do you really think that this is a smart idea? I mean with… her? One, she's your boss." 

"She's not my boss," Draco argued. 

"Oh?" Theo arched a dark brow. "Then what is she? She's the one who signs off on your reports of good behavior, Dray. She's the one who meets with you every week and then reports to the Minister about what a good boy you are. In case you've forgotten—" he pointed to himself, "—I'm the one who read over your contract with the Ministry. I'm the one who knows all those fine print details." 

Draco rolled his eyes, bristling, but he knew it was true. One of Theo's new hobbies within the past two years had been soliciting, contracts, and, recently, Wizarding Law. Theo was brilliant, and whenever he set his mind to something, the prick did it. So, when the time came for Draco to be released, Theo sat in the square room at the metal table, and went through all the fine-print before Potter and the Minister came in. 

Yeah, Draco knew he should've been thankful for Theo's altruistic actions, considering he'd ignored everyone's letters and visit requests for the past five years. But it was the price he had to pay for contraband and those moments of reprieve from the Dementors. 

Draco knew he didn't have to say it; Theo just knew. 

"You could be sent back to Azkaban," his friend went on. "And you know it—hell, I know it. Fuck! Blaise certainly knows it and already has a running bet on it, if you will." 

Looking to Blaise, Draco searched for some form of reprieve, but the wizard offered none except a bored look. What did he expect? Blaise Zabini was like an icy brick wall half the time, and the other times? Well, he didn't really want to broach that subject. 

"I'm not going to be sent back… there," Draco growled. 

"And how do you know that?" Theo pressed. "You're fucking the one person that can send you back there. You got between her spread, eager legs, and now what?" 

Heat festered under Draco's skin at Theo's nonchalant words—words about her. His witch. No, not his witch, because they didn't establish what this was. He told her he was complicated, and that was all he'd ever known. She accepted that and told him she didn't care. But what if she did care? What if this 'casual' thing wasn't so casual after all? Fucking hell. 

"What if you piss her off?" Theo was saying. "The witch isn't stupid, Dray. What if she realizes you're just doing this to get under her skin? Using her? Because that's what you're doing, right? Using her?" 

Around him, the wood-paneled room warbled, throbbed with the pulse of the magic in his veins. Every bit of him wanted to argue—wanted to yell and scream and throw a very hard punch—but Draco just remained calm as his fingers dug into his thighs. Brick by brick, his Occlumency walls slid into place, guarding and protecting him like they always had when his father took his anger out on him. Or when the Dark Lord murdered his Muggle Studies teacher right before his very eyes.  

"Theo…" Blaise warned. 

But the wizard didn't stop. "Is that what it is?" Theo went on. "That you're just getting into her knickers so that she does approve of your rehabilitation?" 

The walls came crumbling down as the bomb detonated inside his head. 

"Enough!" Draco slammed his fist down onto the table. Closing his eyes, he took a calming breath, ignoring the storm within. Leveling his haughty glare at Theo, he said: "Mind your own business. If I wanted your opinion, I'd ask for it. Got it?" 

Theo didn't even flinch, as his grin faded into something more sardonic. Rising from his seat, he grabbed his coat, tossing the onyx fabric over his shoulders. "My business?" Theo repeated, huffing. "Fine, Draco. I can do that." 

"Here we go," Blaise grumbled under his breath, and Draco had to agree. 

Theo leaned over, breath hot against his face as he said: "Let me leave you with this—you're deluded if you think someone like her can stay with someone like you. You're a Pureblood, Draco. A Pureblood with a fucking dark past and a father who is very much alive—a father that many still remember what Lucius Malfoy did to them and their families. Don't think that a few kind words from the Ministry will free you from that. I'd wake up before you crash and burn." 

Jaw-clenching, Draco felt the other patrons around him listening in. He felt the weight of something he didn't know how to manage, even after years of Occluding. Now, when he tried to scramble to rebuild his mind, everything kept crumbling down. All around him, Purebloods listened in, eager for a piece of gossip about him. He felt their judgment mingling with Theo's words, like a hex against his chest: ex-Death Eater, disgraced, dangerous… fool. Just like his damn father. 

He hated it, hated that he couldn't silence those thoughts. 

With one last huff, Theo straightened his lapels and walked away, leaving taut silence in his wake. 

Draco just stared down at his whiskey, ignoring the compressing thoughts in his head. Without blinking, he downed the amber liquor in one go, the burn doing little to calm him. 

"Let it go," Blaise said quietly, tone measured. "Theo's just pissed that you—look, he has things he needs to work out, and I'm sure knowing that Granger was in your shower didn't help." 

Draco scoffed, signaling for Mippy. "Is that what you call it? Pissed?" 

"I think it's his way of looking out for you—loving you in his own fucked up way. Look, Theo changed a lot in those five years you were gone. He didn't have you to rely on, Dray. And with his father dead? Hell, he was free. Theo's an orphan, with no family except for us." 

Blaise's words settled into Draco's bones, and he hated that they were true. Maybe that was the issue. Maybe Draco was living in the past, allowing it to haunt him just like the nightmares of his crimes and drawing room floors. Maybe he needed to wake up and realize that the world around him kept turning while he rotted in a cell for five years without hope or anything to want. 

But did he have that now? A part of him was too much of a coward even to wonder. 

"Draco Malfoy!" a deep voice boomed, cutting through the tension. "As I live and breathe!" 

Looking up, Draco watched as Perseus Parkinson (Pansy's father) strode towards their table. The wizard's stocky figure weaved and wavered between the patrons, his sable eyes sharp and on a mission. Reaching them, Perseus clapped a hand on Draco's shoulder, squeezing tightly, making him flinch. 

He hated it when people touched him. Honestly, every instinct in him wanted to pull away. 

Perseus's gaze darted to Blaise. "Zabini! Son! How's your dear mother doing?" 

Blaise dipped his chin, remaining stoic. "Good. In Italy for the season. She claims London is too drab for her tastes." 

In Blaise-speak, it meant that his mother had found some Italian Prince to marry, and then, in about a year, the London scene would appeal to her again. Or, once the poor bloke was dead, and she had all his money. 

"Good! Good!" Perseus rubbed his stomach before turning his focus on Draco. "I heard you were under the Ministry's control. If I'd known any sooner, I would've gotten some members of Wizengamot together to fight this! But it's good to see you out and about, boy!" 

Still, Draco maintained his cool as he said dryly, "Yes, the Ministry finally let me off my leash." 

Perseus laughed, a deep, gravelly sound that made his skin crawl. "Well, lucky us! I see you're still as spirited as ever." Yeah, that was one way to put it. Perseus leaned in slightly, smile tightening. "I wanted to discuss something with you." 

Draco and Blaise exchanged a look. 

"My Pansy, as you know, is a… untamed little thing." The older wizard frowned, eyes darkening, and Draco unfortunately knew that look all too well. "She refuses to let me and the Lady Parkinson set her up with a proper match." 

Oh, fuck me.

"I remember that the two of you were fond of each other back in school," Perseus went on. "There was a proper match and almost marriage contract between you two before that mess with your father. Shame! Truly!" 

Raising the crystal glass to his lips, Blaise rolled his eyes. Fuck, where was Mippy with his drink? 

"What do you say?" 

Draco blinked, looking back up to the stocky wizard above him. "Pardon?" 

Perseus gave Draco a tight, unnerving grin. "I said—what do you say about forming a proper match between yourself and my Pansy? A match like that would restore your name! You two are Pureblood. She will provide you with nice Heirs, Draco. It is only proper in our ways to—" 

Draco stood abruptly, his chair clattering against the wall. He towered over the man, their faces inches apart. Judging by how Perseus swallowed thickly and turned all ruddy, Draco knew his eyes blazed with restrained fury at the words the man spilled about Pansy. 

Perseus's smile faltered, but Draco didn't miss that calculated gleam. "Careful, boy. You wouldn't want to make a scene. You're already on thin ice in our world." 

Fists clenching at his sides, Draco considered punching the wizard square in the jaw for a fleeting moment, leaving him sprawling and floundering on the floor. He wanted to straddle the Parkinson male's waist and beat him to a pulp for negotiating his daughter like some broodmare. But he wouldn't—couldn't. One, he'd get kicked out of the Blackstone, and two, the action could easily end with him locked up in Azkaban. 

For Hermione? He wouldn't.  

Stepping back, he looked around, taking in the eager, curious eyes chomping at the bit like rabid dogs. His lips curled in cold disdain. "This fucking place is a pathetic excuse for civility," he sneered, voice dropping in contempt. "Idiots." 

Without another word, Draco turned on his heel and strode towards the exit, leaving Blaise to clean up his mess. 

Whatever. He didn't fucking care. He didn't care as the whispers followed him out, right into the parlor and into the floo. Those exact whispers that haunted him day and night, that said: 'He's just like his father.' 

Chapter Text

"NO!" Harry screamed, pointing a finger at the TV as if planning to hex it. "That was utter bullshit! Did you—? Did you see that, Gin? Are these refs blind?" 

On the screen, players in bright kits darted across the emerald green field, with the crowd roaring in the background. She hadn't been paying much attention, but knew it was a football match between Liverpool and Chelsea. 

Honestly? 'Outstanding' for effort, given she was only here for the good company and rooting for the former since they were the colors of her Hogwarts House. 

The Muggle television was a recent addition to the townhome since Harry recently discovered a passion for football and motor racing (more specifically, Formula 1). Honestly, the massive thing was a stark contrast against the ancient carved woodwork, but they placed warm tapestries on the walls and added a cozy, worn armchair to counteract the darkness of the home. It was a part of the decorating that Harry and Hermione had done in the past few months after she moved in. Now, this once drab sitting room became their little den, making it more homey and well-loved.

Harry jerked his hand towards the telly. "That was offside!" he shouted again. 

"Oh, calm yourself," Ginny sighed, wiggling her periwinkle toes in Hermione's lap as she leaned comfortably against the armrest of the Chesterfield. "You're going to give yourself a headache or burst a blood vessel." 

"Relax?" Harry scoffed, running his hand through his dark hair, causing it to stick up. 

Hermione shook her head. There was absolutely no taming that, no matter how hard she tried. Harry was just, unfortunately, given the Potter's good looks and unruly hair. 

Just then, a knock sounded at the front door, and the alarms blared. Hermione immediately sat up, and unease washed over her like a blend of fire and ice. Ron. 

"Shit," Harry swore under his breath before looking at Hermione with a wince, as if she was going to scold him. When she said nothing, Harry frowned. "Sorry," he apologized. "I forgot to turn the wards off." 

Ginny craned her neck, as if she could see past the walls and down the stairs to the frosted glass door. "Who is it?" 

Yeah, that was exactly what Hermione wanted to know.

"I invited Malfoy over," Harry said casually.  

"What?" Hermione blurted, words lodging in her throat as she floundered for a response. "W-When?" 

Both Ginny and Harry looked at her. The former with a smug curiosity, while Harry just seemed utterly confused. Budger. 

Sighing, she ran a nervous hand through her hair, realizing how utterly… unkempt she looked. This was their lazy Sunday, and while she practically spent every night with him during the week since they had sex for the first time (except for the past two nights since Ginny came back into town), she didn't want him to see her in her stained grey sweatpants and one of Harry's old Quidditch jumpers. 

Harry's brow knitted. "Is there a problem? Did he do something?" he asked, panicked, and a part of her felt annoyed. 

Why did people always think that Draco did something? 

"What?" Hermione laughed awkwardly. "No! God, no. I just… Oh, never mind. You should let him in, Harry." 

Nodding, Harry mumbled something under his breath before he left the room. 

The second he was gone, Ginny pounced. Literally. The red-head witch tackled Hermione on the leather sofa, fingers digging into her side. Ginny didn’t let up. Before Hermione could prepare for it, the two of them tumbled off the sofa and onto the floor. Snacks and popcorn scattered everywhere as they hit the ground. 

Ginny took the opportunity to straddle Hermione. 

"Ginerva!" A loud, undignified squeal escaped her as she floundered about. "Stop! God, stop!" 

"Don't you 'Ginerva' me, Missy!" Ginny scolded. Her fingers didn't let up as they danced over Hermione's ribs, finding a rather sensitive spot. "Admit it!" 

"Admit what?" Hermione squirmed violently, trying to escape. 

"I saw that look, Min." The grin on Ginny's freckled lips was outright devilish. "You're all blushy and weird at the mention of the ferret's name." 

Was she really that obvious? Nervously, Hermione reached up to feel her cheeks, only to find her hands pinned to her sides. God, for how lithe the witch was, she sure as hell was ridiculously strong. 

Ginny leaned in closer, breath tickling her face. "Say it, Min. Admit it to me—something's going on." 

It was like a dam burst because Hermione's resolve immediately crumbled as she screamed out: "Yes! Okay, yes!" 

At that exact moment, the floor groaned behind them. The two witches looked up, finding Harry and Draco standing in the doorway. Well, Hermione really could only see them from her upside-down vantage point on the floor, given Ginny still held her captive and straddled her. 

"Oh!" Hermione squeaked. "Hi!" 

Of course, Draco looked effortlessly composed with his tailored jeans and a cable-knit jumper. Warmth crested over her as she watched his lips twitch at the sight of her in a tangle of popcorn, pillows, and Ginny. Yet, his silver eyes seemed to burn with something darker. Draco's gaze flickered briefly to the crimson and marigold Quidditch kit she wore, and if she didn't know any better, she'd assume that was jealousy.  

Harry folded his arms over his chest, taking in the mess made within seconds. "You spilled the popcorn." 

Rolling her hazel eyes, Ginny pushed herself up to stand, freeing Hermione. Immediately, Hermione scrambled upright, brushing herself off with as much dignity as she could muster. Right now? It was very little, considering Draco Malfoy (the wizard who had seen her naked and did wicked things with his tongue) had just witnessed her floundering on the floor.

Grabbing her wand, Hermione quickly cleaned up the spilled popcorn. 

"Relax, Harry," Ginny purred, patting her boyfriend on the shoulder. "Just a bit of fun. Needed to get those kinks out of Min before she exploded." Ginny turned, gaze narrowing on where Draco lingered on the threshold. "Ferret." 

"Weasette," Draco mused, grey eyes glittering with mirth. 

Both Harry and Hermione bristled at their childish nicknames as the latter collapsed onto the cushions behind her. 

"Go on, Malfoy," Harry mused, gesturing to the room. "Make yourself at home." 

"Yeah, make yourself at home," Ginny purred, teasing. "I'm sure Hermione can help you with that." 

Eyes wide, she gawked at her friend, mouthing: 'Stop it!' 

But Ginny only shrugged one shoulder as she claimed the other sofa in the room. Patting the space, she gave Harry a saucy look as he grumbled his way over there. 

Sighing, Hermione looked up expectantly at Draco. Honestly? Given everything they'd done, she didn't know how to act with him in the room. The flashes of his mouth against her bare skin, his muscular body as he moved over her… in her. The all-consuming feeling she felt left no question about the pleasure he gave her. The precious moments where she could peel him apart and see him before her eyes, not as Draco Malfoy, but as a man who wanted to redeem himself. 

Better yet? If it was just them alone? Well, Hermione Granger would know precisely how to act. She'd know what to do as she crawled over to him, claiming his mouth on her own as her hips undulated over his, craving to be closer. 

But they weren't alone, were they? No, Harry's grumblings over the match and Ginny's knowing glances were answer enough.

Draco claimed the seat next to her on the sofa, leaving plenty of room for no questions or even concerns. Yet, she could still feel his presence radiating against her like a call. It wrapped around her like a blanket, and she found that she never wanted to let it go. 

* * * 

Draco could easily say that he was utterly entranced by the square magical box in front of him—a Muggle television, he learned. The flickering images? The seamless movements of the players darting back and forth? At first, he thought they were actually on the glass screen until female Weasley laughed in his face and said no, it was being quote-on-quote 'filmed.' Whatever that meant. It didn't take long for him to understand that the sport was quite similar to Quidditch. Hell, if not a bit more fascinating, considering they didn't have brooms, and they used their feet and heads to kick around a ball that looked a lot like a Quaffle. 

Gods, Muggles were really something else. Fascinating, even, and he couldn't believe those thoughts were in his head. 

Honestly? What would his father think? Not that he cared or anything. Absolutely fucking not. Lucius Malfoy could rot in Hell for all he cared. 

But, there was something to be said about the warm smugness that radiated through him at the thought that his father could walk through that door and see his only son and Heir to the Malfoy bloodline sitting on a plush leather sofa, watching Muggle television with two blood-traitors and a Muggle-born witch—a witch that had Draco's tongue between her thighs not twenty-four hours ago. If he really thought hard enough, he could still taste her right there. 

Unfortunately, that only made his blood run south. Fuck. 

"Two-nil!" Potter shouted, leaning forward in his seat. "Come on, Liverpool! Yes! Yes!" 

Reaching across, Potter smacked Draco's raised hand as they both cheered. Alright, yeah, that was another thing he couldn't believe. Four weeks ago, he was rotting in a prison cell. Now? Well, he was getting rather chummy with Saint Potter. 

Draco's lips twitched at the thought as he settled back down, gaze flickering over to Hermione. Even as she stared intently at the Muggle television, nibbling nervously on her thumbnail, he knew she wasn't paying attention. Not one bit. Did she know she was so easy to read? Like a gods-damn open book. That if he really wanted, he could slip into her head and search around without her knowing? That he could learn every single thought or emotion going through her at this point in time? Just like that. Easy. 

He wouldn't, though. Gods, he had enough respect for the witch not to invade her personal space unless she asked. If she asked? Well, there would be no turning back. 

But this? Being close to her and feeling her warmth without being able to touch her was about to drive him mad. He was about to Confund Potter and Weaselette just so he could get her on her back, legs wrapped around him, and his mouth on hers. He wanted to take off that hideous maroon and marigold Quidditch kit and maybe put her in something more… green. He wanted to trace her moles with his tongue. He wanted to live in the space between her thighs, savoring her like she was a bottle of Sassicaia 1985 from Bolgheri, Tuscany, or Château Pétrus from Pomerol, Bordeaux, or Domaine de la Romanée-Conti from Burgundy or Château Margaux from Margaux, Bordeaux. He wanted to drink from her like she was an elixir. 

Was this what addiction felt like? The craving to be close to someone to get that fix that no one else could give? Possibly. Fuck, it wasn't like he hadn't seen her in days. Right? Even if his internal calculations told him it felt like months, he knew it had only been a mere twenty-four hours (maybe a bit more) since she left his ministry-owned flat. Yet, the absence left a hollow void he wasn't used to feeling. 

It fucking unnerved him, and Draco Malfoy was rarely unraveled. Never. 

What was she doing to him? When had this all happened? How was she could worm her way under his skin and rest there without him noticing? He wanted to reach out and touch her, feel her bare flesh against his fingertips. 

Whatever this was? That innate part of him didn't want it to stop, and he realized that the minute he saw Hermione.

When Potter extended the invitation to come to Grimmauld, Draco assumed it would be the two of them, since this was apparently part of his rehabilitation program. Ha. Yeah, right. Draco had the sneaking suspicion that Potter didn't want to leave his magical Muggle television. Whatever. He really didn't blame the git because he wouldn't want to leave either, and Draco was already wondering how he could acquire the magical box of pictures. 

That was beside the point. The point? Hermione Granger was steadily rocking his foundation and everything he'd known his entire life. 

Draco always prided himself on being in tune with those around him. Not in the comforting sense. No. It was the way of knowing weakness and anything that would reinforce his need for self-preservation. Why? It was how he was fucking raised by his dickhead father. Know thy enemy and all that bullshit. He was always one step ahead, while everyone else was four steps back. Draco moved through life like a duel, and the only way to survive was pure cunning and cutting others down. If he didn't? His fate at his father's hand would be worse than death. Surprises weren't a thing for Malfoys, and he didn't like the feelings that came with them. Ever. 

So, understand his… shock when he walked in to find Hermione lying on the floor with female Weasley straddling her. And instead of feeling that unease, he felt… warmth. He felt as if someone connected the two of them as he watched how Hermione's face flushed, that almost delicious shade of crimson matched the old Gryffindor Quidditch kit she wore. 

Yeah, alright, the sight made him jealous. He could admit that to himself, even if he would never say the words aloud. Hell, he was practically dripping green with envy. 

A part of him wondered how Potter and female Weasley would react if he used wandless magic to transfigure it to emerald and white with the name 'Malfoy' on the back instead. 

Letting his gaze drift towards Hermione's profile, he took in her honey-brown curls framing her face and the soft, tender curve of her jaw. The fullness of her lips, plump and swollen, as they closed around the tip of her thumb, soothing the hurt she caused. What would she do if he leaned over and captured his thumb for himself? Tasting her on the skin? Would she flush that scarlet shade again? 

The thought sent a wave of heat rushing to his cock. Fuck me. 

Noticing his attention, Hermione glanced at him, her eyes wide, before abruptly standing from the sofa. "I'm going to get more popcorn!" she announced, pitching her voice higher than normal. 

Draco tracked her as she moved quickly out of the room, barely even glancing over her shoulder. Her intoxicating scent of honey and a fresh rainstorm doused him, bleeding into his veins. Was it her shampoo? Or just her entire essence? Yet, he knew exactly what that tasted like straight from the source. 

"Where's the loo?" Draco asked, turning towards the couple on the other sofa. He didn't miss the glittering curiosity in female Weasley's hazel gaze as she watched him. 

"Down by the kitchens," Potter explained, not looking away from the television. "Second door on the right." 

Excellent. 

Draco stood, moving out of the sitting room. Yeah, he wasn't planning on using the loo, but he took the opportunity, anyway. He kept his steps quiet as he walked down the narrow staircase towards the illuminated room at the end of the long, gloomy hall. He could feel her like she were dragging him by his soul. A tug in his belly he didn't know what to make of, but all he knew was that it had been so damn long since he touched her. 

Okay, twenty-four-fucking-hours, but whatever. 

When he entered the kitchen in Grimmauld, she stood with her palms pressed against the long wooden table, head hung, and back towards him. 

"Didn't think making Muggle food was this stress-inducing," he mused, taking one step into the space. 

Hermione glanced up, but she didn't turn around. He didn't miss how her breath hitched and her skin tightened. Or how that lovely blush crept over her neck. Salazar, she was so damn easy to read. 

Arching a brow, he asked: "Need some help, Granger?"

"I'm—" she swallowed thickly. "I'm fine. I'm just trying to—" 

Before she could finish, Draco stepped behind her, pressing into her back. The feel of them touching was enough to drive him mad as his chest brushed against her with every ragged breath she took. Claiming the opportunity, he bent down, inhaling her scent as he buried his face into her wild curls. 

"Fuck…" he swore lowly, fingertips toying with the hem of the old Quidditch kit until he found bare skin. "I missed the feel of you." 

A whimper escaped her then as she arched back into him. "You—? You did?" 

He hummed, fingertips spreading over her belly, taking up the entire surface area. He practically devoured her. And fuck… 

It was wrong of him always to point out their size difference when the witch was above average height for a female, but he couldn't help it. Hell, Hermione barely came up to his chest, and it made him wonder how he ever managed to work with (and fuck) Parks in the first place. He could readily admit that he wasn't lacking in any regard. His height put him well above normal, and the only other person who could compete with him was Blaise, thanks to two growth spurts: one in his fifth year and another in his sixth year. The second one was all thanks to the Mark and his own magic fighting against the inherent darkness within. 

But Hermione was determined with a fire he couldn't even begin to understand. He saw it the minute she showed up on his doorstep and neatly begged him to give her everything he'd whispered to her about in dusty old broom closets and on desks. 

She took it and more, which said something about her ability as a woman and a witch. Remarkable. Honestly. 

Slowly, Draco shifted his hand, toying with the band of her sweatpants, dipping under slightly. Gods, her skin was so damn soft. 

"Draco," she whimpered.

Fuck. He loved it when she said his full name, and he didn't know when or where that started, but he really liked it. He wanted to see just how many times he could get her to say it tonight and maybe for the rest of his lifetime on this earth. 

Without thinking, he dipped lower, feeling her wetness. Hell, it practically dripped from her with just one touch. 

"Good?" he asked, lips grazing over her neck, pulling slightly on the stretched collar of the kit. "Want me to keep going?" 

Hermione bit her lip, nodding. 

The air between them cracked with unspoken tension, and the feel of her in the palm of his hand. It was dangerous. A live wire next to a pool of water, and he knew he was playing with fire. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to stop. 

No, he didn't want to stop, and that was the problem. 

Maybe they were both similar in that regard because he felt that determination in him, craving to do all the filthy, wrong things to her right on this kitchen table. He wanted to see how utterly soaked he could make her just by sticking his hand down her sweatpants. Would she come? Would she stay quiet? What other sounds could he pull from her? 

"What do you need?" Draco growled lowly, pushing his awakening erection into her lower back. 

"I need—?" 

"Min?" the female Weasley's voice rang out in the silence as footsteps pounded down the stairs. "What's taking so—oh!" 

Draco tried to move, but he knew it was too late when his hand caught in that stupid Gryffindor Quidditch kit and the band of her sweatpants. Hermione's hips clanged onto the table, followed by an "Oof!" 

Righting themselves, they both spun around to meet the hazel eyes of a smug red-headed witch. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Ginny arched a brow. "Well… well. What do we have here?"  

Hermione stepped forward, palms outstretched, placatingly. "Gin, please. It's not what it looks like." 

"Oh, come off it!" the witch scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I'm not going to run upstairs and tattle on you two, but I would think you would be a little more careful than trying to shag with the door wide open." 

That undeniably attractive warmth spread over Hermione's cheeks. "We weren't shagging," she grumbled. 

Well, that might not've been what she had in mind, but it was certain what was on his own. In fact, he wanted to pick her up, toss her over her shoulder, take her to his flat, and have his way with her. 

Ginny sighed. "Harry's just been called away on an Auror emergency. Told me to tell you that he won't be home." She looked at him then. "And I was to tell you, Malfoy, that you can sleep in one of the spare rooms if you'd like. He'll be back in the morning, and you two can do your session here to make it easier." 

"Why?" Draco found himself asking. 

"I don't bloody well know why, Malfoy. Something about Harry not wanting to go into the Ministry or whatever." 

Yeah, or whatever. 

Folding his arms over his chest, he matched her defensive stance. "And where are you sleeping?" Draco drawled.

"In Harry's room, of course." A slow, almost Slytherin-worthy smirk toyed at the redhead's freckled lips. "Right above Hermione's." 

Fuck. 

Ginny looked between them. "Remember to cast a Silencing Charm, and I won't say a word. Promise I'll tell Harry what a good little snake you were, Malfoy, and how you didn't shag my best friend six ways to Sunday." 

* * * 

Draco hovered nervously in the doorway, taking in the silver nameplate on the wooden structure and the cursive words: 

Do Not Enter 
Without the Express Permission 
Of Regulus Arcturus Black 

He didn't know why the sight of it bothered him, but it did. Maybe it was because of all the years that Bellatrix compared him to the dead Second Heir of the Noble House of Black. Or maybe it was because Draco learned long ago that the two of them were born into the fate of the Death Eaters and had no other choice. He saw the way his mother looked at him, too, when she didn't think he was looking. How he'd seen the photographs of Regulus and Narcissa in her vanity drawer and recognized their familial closeness. The yellowed letters in intricate handwriting that became more and more frantic—panicked—as the years went on until they stopped altogether in December 1979. 

The month he died. 

No one knew what happened to Regulus Black, and a part of Draco wanted to learn. Yet, it terrified him because the Fate could've easily been his. Maybe it still would. 

Taking a slow breath, Draco pushed open the door to her room. What the hell? A part of him had to blink as he took in the space because it looked nothing like what he expected from something that once belonged to Regulus Black. 

Of course, she'd mentioned that she redid the room, but that obviously slipped his mind. 

The walls were painted a soft, calming blue, contrasting with the dark onyx wood furniture that remained. She kept the massive four-poster bed, but instead of what he assumed were once emerald curtains, she now had a set of gossamer ones that flowed in the gentle zephyr that passed through the room. The dark wood was softened with a fluffy white duvet and pillows piled high of all shapes and sizes. At the foot was a quilt clearly worn and frayed. It looked homemade, the kind that was stitched together with love and memories. 

He never had that. Ever. 

Draco thought of his own bedroom back at Malfoy Manor. It was nothing like this, given it was pristine to the point of sterility. A place that looked like a showroom or museum rather than a home for a child to grow up in. The furniture was dark and ornate, ancient and stiff. The shelves held more heirlooms than books or toys—cursed objects that were placed there as a threat.

Here? In Hermione's room? It was the opposite. It was loved, lived in, and entirely hers. Stacks of books were placed strategically around the room, and the forgotten teacups were on the nightstand. Their water-stained circle marks etched within the antique wood from where she forgot to use a coaster.

Draco stepped further into the space, feeling Hermione watching his every move. Yet, it didn't bother him; it almost felt… comforting. 

He reached one of the precarious book towers by the window overlooking the garden below. Picking the top one up, he looked at the title: A Study in Occult: The Darker Side of Shadow Theory. 

A soft, incredulous laugh escaped him then. He turned to face her, holding up the onyx leather-bound tome. "This?" Draco arched a brow. "Doesn't seem like your style, Granger." 

"So?" Hermione questioned. 

"So, I didn't peg you as someone interested in Shadow Theory. What? Planning on learning another branch of Dark Magic?" Clicking his tongue, he walked towards her, slow and steady. "Miss Granger, what would they think if they knew that the Golden Girl wasn't so golden?" 

Hermione placed her hands on her hips. "My tastes in literature are quite broad, Draco." Gods, he loved hearing his name on her lips. "I'll read anything and everything, and besides, that was… research." 

Humming, he set the book down on her desk, closing the space between them. 

He wondered then if she knew how fucking perfect she looked right now, with her cheeks flushed and her curls glowing around her like a halo in the late afternoon light. The way her whiskey eyes held his and her back pressed against one of the bed's four posters. How easy it would be to grab her, throw her down on the bed, and make her do whatever he wanted. He could almost hear the pretty little sounds she'd make for him, writhing underneath him. Would she still be wet from earlier? Or would he have to get on his hands and knees and taste the space between her thighs? 

The fantasy conjured within his mind without concern or reprieve for whatever tension was pulsing in the air. It was all he could think about as he prowled closer to her and—

A loud, screeching sound filled the room as a blur of orange fur launched itself at his feet with big yellow eyes. 

Draco let out a strangled yelp. "What the fucking hell is that thing!" 

Hermione darted forward, scooping up said thing, holding it close to her chest. Finally, he got a good look at it. Gods, it was fucking hideous, and calling it a 'thing' was perfectly warranted, given its massive ball of fluff and squashed features. It looked like someone had chewed it up, spit it out, and maybe did it again for fun. 

"This is my familiar," Hermione laughed softly. "Crookshanks." 

Draco stared at the thing in disbelief. "That's not a familiar, Granger. I'm not even sure that's a fucking cat." 

"What do you mean?" Hermione's brows knitted as her fingers combed through the tangled, patchy fur. "Crooks? Crookshanks is a cat, Draco." There was a pause before she sighed heavily. "Okay, fine! He’s part-Kneazle, and he's wonderful! Thank you very much!" 

"Ha!" Draco grinned, feeling rather smug. "I knew it!" 

Setting the beast down, he watched as it walked towards him slowly, sniffing his bare feet before curling around his legs as a low, pleasurable rumble escaped its throat. 

"What—?" Draco blinked, staring down at the monster in confusion. "What's it doing? Granger, make it stop. Now!" 

"Oh, seriously?" Hermione groaned, pouting. Draco looked up at her, curving one brow as she clarified, "I really thought Crooks would hate you." 

Yeah, well, he felt it was quite the opposite, as the thing mewed and nuzzled against his jeans. When Draco made no move as he stared in horror, the thing began beating its tail against his calf. 

"What's it doing now?" he asked. 

Hermione shrugged. "Crooks wants you to pet him." 

That thing wanted him to pet it? Seriously? 

Sighing, Draco bent down, holding out a curious hand. Immediately, the thing pounced on him, forcing his fingertips behind the tufted ears. Good little kitty-monster-thing. After a while, those intense yellow eyes met his, and he would've been lying if a shiver hadn't cascaded down his spine. It felt like the thing was staring right into his soul, seeing everything within him—the good, the bad, and the ugly. 

What had Hermione said it was? Part-Kneazle? Could they sense the war inside of him? The conflicting emotions that he felt for the witch in this room? The desperate pull he felt for her every time they were alone tonight? 

A part of him didn't want to know. 

The orange ball of fur purred louder as if in answer, and Draco immediately stood. Fuck. 

Brushing off the excess hair from his jeans, he mumbled: "You're familiar's creepy, Granger." 

"Perceptive is a better way to describe Crooks," she said with a long sigh. 

Draco looked up at her then, and suddenly, all thoughts about orange balls of fur and part-Kneazles vanished. He only cared about her as she leaned against one of the bedposts, worrying her thumbnail. Tension crackled in the room, live and exciting, dancing over his skin. 

Somewhere in the distance, he could've sworn that he heard an approving meow. 

Draco stepped closer, closing the distance between them without even thinking. Gently, he reached up, grabbed her wrist, and tugged her thumb away from her mouth. Her whiskey-colored eyes held his, igniting with equal parts confusion, lust, and gods. He wondered if he could bottle it up. 

Brushing his thumb over her knuckles, he savored the feel of her warm, soft skin as he glanced down. It was then that he noticed the tiny bead of blood that welled up at the edge of her nail from her nervous habit. 

"What are you—?" Before Hermione could even finish the sentence, Draco captured her thumb with his mouth. 

Honestly? If anyone ever asked him what came over him, he wouldn't be able to say or explain adequately. All he knew was the coppery tang on his tongue, and the feel of her digit in his mouth made him see stars. 

Hermione's breath hitched audibly, chest rising and falling as she watched him. And he knew right then and there that he wanted to see her looking at him like that, naked and bare before him. He wanted to see her spread out on the duvet, utterly at his mercy. He wanted to taste more of her because one hit wasn't enough. 

Draco Malfoy was utterly, completely, and irrevocably addicted to Hermione Granger. The end. 

Gaze holding hers, he released her thumb slowly, deliberately, letting the moment stretch between them. Her pouty lips parted as the flush on her cheeks darkened. 

"What do you need from me?" he asked, stepping closer, as his hands dropped to her waist. 

Hermione's gaze darted from his lips to his eyes, attempting to find the words. Hell, he could see the gears churning and clogging in her mind. The way she arched her hips up and against his, trying to find that friction. The soft, erratic whimper that escaped her. 

Like he said, he could read her like a gods-damn open book. 

Was that a problem for Draco? Abso-fucking-lutely not. Not when she looked up at him, letting him see everything and more that he didn't deserve, but would accept it all the same. 

Draco's fingers brushed along the edge of her waist, keeping the touch featherlight as if to tease her. "Tell me," he urged. "What do you need, Hermione? Tell me, and I'll give you anything."

"Anything?" she whispered. 

"Anything," he promised, and he meant it. 

There was a long beat—a breath—within the wrinkle of time before she told him: "Touch me." 

As if she needed to ask. 

Her heartbeat increased against his as her body shuddered. Goosebumps prickled over her chest and neck where the old Gryffindor Quidditch kit had fallen to the side. Actually, that reminded him of his first order of business—getting that fucking thing off of her. 

Fingers toying with the hem, he asked: "May I?" 

Worrying her bottom lip, she nodded. He didn't need any more permission as he yanked it off her body. His gaze trailed down over the swells of her breasts, hidden behind the yellow and navy polka-dot bra and her sweatpants low on her waist. 

His thumbs made gentle patterns over her hipbones, dipping lower as she whispered: "Please… yes." 

All he had to do was push them down, and her sweatpants fell easily to the ground as if begging to be removed. Hermione quickly stepped out of them; hands braced against his arms as she kicked them off and away. And fuck… 

He stepped closer then, crowding her until she tumbled back onto the bed. Standing between her thighs, he bent down and captured her mouth within his. The kiss was slow, planned, and utterly deliberate. He didn't go easy on her or try to figure her out as his tongue pushed past the seam of her lips, tasting her entirely. He continued moving them until Hermione crawled up on the bed, and he followed like some devout worshiper at her altar, thighs straddling her own and hands braced on either side of her. 

They kissed for what felt like forever, consuming, studying, and proclaiming with the words he couldn't say. 

When they finally pulled apart, Draco pressed his forehead against hers, panting as she breathed him in. "I want… Gods, I want to do so many things to you, Granger. You have no idea." 

"What kind of things?" she whimpered. 

Draco pulled away, studying her blown pupils lined in amber. "Show me how you touch yourself," he murmured. "Show me how you make yourself come." 

Her bottom lip found a home between her teeth as he watched the contemplation occur within her head. Yeah, he wasn't about to have any of that. He wanted her at her most vulnerable, where only pleasure mattered. He wanted to know what she looked like when he thought of the fantasy of her alone in this bed with her hand between her thighs. Hell, he couldn't get the image of her out of his mind from the moment she said that she touched herself to the thought of him. 

It was fucking madness. Again, that addictive need came over him, begging to get the most microscopic hit. A centimeter, at best. Anything to stop this itch and desperate want within him. 

Craving a taste, Draco leaned over her, dragging his mouth over her collarbone. His tongue laved over her skin, trailing down to the swells of her breasts. He thought it was cute that for someone so powerful and high-up as Hermione Granger, she still wore cotton knickers with holes in them and brassieres that she'd probably owned since fourth-year. 

Maybe he'd buy her a nice lace set. Something ridiculously expensive that she would have no utter clue she was wearing two-hundred-and-fifty-pound lingerie on her body. Perhaps he'd get something custom from a shop in Paris at Palace Cachée, something that cost hundreds more. 

He'd do it. For her? He'd do anything just like he said. 

Honestly? Draco didn't realize when that thought changed; it just did. 

Did that terrify him? Absolutely. No doubt about it. Did he care? Not at this moment? No, the panic would come in the form of nightmares, waking him up in a cold sweat. The ones where he couldn't even put them into words because he knew they were real, and half of the time, they were about her.  

Distracting himself, he murmured against the soft skin of her breast. "This needs to come off next." 

Warmth flushed over her chest as she sat up and undid the clasp at her back. Immediately, the fabric fell from her, freeing her round breasts. Gods… 

Mouth watering, he leaned over, enclosing around her peaked nipple. The sound that came from her could've been described as: beautiful. Like the heavens opening up, or maybe even what it felt like the first time he opened Playwizard and saw a pair of breasts and spread legs of Veelas. 

Fuck. He wanted more.

After all, Draco was a greedy wizard who didn't stop at the first taste. He was selfish and desperate and fueled by the hunger for her desire and pleasure. 

Moving towards her other pebbled peak, he laved over it, worshiping it with slow, heady tugs that made her back arch and more sounds spill from between those swollen lips. Pulling away, he began his path down her body, kissing the starburst cobalt and indigo and crimson scar on her side. He left no parts of her untouched by him, needing her to know that he wanted this, craved it like he used to crave whiskey in Azkaban. 

Reaching the top of the cotton knickers, Draco peered up at her. He didn't ask this time; he could tell by the look in her eye that she wanted this, and she'd let him do it. What else would she let him do? Edge her? Play with her for hours? Worship that taboo space that most look away from? Anything? 

Slowly, he rolled her knickers down her thighs, discarding them somewhere in the room. Whatever. He didn't care where they went, not when she spread her thighs apart for him without even asking. 

Draco groaned. "Gods… you're perfect. Absolutely perfect." Leaning over, he pressed a kiss just to the crease of her thigh. "And so wet for me. Will you let me watch you as you play with yourself, Granger?" 

There was a breath before he heard her whisper: "Yes." 

Yeah, there was his good fucking girl. 

Timidly, her hand slid over her breasts, down the planes of her belly, before reaching just above her bundle of nerves. He watched as her chest rose and fell before she dipped down to her center with one finger, dragging up her arousal. The strokes were slow and calculated, and he wanted more. 

"How do you feel?" Draco asked, voice filled with that underlying heat. 

Hermione moaned, unable to as she continued to touch herself. 

No, that wouldn't do. He needed more from her, more of this (whatever it was). He needed it like he needed air. What had he said before? That she was an addiction? 

"Are you wet for me?" he asked, and he knew she was just by the look of her. "Can't speak, huh? Well, why don't I help you out here? Yeah?" 

"D-Draco," she whimpered. "Please…" 

"Please? Gods, you're asking so nicely, love. So sweetly that I don't even think I can say no. Can I?" Shifting closer, he rested his head against her thigh. Tauntingly, his fingers swirled against her entrance, gathering the dripping slick there. Fuck. "I want you only to touch yourself here, alright? Only make yourself come with your fingers inside of you."

Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, but just like the good girl she was, Hermione obeyed. She slid one finger inside of herself to the knuckle before pulling out. 

"That's it," Draco purred, smirking. "How does it feel?" 

"G-Good," she stammered. 

"But?" he pressed, watching her every move. "C'mon. Use those pretty little words, Granger. I know you're smarter than that." When she didn't answer, he pushed on. "What? Do you feel empty? Without me?" 

Hermione gasped. "Yes!" 

"Why don't you fix that? Yes?" 

There was a breath before he watched her push two fingers inside her center. Gods, this fucking witch. There was no telling the things she was willing to do or let him do to her, and that nearly drove him wild. Not only that, but he only wanted to be the one to have it. It was that same craving he felt earlier, building inside him until it exploded, and he felt drunk off the thought of Hermione Granger. 

Leaning forward, he pressed a tender kiss to the crease of her thigh before settling back to watch her. The gesture terrified him, given the intimacy behind it, but Draco quickly shoved that in the back of his mind. 

Eyes hooded, he growled: "That's it, love. Keep going. You look so pretty like this, touching yourself for me. So fucking beautiful, all spread out just for me. Isn't that right? How did I get so lucky?"  

Hermione moaned with her need, hips arching up as she continued to pleasure herself. Without him even asking, she added a third finger, and Draco nearly released himself right then and there. In fact, his hips humped the mattress. Fucking hell. 

"The things I want to do to you," he slurred, feeling almost drunk. "Want to—fuck, want to take you everywhere. Want to show you off so every gods-damn wizard knows that I'm the one who gets to see you like this—thighs spread, cunt open for me. Only me, Hermione. I'm the only one who gets to see you like this. No one else. Not a fucking soul will ever get to touch you." 

Her answer was a breathless: "Yes…" 

"Want to bend you over your desk, lift up your skirt, and show you how a real man can make you feel? Want to press you up against your office window while everyone downstairs thinks you're such a good little girl, but they don't know what I'm doing to you upstairs. Isn't that right?" 

"Keep—Keep talking!" 

"Yeah?" Draco laughed darkly. "Do you like that? Hearing all the fucking filthy things that I want to do to you? Ruin you?" 

Her head thrashed against the comforter, knocking away several pillows. Good. There were too many of them, anyway. And what he had planned, they needed all the space he could get. 

Hand rubbing up and down her other thigh, he continued to watch as she dragged her fingers out of herself, desperate to touch the swollen bundle in need of attention. 

"Ah!" he clicked his tongue, breath hot against her center. "Don't touch yourself there. I only want to see you come on your fingers." 

"Please…" 

"Almost there, love. Just need to get you to come on your hand, and then I'm going to fucking ruin you. Going to make you sit on my cock and ride me. Going to watch as I stretch you, and then I'll get you nice and full with my come, Hermione." 

The words just poured out of him, and there was no stopping him. His hips thrust into the mattress like some gods-damn teenager. Gods, who the hell was he? He never acted this… this needy, this desperate. Yet she was making him that way. 

"Want to watch as it comes out of you, only to fuck it back in—right where it belongs," he snarled, feeling feverishly intoxicated as she began to move quicker. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Sitting in a meeting at your important job that you hate so much with my seed dripping down your thigh? You'd be a good girl, wouldn't you, though? You wouldn't clean it up. No, you'd feel so desperate that you'd run to your office and spread your legs, pushing it back into you. Then you'd come home to me and tell me what a good job you did, like the good little girl you are. All for me, right?" 

Hermione's fingers quickened as her hips arched up. Smirking, he pressed a kiss against her inner thigh, teeth grazing gently. Yeah, there she was; he'd been waiting for her. 

Spine cresting, he watched as she gasped out his name over and over again like it was something to be worshiped—something holy. Devotional. Immaculate. Empyrean. Her climax sped through her like Fiendfyre, and he could see every tremor in her body, every breath that she took, as if she had let him in and let him witness what was going on inside her head. It was madness, and it was unexplainable, and Draco really didn't want to think about it. 

Why? Because then it would be real, and sometimes, that was worse than understanding. 

Not waiting for another second, Draco shoved off his jeans and briefs, tossing them somewhere in her room. Grabbing her hips, he flipped them over, placing her on top of his as he steadied her body, still writhing out the aftermath of her pleasure. 

Gods, he'd never seen something more beautiful in his life. 

For a witch who had bushy, unruly curls (that used to piss him royally off in school), she looked like a fucking angel as the twilight haloed around her. Every scar on her body seemed to come alive, making her look like some ancient warrior as she gazed dreamily down at him, eyes whiskey-hooded and pink lips swollen. 

Perfect. So gods-damn perfect. 

Reaching between them, Hermione lifted her hips as her hand wrapped around his throbbing length. With slow, sure strokes, she pumped him just how he liked it, and he wondered how she knew—how she learned him so quickly already. The thought was almost dizzying, especially when he felt her notch himself at her entrance. The slick of her coating him, preparing them both. Fuck… 

Draco watched in amazement as she pleasured herself, using him to get exactly what she wanted. Hands steady on her waist, he rocked her slightly back and forth, holding himself back. Really? All he wanted to do was lose absolute control. He wanted to grab her and thrust into her, and make her cry out his name again. 

Yet, he couldn't because all he could do was watch her in a way that made him wonder if she had Veela blood in her. 

With controlled precision, she rose, lowering herself down onto his throbbing length. A shared moan spilled from both of them as her heat enveloped him, and she stretched around him. 

The feeling? It was obscene and right and wrong at the same time. It made sense, and it didn't. 

And hell, maybe he should fucking invest in a Pensive. Yeah, that wasn't such a terrible idea. A Pensive. Then, he could watch this moment over and over again, just like the Muggle telly downstairs. 

Her nails found purchase with his bare chest, creating half-moon marking against the inky onyx moth with a skull nestled in its thorax. He wanted her to leave the Latin words written below it—Memento Mori—leaving her signature on his skin that he would feel for days. 

"Gods, Draco," she moaned, and his name sounded like candy floss on her tongue. "You're… you feel so big like this." 

Yeah, if there was one thing in this gods-damn world that would end him, it was that sentence coming out of her mouth. It was every man's dying wish to know that their cock could please their woman—their witch. 

His witch. 

She bottomed out then; their hips flush together in that intimate way. They remained still, steady, as their ragged breaths filled the room. His fingers tightened over her hips, pressing markings there as he claimed his territory. 

Gods, he needed her to move, but didn't want to ruin the moment. He wanted this to stay just like this until the end of time, even if his primal instinct was to grab her and flip her onto her hands and knees and show her how much he loved to fuck her and how fucking good he could make her feel. 

Slowly, she began rolling her hips up and down in controlled movements. 

"Fuck…" he groaned, unable to look away. "Just… gods, baby, just like that." 

They moved like lovers did, as if they'd done this dance for decades… centuries. Every delicious sound that spilled from her, Draco bathed in it, savoring it. He devoured it like it was his last meal on earth. 

But there was still this need to be closer to her. He needed more like the selfish bastard he was. 

Sitting up, he positioned them so she was seated on his waist, thighs straddling his. Chest-to-chest, her breasts brushed against each of his inky tattoos, making him shudder. The position only deepened their connection, making his swollen cock slide deeper inside of him. It felt natural and so gods-damn good that he never wanted it to end. He wanted to take some magical potion that kept them this connected for life. 

Sliding one hand up her back, the other grabbed her jaw, angling her face down to his. "Mine," he claimed possessively, and he didn't know where the thought came from, but it did. Gods, it did. 

Hermione bit her lip, nodding. 

"Say you're mine, love," he growled, holding her gaze as he met her thrust-for-thrust. "Say it." 

Their bodies continued to move against one another, her curls tickling his shoulders. Sweat dripped between her breasts, dropping onto him. It felt like the very essence of her joining his more intimately than how they were already joined. It felt religious, like something Muggles did. Holy. Natural. 

It felt right. 

Reaching forward, Draco brushed his mouth against her own, craving a taste of her. Even the tiniest drop was enough to quench him, like he was a wanderer lost in the desert. 

"Say it," he demanded. 

"Yours," she whispered in breathless reverence. "I'm yours, Draco Malfoy." 

Hell, he was about to lose his gods-damn mind, hearing his full name while this deep inside of her—his. 

Tight, consuming heat flooded over him as he felt her reach her peak. Her room turned into the filthy, primal song of moans and gasps as they continued to move with each other, clashing with something they didn't know they were looking for. 

The minute he felt her constrict, he was utterly done for on this earth. 

Grabbing her waist, he held her still as he released himself as deep as he possibly could, right against the space that he wanted to claim. Her climax followed, pulsing and throbbing with undiluted need. It felt like it went on for hours, days, weeks… months. It had no reprieve or endpoint insight as they panted against each other, holding each other close. 

He didn't know when it stopped or how they came to, but they both settled down as silence filled the room. 

Without thinking, Draco pulled her mouth to his, kissing her deeply. He didn't wait for permission as he claimed her fully, tasting her essence on his tongue. 

Every bit of him wanted to tell her thank you—wanted to tell her that he finally felt like he had something worth fighting for—but the words lingered on his tongue. She might've opened Pandora's Box with him, but there were certain things that he wanted to keep close to his chest. 

Vulnerability? What happened right there between them in bed? He'd never experienced that, and it utterly terrified him. 

And a part of Draco didn't know if he'd make it out on the other end alive.

Chapter Text

"And that's why I think owls shouldn't be allowed in the mail room!" 

Hermione's nails drummed against the arm of the chair as she let her gaze drift off towards the Thames. She didn't mind being in the conference room, except for the November chill that always managed to creep in through the crack in the window. Why did no one decide to spell it? Fix it? She didn't know, and for once in her life, she didn't feel the need to point it out. 

God, maybe she should blame him—Draco. He was the one turning her into this more relaxed version of herself with every whisper in her ear, and hand down her bare back. The need to just be closer to him, craving him in a way she'd never craved anyone before. 

Sighing deeply, she shook off the thought, letting her gaze wander around the conference room. It was an imposing space, clearly designed to convey authority. The polished mahogany table stretched nearly the entire length of the room, its surface gleaming like still water under the golden light emanating from the enchanted chandelier above. Strategically placed around the table were high-backed chairs upholstered in rich emerald leather. 

Someone cleared their throat. "I think we should…" 

Tuning them out, Hermione's gaze drifted to the brick wall. The structure was lined with various frames of past Ministers. Though today, they were all empty, clearly having better places to be. 

Honestly? She didn't blame them because she would rather be anywhere than here. It was the Department Heads' quarterly review, the first one they had held since starting the Ministry's Rehabilitation Program. 

Hermione sat in the middle, flanked by Harry on her left and Pansy on her right. In a way, they felt like her guardians, shielding her from the curious eyes around the table, eager to hear what she had to say about the program. At the head, Minister Kingsley held court, his deep baritone voice rumbling as he added his various thoughts to whatever Berkley (Head of the Department of Magical Sports) was saying. Across from her, Robards, Harry's boss, scribbled notes with an impatient flourish of his quill. 

God, she'd completely forgotten that he was back from his medical leave after accidentally taking a rogue hex during a raid.

Either way, Hermione wasn't paying attention. The reality? Her thoughts were miles away, back in the shadowed warmth of Draco's flat. The memory of his hands on her felt on her body and his mouth between her thighs. The moments when she could sneak away from Grimmauld and find sanctuary with him. 

She knew something had changed between them since that day in her bedroom. And while he never said anything to her, she could feel it as the days passed, and she found herself craving to be near him—want him and discover him. 

Honestly? She didn't care anymore about the stupid program; she only wanted to get to know him. In a way, she supposed that she did. She knew more about him now through pillow-talk conversations and twilight evenings on his sofa, sharing a glass of wine. The moments when he would pull her onto his lap and kiss her jaw and nibble at her ear like he wanted to map her body. The moments when he'd let her trace his tattoos, playing with the wings of the moth on his chest. The answers she got when he told her he got tattoos to erase the feeling of receiving the Dark Mark when he was sixteen, the reminder of the pain, and how it could turn into something beautiful. 

She never pushed and took whatever she could get from him, but it was something. It was a vulnerability that he rarely showed when his own fingertips would trace the starburst scar on her ribs. 

Yet, he never asked about the word written on her arm. He never told her anything, and somehow that bothered her. She knew he was there that day in Malfoy Manor. She'd seen him standing there as Bellatrix screamed at him to call the Dark Lord. She'd watched as he raised one hand towards her, lips parting as if he wanted to stop it all. 

Was her blood still on that drawing room floor? Did he ever think about that day?

Did she even want to know? 

"Hermione?" Harry's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. 

Blinking, she glanced around the room, realizing all eyes were on her. Ugh. Great. Warmth blazed into her cheeks. "S-Sorry," she mumbled, voice a touch too high. "You were saying?" 

Smirking, Pansy nudged her foot under the table, and Hermione had the sneaking suspicion that the raven-haired witch knew exactly what was on her mind. 

"We were discussing your most recent report on Mr. Malfoy," Kingsley drawled. "Would you care to share your thoughts?" 

Somehow, the idea of discussing Draco in a room full of people made her uneasy. Yeah, this was her job and all, but something shifted between them in the coming weeks. And maybe that was why Kingsley explicitly stated that she couldn't have any romantic relations with any ex-prisoners (more importantly, ex-Death Eaters) that would enter the program. Now, the lines had been crossed, and her conflicting emotions completely contradicted every thought she had since Draco first stepped foot in her office weeks ago. 

Ha. Well, she royally screwed that one up, didn't she? 

Hermione cleared her throat nervously. "Right, er—well, Mr. Malfoy has been cooperative during our sessions. And… he's, uh, showing signs of reflection and remorse." Her mouth felt painfully dry then, and she wondered if she could ask the elf standing in the corner for a glass of water. "I—I think he's making strides towards progress and success within the program, but… there's, uh, still work that needs to be done. I'm sure Harry can attest to that."  

Get it together! 

Robards snorted. "Progress? Remorse? Reflection? He's a bloody Death Eater! There's no such thing as remorse for their kind!" 

Unsure how to even answer, Hermione blinked at Robards. "Well, yes, but he's clearly shown remorse for what he's done or was forced to do. He was sixteen when he was given the Dark Mark. I think we can all agree that even by the end of the war, when he was of legal wizarding age, he was still too young to—" 

"And would you say that you were too young when you and Auror Potter went on the run? When even Auror Potter defeated You-Know-Who?" 

"No, but I—" Hermione stammered over her words, glancing nervously at Harry, who looked like he was about to punch his boss. Great. "That's not the point." 

"I would like everyone to listen to this recording." Reaching forward, Robards grabbed a manila file and flipped it open. He touched the parchment with his wand, dragging out the words until they floated to the voice box in the center of the table. He looked at Hermione and said, "I believe this is a recording from one of your sessions, yes?" 

Warmth flooded her cheeks as she prepared herself, and the crackling of her voice filled the room. "No, we're not. We're finished when I say we are… Sit." 

Draco's laugh echoed. "No, I don't think I will. In fact, I'm going to go home." 

"So you're pissed because I mentioned your mother?"  

There was a pause in the recording before she heard the telltale steps of his shoes against her antique rug and the smack of his palms on her desk. "Let's get one thing clear… my mother's name doesn't come out of your mouth ever again. She stays out of any and all conversations we have. I'll tell you everything you need to know about my asshole of a father, but my mother stays out of this. She's living away from all this mess, and she's happy. She suffered long enough, and I don't need your know-it-all-swotty-little-ass snooping." 

When the recording ended, she felt grateful that she had gone through them before turning them in and cutting out the more… explicit parts. 

"That—" Hermione stumbled over her words, feeling flushed. "That was from one of our very first sessions, Auror Robards. Since then, and I believe my notes have reflected this, he's shown progress. Tremendous progress!" 

Harry cleared his throat. "Uh, if I may?" 

Kingsley nodded his head. "Of course." 

"He is making progress," Harry began. "I know we are all skeptical over this program—I was at first, believe me—but in case we all forgot, I testified at Draco Malfoy's trial five years ago. I believed then that he shouldn't be forced to face crimes, which he was clearly coerced into. We all know what Narcissa Malfoy went through in her marriage to Lucius. We know he used the Imperius Curse on her to make her do whatever he wanted. Now, we are given a chance to prove to the world that he's not a dangerous man. Look, it might be a few more weeks, but I think we—" 

"We don't have a few more weeks!" Robards barked. "We are four, almost five, weeks into his rehabilitation, and I apologize, Minister—" he glanced his beady eyes at Kingsley, and Hermione wanted to throttle him. "I know I wasn't involved initially, but I believe this is a waste of our resources and funding. An entire department solely on the mission to determine if an ex-Death Eater can be redeemed or fit in with society? Merlin, I think we can all agree it's a waste." 

"It's not!" Hermione blurted, feeling her cheeks warm. 

Slowly, Robards turned to her. "You know, I was listening to all your sessions, and I found this rather curious that even Mr. Malfoy pointed out that this whole program was a hoax, and he—well, I don't want to spoil it." 

Without saying a word, Robards turned on another recording from one of their sessions. The minute she heard his voice, she knew exactly when this was. 

"You need to have a solid plan for a job." Hermione's voice crackled over the speaker. "I promise you, people are more open than you think." 

"Really?" 

"Yes! I just think that—"

"And tell me, when you go into Diagon Alley, do people run the other way? Do children cry? Do people glare at you, spit at your feet, and call you a murderer? Do they tell you they wish you received the Kiss and that they shouldn't allow you out of a cell?" 

There was a pause in the recording. 

"I didn't think so," Draco's voice drawled. "You see, Granger, everywhere you go, people tell you how great you are and how thankful they are for your contribution to the efforts of the war. So whatever fucking little fantasy that you have in your head about how you're going to 'save' me—I'd lose it real quick. I'm not redeemable, and I don't particularly want you, of all people, meddling."

"Look, I—" 

"I don't even know why you are bothering to try," Draco went on. "You want to know the truth about my future? Either you'll find me inept to integrate back into society, or I'll live my days with Muggles. Ironic? Isn't it? That a Malfoy would rather live with Muggles than wizarding-kind…" 

The recording ended, and she didn't miss the smug look on Robards's face that practically said: 'My fucking point.' 

God, every bit of her wanted to leap across the table, wrap her hands around Robards's throat, and tell him that Draco Malfoy might say all those things, but deep down, he was scared. Maybe that wasn't even the best way to describe it, but she knew he was trying the night they shared Chinese on his living room floor. She knew that this was all new to him after living in Azkaban for five years and another two before that under the same roof as Voldemort. Better yet? His entire life was under the oppressive and controlling thumb of his arsehole father. Who, by the way, should just receive the gods-damn kiss! 

But she couldn't say any of that because… because it was personal and private, and she hated it. She hated that she felt this unwavering need to defend him when she couldn't even defend herself or her work. 

So, instead, she swallowed down the bitter taste of those around the room and conceded to the fact that maybe he couldn't be redeemed. The idea that maybe her words meant nothing, even if this was her program within her department. 

"Some people aren’t worth the effort, Miss Granger," Robards mused, reclining back in his chair as he placed his hands over his taut stomach. God, how could Harry stand the man? "Malfoy’s one of them. Don’t waste your energy trying to drag someone out of the mess that has been bred into them since the day they were born. Trust me. I've been in this work long enough to know once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater." 

Kingsley cleared his throat. "While I… hear what you are saying, Auror Robards, it's not entirely up to us in the end. After his six weeks, Draco Malfoy will stand before the High Council and Wizengamot, and they will hear the final reports of both Miss Granger and Auror Potter. From there, they will decide his fate." 

There was a grumbling murmur from everyone around the table, and Hermione wanted to scream. Yet, all she could do was sit there and remain quiet. She felt pathetic in a way she hadn't since Professor Snape scolded her in front of an entire class. 

Kingsley smacked his gavel against the wooden post. "Now, I will see you all next quarter. Meeting adjourned!" 

The sound of papers rustling and chairs against wood filled the room. Begrudgingly, Hermione stood, collecting her things, as she felt Pansy saddle up to her, bracing herself against the table's edge.

"Well…" Pansy drawled. "That could've gone better." 

Hermione only huffed, rolling her eyes. 

"Alright! Enough of that, darling," Pansy clicked her tongue. "What do you say we treat ourselves to a stiff drink or two and maybe some lunch? I know this will sound ridiculous, but I'm craving some chips from the Leaky." 

Groaning, Hermione's body sagged as Pansy looped their arms together. 

"Oh, chin up, darling," the raven-haired witch grinned. "You can brood over your glass of Pinot, and all will be well. Promise it." 

* * *

The Leaky Cauldron was unusually subdued for a weekday lunch. The clinking of whiskey glasses and the occasional burst of laughter punctuated the low hum of chatter. Tucked into a shadowy corner booth, it was the perfect place for Hermione to sulk, with a permanent frown etched deeply between the creases of her brows. Every bit of her was glad Pansy dragged her to this table, away from prying eyes and curious ears. 

Hermione swirled the last of her wine, hearing Robards's words echoing endlessly in her head. 

'Some people aren't worth the effort, Miss Granger. Draco Malfoy's one of them.' 

What did he know? Hell, what did anyone know? The thought made her grit her teeth to the point of her molars, nearly threatening to crack, and that was enough to annoy her to no end, considering how much her parents preached about grinding her teeth. Or they did. Ugh. 

"Alright, darling," Pansy drawled, lounging in the booth across from Hermione. "You've been glowering into your glass for the last five minutes. The whole brooding, tortured look might work for others, but it's a horrible look on you. Drink up and spill."  

Hermione sighed, conceding as she downed the rest of her wine. Thankfully, Pansy raised two manicured fingers, signaling a new round from the barmaid. 

Arching a brow, Hermione asked, "Happy now?" 

"Delighted," Pansy purred, a wicked smile playing on her signature blood-red lips. "Now? Is this about that atrocious meeting? Or Robards being a dick? Or about a certain blonde wizard?" 

Hermione winced. "All the above?" 

Two more glasses of Pinot Noir appeared on a phantom wind, and Hermione couldn't have been more grateful as she took a healthy sip. The tart notes of chocolate and cherries danced on her tongue delightfully, warming her just like the scarlet flush on her chest. 

"It's just…" Hermione sighed heavily, fingers toying with the stem of the wineglass. "It's stupid." 

"It's always stupid with you," Pansy pointed out with a curved brow. "Now, get it out. I really don't have all day, and two more glasses of wine, and I'll be properly hammered. Then, who knows where this topic of conversation will go? So spill." 

Glancing around, Hermione made certain no one was listening as she leaned in. God, that was the last thing she needed was for this to get back to the Ministry from those nosy enough to gossip. Another cherry on top of her disastrous day. 

"Do you believe Robards?" Hermione asked, leaning in. "About what he said?" 

"Do you?" Pansy countered. 

"No. God, you know I don't. It's just…" Hermione's lips curved down as her words drifted away. "I don't know. I mean, I don't know why it's bothering me so much. It shouldn't, should it? Bother me?" Warmth flushed her cheeks, but she hedged on. "It's just… It wasn't fair, Pans. I mean, Robards doesn't know Draco like—" 

"Like you do?" 

More heat flushed her throat, painting her cheeks with that brilliant color she loved and hated. 

Yet, the more she thought about it, the more annoyed she became. Why couldn't she stand up for him? Robards was a bully. She knew that much from the minute Harry would come home with bruises and wounds and sometimes broken bones. He didn't appreciate that Harry was the 'Chosen One' or that he saved the entire wizarding race from Voldemort. No, Robards claimed that if Harry wanted a spot within the Auror Department, he had to work for it. And sometimes, she understood that because she hated it when things were handed to her, too. 

But this? The truth she knew about the man? It contradicted everything, and a bit of Hermione was thankful that it wasn't Robards assigned to this case in the end. 

"Ladies," a familiar voice purred. 

Hermione's heart jumped into her throat as she glanced up, meeting pale grey eyes that stared right into her soul. At that moment, everything felt centered within her. All thoughts of Robards and Department meetings vanished. The world around her closed off, and her existence in this world could be pinpointed to him. 

Draco stood towering over their cozy corner table; hands shoved into the pockets of his well-tailored trousers. Today, he wore a crisp button-down, cuffed at the wrists with emerald cufflinks. He looked so gods-damn expensive that she almost felt wrong staring at him. 

Alright, a bit of her was drooling, given that it should be illegal for him to look that good. The selfish part of her wanted to keep him all to herself and not let another witch or wizard look at him ever again. 

"Dray," Pansy purred, giving him a lazy smile. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your imposing on our girls' luncheon?" 

"I happened to be in the area," Draco explained, sliding into the booth beside her without waiting for an invitation. 

Hermione stiffened as he settled beside her. Warmth radiated off his body, reminding her that he was a little too close, a little too comfortable. Yet, she craved it. She wanted him to move closer, and she didn't find herself shying away when his hand found the bare skin of her thigh. 

"Parks," Draco said lightly, leaning forward. "You look radiant, as always. Do something different with your hair?" 

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Piss off, love. Your charm's wasted on me. Also, flattery doesn't suit your brooding, self-serving nature. Try again. Promise I won't judge." 

Glancing back and forth, Hermione watched them as if this were the most fascinating game of football on the telly. Draco matched Pansy's cool exterior as if this were some tête-à-tête. And God, she didn't want to admit that it got under her skin, but it did. They had that cool ease with each other that seemed to balance one another in a way she never could. It was years of friendship and understanding that she might never have with the man and wizard beside her. 

Reaching forward, she took a healthy sip of wine, attempting to calm her nerves. Just then, Draco's hand shifted up her thigh, slipping up her skirt. His long fingers trailed along her inner thigh, treading dangerously close to her knickers. Oh gods! 

Choking on the wine, she coughed, earning a curious look from Pansy. 

"Darling?" the witch mused. "Are you alright?" 

Hermione bobbed her head, squeaking out: "Fine! Just… uh, down the wrong pipe and all." 

Smirking, Draco stole a chip off their shared plate of food between them with infuriating ease. 

Hermione swallowed hard. She attempted to focus back on their conversation as they picked back up. Yet, she couldn't concentrate on anything except the way he stroked back and forth against her sensitive skin, teasing her. 

"What were you two chatting about?" Draco mused. "Any good gossip?" 

With that, Hermione flushed, bowing her head as she attempted not to look at him. Unfortunately, that gave her a clear view of his hand under the table and between her thighs. God, what was he doing to her? And why was she allowing this? It wasn't even that sexual, barely grazing her knickers, but she felt like each brush against her bare skin was a straight connection to her core. 

A part of her wondered if she could ask him to take her to the bathroom and bend her over the sink. 

Again, who the hell was she, and what happened to the witch named Hermione Granger? The one who rarely explored sexually because Ronald didn't like that? Or the one who never got this nervous around other wizards? The one who craved to be taken to the loo and ravished? 

Pansy rolled her eyes. "As if you aren't the most narcissistic person in this pub. You'd keel over if no one talked about you for five bloody minutes." 

Honestly? Hermione had no idea what they were saying; all she could focus on was the firm, steady strokes of his fingers against her thigh. Was he trying to kill her? The thought was plausible because right now? All she wanted to do was spread her legs wider and allow him entry. 

"Only because I'm fucking fascinating, Parks," Draco retorted smoothly, grinning at the witch. 

"As fascinating as a tree stump!" Pansy bit out. "You and Nott should get new hobbies. Speaking of… heard you went to the Blackstone, and my—" Draco's hands slid higher into her knickers just then. Hermione yelped, knees clanging against the underside of the table. Arching a curious brow, Pansy drawled, "Alright there, darling? You're looking a little flushed." 

"I'm fine!" Hermione said quickly, placing her hand over his to still him. "Just—uh, thought I felt something." 

"Something?" Pansy laughed, tone dripping with mockery. "Let me guess? Draco's hand has a mind of its own down there?" 

"I would never," Draco said lazily. "Gentleman and all." 

"Such a beautiful little liar you are, Dray." 

Something about the way Pansy said that made Hermione painfully aware of her situation again, and the obvious fact that the two dated. The simple idea that maybe, in the shrouded corners of the Three Broomsticks, Draco might've done the same thing to Pansy. Hell, she didn't put it past them. She'd seen them behind tapestries and in alcoves with his hand under her uniform skirt. She'd seen a lot more than she realized she was comfortable with, and that bothered her.  

Without thinking, Hermione stood up, knees hitting the underside once more. Still, that didn't stop her as she all but tumbled out the opposite end so she wouldn't have to climb over Draco. 

Pansy blinked up at her, feigning surprise. "Something wrong, darling?" 

"Fine!" Hermione blurted, smoothing out her skirt with trembling hands. "Just need to… uh, use the loo." 

Before either of them could respond, she turned and hurried towards the lavatory, feeling her cheeks heat and her heart pounding in her ears. Yet, somehow, she still managed to hear their words behind her. 

"You're shameless, you know," Pansy mused to Draco. 

"And you love it, Parks." 

She knew she shouldn't read too hard into it. God, they were friends, after all. It was the same way she was around Harry, and yet it wasn't. Not in the slightest. Not at all. One, she'd never even seen Harry naked and had absolutely no desire to. Two, Harry was more her brother than some potential love interest within her story. There wouldn't be the typical 'childhood-friends-to-lovers' trope. Nope. Never. 

Reaching the bathroom door, she shouldered her way in. Without sliding the lock into place, she grabbed the sink, wincing as she felt the grime. Raising her head, she stared at her wide-eyed reflection in the mirror, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. 

What was happening to her? Why the hell did she feel so panicked? So… off-balanced? 

Maybe it was everything Robards said during their meeting? Maybe it was how she felt Draco crawl under her skin and settle there. Or… and she hated that she even had this thought after the private moments with Draco, but maybe it was watching him with Pansy. The way they shared that teasing banter and connection that spanned a decade, rooted in family gatherings and Pureblood balls and galas. The idea that she could never match Pansy's looks or effortlessness with—  

"No!" Hermione blurted out, shoving those thoughts away. 

Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced herself to take a deep, deliberate breath. In through her nose and out through her mouth. Calm. Easy. Steady. She repeated those words like a mantra until it was all that filled her head. 

Once she felt better, she quickly washed her hands. Taking one last look in the mirror, she sucked in a breath before opening the door back to the main dining area of the pub. 

Yet, the minute she rounded the corner, her steps faltered as she took in their table across the room. As Pansy threw her head back and laughed, Hermione felt like it ricocheted over her skin, settling into her veins and polluting her bones. She didn't miss the way Draco grinned at the raven-haired witch, amusement glittering in his stormy eyes. 

Hermione's stomach twisted, and for a moment, she considered turning around. 

No. She wouldn't, couldn't, because she was Hermione Granger. She was one-third of the Golden Trio. She was the Brightest Witch of Her Age, and she would face this like the brave Gryffindor she was: head-on. 

Straightening her spine, she rolled her shoulders back as she approached the table with a carefully placed smile on her lips. 

"What'd I miss?" she asked, sliding back into the booth. 

Pansy glanced at her, still laughing softly. "Oh, nothing too scandalous, darling. Your boyfriend was just telling me that—" 

"Not my boyfriend," Hermione clipped, and she didn't even know those words came out of her until she felt the table still. Tension prickled over her skin, but she ignored it. Hell, she had to because if she thought about it for one damn second, she would either cry or scream, and neither would be a pretty sight. 

With a shaky hand, she grabbed her wine, taking a large sip to calm her nerves and give her a chance for a reprieve as silver eyes searched her exterior. It felt like he was trying to slip into her mind and find out precisely what was occurring in her head, and she never hated anything more. 

Thankfully, Pansy changed the subject, and somehow, the conversation moved on. "So, Dray, I've meant to ask you about Zabini's new business venture." 

Slowly, Draco turned away from her, focusing on Pansy's chosen topic of conversation. 

Unfortunately, that silent tension lingered in the air. Not my boyfriend. But that was right? Wasn't it? Because they didn't have a label for each other, except what was whispered between sheets and the words they said with their bodies in the throes of passion. 

'Some people aren't worth the effort, Miss Granger. Draco Malfoy's one of them…' 

God, Hermione hated that she let Robards's words into her mind, but they were there alongside the idea that this was all fleeting between them. The idea that maybe… maybe this was just a game to Draco because, at the end of the day, he wasn't her boyfriend. That fact was painfully clear. 

He wasn't her anything.

And that terrified her, knowing how much she had to lose. 

Chapter Text

It had only been less than twelve hours since the run-in at the Leaky and her spiraling thoughts, and within that span, Hermione did the only thing she could think of: she ignored it. She put 'work' and 'Draco Malfoy' in two separate containers and shut the lid.

If she didn't have to look at it, she didn't have to think about it. Better yet? Draco didn't bring up a single thing. 

Yeah, okay. Every bit of her was itching to ask, 'So, what are we, Draco?'

Yet, she wouldn't. One, she was too stubborn to broach that subject, and two, she didn't want to scare him away because if he wanted more, he'd ask for it. Right? 

Either way, she was perfectly fine with shoving everything in the closet and figuring it out when her mind wasn't so conflicted, and her heart wasn't a beating mess whenever he was around. 

And right now? With her naked body pressed against the cool marble of his counter, her thighs spread, and his head right between them? She didn't have the mental capacity to care. 

"Oh, God!" Hermione moaned loudly, fingers gripping pale blonde hair as she arched against his mouth. "Draco—I think our breakfast is burning?" 

He peered up, arching a cocky brow, and she didn't miss the way his chin glistened with her arousal. "Does it look like I care?" he drawled smoothly. 

No, he didn't look like he cared one bit. Not with the way that he resumed his wicked ministrations between her spread thighs. God, that damn tongue was going to be the death of her; she just knew it. Was she complaining? Absolutely, positively not. Nope. Not one bit, because the things he was doing? The way he devoured her was honestly deserving of some sort of medal. Order of Merlin worthy. Hell, if she could, she'd ask the Department of Magical Sports and Regulations to make it into something. 

So, no, there were no complaints on this fine Saturday morning. Well… except for the fact that she could smell something burning from the pan on the stove. 

"Draco, I think—?" 

Just then, a blaring alarm went off as amber flames ignited their pancakes. Thick, viscous smoke filled the air in the tiny kitchen, causing them both to shout simultaneously at each other. Still completely naked, Hermione grabbed her vinewood wand, casting: "Auguamenti!" 

Water spewed from the end, dousing the flames. The sooty smoke morphed into grey steam as the last fizzle on the pan died out. The charred scent filled the air, and she was thankful that Draco thought about casting a Refreshing Charm. The minute the chaos settled down, the two of them just stood there, blinking at the burnt crisp that was one of their pancakes. Budger. She was really looking forward to those. 

A breath passed before Draco threw his head back and laughed. The sound was throaty and warm, and she wanted to save it for a rainy day. 

"What?" Hermione asked, unable to help her own humor that bubbled up. "What's so funny?" 

Shaking, he told her: "I can't believe that just happened." Turning, he gave her a knicker-dropping smirk (or it would be if she weren't still completely naked and on his kitchen counter). Draco leaned forward, bracing both hands on either side of her. "This is your fault, you know?" 

"My fault?" Hermione shot back teasingly. "If I recall, you were the one who thought it was a good idea to—you know? We should've turned off the stove beforehand."

"I was multitasking." 

"Terribly, might I add." 

"Yeah, well, I didn't see you complaining when my head was between your pretty little things, Hermione." He crowded over her then, kissing up her stomach. "Besides, I don't need breakfast, love. Not with you spread out before me." 

Giggling, she braced herself up on her elbows. "You might be perfectly fine starving yourself, but I need food." 

Rolling his eyes, he bent over, taking her taut peak into his mouth. His tongue laved, teasing it in that expert way he knew how. Skilled, one might even say. 

Gasping, Hermione arched into the touch, wanting him to do it over and over again. Yeah, that mouth was going to be the death of her. Might as well put, 'RIP: here lies Hermione Granger, death by Draco Malfoy's tongue and other attractive parts of his body,' on her tombstone. 

Honestly? There were worse ways to die. 

Draco trailed lower, teeth and lips mapping out every freckle, mole, and scar on her belly. For how chaotic the moments felt minutes prior, this felt oddly intimate in a way she'd never experienced before. It felt like how lovers acted with each other during their lazy mornings, wrapped up in each other's arms. It was how she always wanted to spend her weekends, but that always felt like a fantasy instead of a reality whenever she was dragged bright and early to the Burrow for a round of Quidditch and Molly's home-cooked meals. 

This? God, this was a thousand times better. 

"How about a compromise?" he mused, pressing another kiss to her hipbone. "How about we go to the bodega down the street and get you fed, and then… I plan to have you sprawled out in my bed until I'm utterly satiated with you. Deal?" 

* * * 

The morning sunlight filtered through the trees lining the cobblestone streets of Muggle London, casting soft, golden hues across the pavement. It must've rained somewhere between burnt pancakes and oral worshiping, given the pavement was still damp with the scent of crisp autumn on the passing wind. 

They walked with their fingers intertwined, and she couldn't help but feel how right this was. 

Now, she wondered if it was all in her head. The panic? The insecurity? Alright, it most likely was, given everything that happened at the Leaky and with Robards the day before. 

The truth? She was scared to admit to Draco that she wanted a relationship out of this. She wanted to keep coming home to him every day, because never in her entire life had she felt like this before with another human. Not with Ron. Not with Victor or Cormac. No one. 

Hermione glanced at Draco from the corner of her eye, marveling at how natural he looked in Muggle clothes. There should be a rule about certain wizards' ability to pull off ridiculously expensive dress robes one day and then a pair of worn jeans and a navy jumper. Even with the cool zephyr that filled the air and the fact that it was November in London, Draco had the fabric pushed up to his elbows, revealing his tattooed forearms. 

Okay, yeah, that was another thing that really shouldn't be that hot: his damn tattoos. 

"You’re staring, Granger," he said without looking at her.

Hermione scoffed, tightening her grip on his hand as her lips twitched. "Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy."

"Oh, I don’t need to flatter myself," he drawled, casting her a sidelong glance. "I’ve got you for that."

"You’re insufferable."

Laughing under his breath, Draco pulled their joined hands up to his mouth, pressing a lingering kiss against the back of hers. Warmth spread through her chest and down into her limbs, making her crave to feel that sensation over and over again. She wanted to bottle it up and save it for a rainy day like an Elixir of Life. 

The little bodega came into view, its cheerful green awning stark against the dull brick buildings lining the street. A part of her was grateful to see the shop, because any second now, Hermione might just pass out right on the pavement from the feel of his mouth against her skin. The way he was looking at her? Instant cardiac arrest. 

Letting go of her hand, Draco opened the door, holding it open for her. The ghost of his fingertips danced along her lower back, heightening the sudden chill she felt from the air conditioning unit that blasted her as she walked in. The bell jingled with that familiar clang as the door closed behind them. Hermione grabbed a basket, already heading toward the bread aisle, but Draco had other ideas. Grabbing her, he pulled her towards the produce section. 

"What exactly are we supposed to do with this?" Draco asked, holding up a pineapple like it was a cursed artifact in Nocturne.

"I thought you liked to cook?" Hermione teased, reaching out to take it from him, but he only held it higher. Huffing, she placed her hands on her hips, explaining: "It's a pineapple, Draco. It's fruit that you eat." 

"Eat how?" he drawled. "Because it looks like something you'd use to attack someone with." He stepped closer, lips curving. "Highly dangerous, these Muggles are. Spikey fruits and all that."

Okay, so he had a point. 

Shaking her head, she brushed past him, heading towards the dairy section. They didn't discuss their plan for their second breakfast of the morning (since the first one was an utter failure), but she figured eggs and milk might be a good place to start. 

Placing a few random things in the basket, she rounded the corner, finding Draco standing right there with a wicked look that screamed for her to run. Maybe she should've, given how it toyed with his handsome features and glittering quicksilver eyes. Right now? Hermione wasn't using any of the common sense that she once programmed her brain with. No, she was reacting on pure need and the beat of her heart within her chest. She was responding to him. 

Arching a brow, she set the basket down. "I see you haven't found anything?" 

But Draco didn't answer as he prowled forward, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her close. Before she could even protest, his mouth crashed against her own, and she found herself thankful for sparing the basket seconds before. The kiss was soft at first, yet there was the underlying edge of hunger that she'd come to know. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, mapping out the grooves and lines until she parted them. Knowing that they were in public and in a bodega with other customers, it felt indecent, but she found that she didn't care. Honestly. 

The world around them quieted away, and she could barely make out the crackling sound of whatever song was on the radio. She was pretty sure it was something by the Cranberries. 

"Draco," she moaned against his lips, chasing him even as he pulled away. 

He grinned, nipping at her. "What?"

"We're supposed to be shopping for food." 

"Yeah, well, I got distracted." Draco pulled her closer. His other hand grabbed her face, angling her mouth up to his own for easier access. "And you're fucking delicious. I don't think I'll need breakfast anymore after having a taste of you." 

Warmth flushed her cheeks as an older woman cleared her throat, hurrying away from their aisle. 

Draco's grin only grew wider. "What do you say we ditch the food and just go back to mine?"

"And what's in it for me?" Hermione arched a brow. "I need to be fed at some point. I get cranky when I don't eat." 

"Can't have that, now can we?" His thumb brushed against her bottom lip, tugging at it playfully. "I promise I'll get you nice and fed, but first… how do orgasms sound to you? Several toe-curling orgasms. I'll even let you pick how you want them. How does that sound, love?" 

That addictive need pooled low in her belly, sending her skin tightening over her bones and her breaths increasing with the images he painted for her. Better yet, she clung to that four-letter word like it was her lifeline and was seconds away from drowning. Love. It sounded a thousand times better than when he called her 'Hermione' or any other generic name. 

It felt… real and raw and terribly scary.

Worse? It reminded her of that question circling in her head: 'What are we, Draco? What do you want to be with me?' 

Shaking off the thoughts, Hermione bit her lip as she stepped out of his reach. "I do like that idea," she drawled, giving him a coy look. "But how about we up the ante? How about you have to catch me?" 

Before Draco could respond, Hermione spun on her heels and took off down the aisle. 

She could feel him behind her, hunting her slowly with that predatory glint in his silver gaze. Really? She didn't have much space to move in the bodega. Her loafers smacked against the tile, sounding loud against the quiet nature of the space. And maybe this was a little ridiculous, but she felt freer than ever. There was not a single care in her mind. It was the thrill of the hunt as it fed her blood, making her wish she played this game more often.

Who knew tag as adults could be so damn fun? 

Just as she reached the freezer section, she felt strong arms wrap around her. The scent enveloped her, feeding her better than any solid food ever could. 

In two steps, Draco had flipped her around and pinned her against the cool glass door. His fingers danced along her hips, toying with the fabric of her jumper. "Caught you," he murmured, eyes glittering like frost on a lake. "Now, Granger… what's my reward?" 

Standing up on her tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around his neck, lips curving. But before her mouth could brush against his own, someone cleared their throat behind them. 

Startled, they both turned to see none of than Theo Nott. He stood a few paces away, with an amused expression on his face as he took in the scene. 

"Am I interrupting something?" Theo drawled lazily. 

Immediately, Draco stepped away, and she would've been lying if she said the distance didn't leave her with an icy weight on her chest, contradicting the resolute burn in her cheeks. 

"Theo," Draco greeted, tone clipped. "Surprised to see you here, of all places." 

"A Muggle market?" Theo's sharp sapphire eyes flickered over towards Hermione and back again. "I've been known to surprise a few people. Wanted to see what all the fuss is about since the Ministry is determined to force their… ways upon you, Dray." 

Something about the way he said it made her alight with unease. The small voice inside her head that whispered: 'Don't do it.' 

Maybe she should've been more connected with her intuition because the second she reached for Draco's hand, he pulled away. The motion was jerky, unnatural, and she didn't miss how his fingers flexed as if stung or how Theo watched the entire interaction with smug glee. 

"Well, don't let me stop you," Theo said, and while his tone was light, his smirk was anything but. "Looks like you two were having a… moment. Carry on. Dray? I'll see you later on, yes?"

Draco nodded his head. "Yeah, sure." 

The grin on Theo's lips deepened as he disappeared, vanishing between aisles. Yet, his presence still left an awkward silence in his wake. It felt itchy and raw against her skin, making her wish that something would elevate the tautness pulsating in the air. 

Shaking off the feeling, Hermione decided she wouldn't let Theodore Nott get under her skin. No. Not today. Not when they had plans for more back home. 

Hermione looked at Draco, lips parted to make some sort of quick remark, but he wasn't looking at her. No, his attention was solely on the floor with that unreadable, sheltered expression she had tried so hard to get rid of in the past few weeks. Now, it was back in full force, and a part of her wondered if she would ever break down those walls again. 

"D-Draco?" she asked hesitantly. "Are you—?" 

"Let's just finish up," he clipped. 

Nodding, her throat constricted as she followed him wordlessly through the bodega. 

She no longer felt that cozy, bubbled warmth that the two of them shared as they raced through the aisles moments before. Or the confidence to erase Theo's presence. No, now it felt suffocatingly intense around them, with a tension she didn't know how to name. 

* * *

The walk back was eerily quiet with the sort that she despised with a vehement passion. The sort that carried the weight of unspoken words and lingering tension like poison. The sort only filled with the soft brush of the paper bag of groceries in Draco's hand and the city sounds around them as they entered the park. Children laughed in the distance, and other couples strolled hand-in-hand along the path. 

That simple fact only made the newfound distance between them unbearable. 

Hermione glanced at Draco, then, taking in the mask he placed over his features, the minute they ran into Theo. Cold. Detached. Contradicting. There was absolutely no trace of the man who grabbed her in the middle of the aisle and kissed her without a care in the world. The one who claimed that the taste of her alone could sustain him for a lifetime. Hell, he hadn't even looked at her since they left the bodega, and that only made her thoughts churn harder as that buried insecurity wormed its way to the surface. The very thing she tried so hard to remove in his presence, yet he was making it bleed into her veins with every passing stretch of silence between them. 

All she could think of then was how Draco stepped away from her and refused to hold her hand. And Theo. God, Theo bloody Nott with his smug smirk and appraising look as he took the two of them, watching them as if they were some spectacle he couldn't wait to report back on. 

Hermione knew she was overthinking this, given her tendency to do that very act, but this felt… different. 

This felt like being trapped in quicksand, and the more she struggled, the more she sank. It was like that time during her first-year when she, Harry, and Ron were stuck in Devil's Snare, and her brain ping-ponged about, trying to figure out how to get the three of them out of that particular mess. 

All she wanted was to return to how things were that morning—laughing and burnt pancakes, and kisses against bare skin. The moments when the world outside didn't exist within their little bubble. 

But that was the thing: bubbles were easily popped. 

The silence stretched on until she couldn't take it anymore. Hugging her arms close, she tried to root herself in that moment, searching for something to hold onto. 

"Draco?" she said his name softly, breaking the tension. 

He didn't answer. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, jaw tight with that guarded emotion. 

"Draco?" 

Slowly, he glanced at her, words clipped as he muttered: "What, Granger?" 

Somehow, hearing her surname on his lips without the teasing notes or the weeks of hearing 'love' or her forename made her stomach churn. It felt wrong, unnatural, and she wanted to scream. 

Honestly, she didn't understand where this emotion was coming from. Weren't Theo and Draco supposed to be best friends? Childhood friends at that? The sort with a brother's bond from oppressive fathers and protective mothers? The sort that experienced the same trauma together, forced into the wrong move time and time again? Yet, they didn't act like that seconds ago as she stood on the side watching like a stranger. 

Unless Draco was embarrassed by her? Ashamed? 

The thought came quickly and without remorse, crashing into her and expanding from within. Was that it? Was he embarrassed to be seen out in public with her? By his perfect Pureblood friends? 

"What is it?" Draco asked, jolting her out of her thoughts. 

Swallowing down the bitter tang in her mouth, she started, "It's just…" 

"Spit it out, Granger." 

Alright. So this was how he wanted to play? Well, Hermione Granger wasn't the sort to back down. Not not, at least. Not with that voice within her that was determined with a fire to get to the truth. 

Hermione stopped in the middle of the path and asked, "Back there? What was that?" 

Draco took a few more steps before realizing she was no longer beside him. When he turned back to face her, his expression was guarded, his gray eyes like steel. With a heavy sigh, he muttered, "Nothing." 

"Nothing," she repeated. "I see? And dropping my hand?" 

"I'm not your boyfriend, Granger," he said sharply, coldly. "I don't have to hold your hand all the damn time." 

That alarm within her head sounded at his words. I'm not your boyfriend, Granger. So was that it? Her words to him last night? Was that what had been bothering him? Yet, somehow, she knew it was just a mask to cover up the truth because if it really bothered Draco Malfoy? He would've said something in the hours they were together after. Better yet? He wouldn't have convinced her to come home with him in front of Pansy, giving her those eyes and toe-curling words. The Draco Malfoy she knew from years ago, or even a few weeks ago, would've gotten up from the table and left without a word. He wouldn't speak to her for days, and she'd accept that, or she'd show up at his place and try to work it out. 

That simple fact made her hedge forward as she asked: "At the Leaky? Did that bother you?" 

Draco's jaw tightened with a tension she'd never seen, forcing the taut tendons in his neck to bulge. Looking away, he muttered, "Why does it matter?" 

"It matters to me." There was a pause before the words poured out of her. "Do you—? Draco, do you want to be my boyfriend?" 

Immediately, he froze, but he still refused to look at her. The distance between them felt like miles on the gravel path. Even the sound of the children around them and the birds chirping felt muted when, in reality, they were only a few yards away. Not even. 

"Why are we talking about this?" he demanded. "It doesn't—" 

"Don't do that," she interrupted, feeling her frustration bubble to the surface. "Don't you dare try to dismiss this or try to fire back questions at me! Don't!" 

A cold, hard laugh came from Draco then. "Then don't act like my fucking therapist when you're asking me if I want to be your boyfriend. It's fucking ridiculous, and I can't take you seriously. No wonder everyone thinks this program is a joke." 

Hermione stumbled back a step, feeling like he slapped her in the face. It wasn't the way he said it; no, it was the way that he took spark note version of the words she whispered to him last night about how Robards sucked, and she wished Harry would take over the Auror Department. When he asked for more, she just told him that Robards basically claimed that she was a failure at her job. After that? He didn't press, and they didn't talk about it again. 

Now? He threw them back at her, finding her insecurities and rubbing salt in the wound. 

"Is that really how you feel?" Hermione asked, words tight as emotion stung her eyes and burned her nose. God, she really didn't want to cry. Not now. 

Shoulders slumping, Draco roughly fingered his hair, pulling at the ends. Meeting her gaze, he sighed heavily. "This is… this is just complicated." 

"I know it's complicated!" Hermione snapped sharply, masking her hurt. "Do you think I don't know that? I'm putting my—my career on the line by doing this with you!" She motioned between them. "I'm risking everything with you!" 

"Fuck, Granger! If you're so damn worried about it, then why did you do it?" 

"Draco—" 

"No, really. I want to know why you did it. If you're so fucking worried about your job and 'risking it all,' then why the hell did you do it with me? Fuck me? Cross all those god-damn lines!"

Her lips parted, but she couldn't find the right words as she stood on the path, watching him. Something within her cracked a little, and maybe the fissure started the other day in the Leaky as her insecurities wormed their way in. Maybe it started a while back as a wound formed by Ron, only to be masked by whatever Draco had given her. 

But whatever it was or whenever it started? It didn't matter right now. No, not when she felt the weight of everything crashing down on her. 

The rejection? The doubt? The pain? God, it was too much. 

It occurred to her then that people were watching them—Muggles—and it set her teeth on edge and a fire in her veins as warmth licked up her throat. What made it all worse was that steely, icy mask that covered his gaze and concealed his features into something like stone. He was Occluding. She knew it, and somehow, that broke her even more after the weeks passed when he didn't even bother to put up his walls with her. 

"What is this to you?" Hermione asked him then, heart pounding against her ribs. "Honestly?" 

"Do you want me to lie to you?" Draco drawled in that bored tone she heard so many times before, but now it felt wrong. "Is that what you want?" 

Heavy and unspoken words hung in the air, landing right where she knew he intended. She knew that, at this moment, he wanted her to hurt. Because facing this? Them? It was too much for him, and maybe it was too much for her. Maybe she wasn't cut out for this because hadn't she just broken up with Ron a few months ago? Not even. Wasn't that resolute ache still there from when she saw him screwing another woman in their bed? 

Whatever it was, it didn't stop the fissures that expanded in her crimson heart, spanning outward until one more word, and it would all shatter. Boom. 

"You know what?" Hermione laughed coldly, taking one step backward and away from him. "Forget it." 

She turned before he could see the first of her tears fall, cascading down her cheeks as they burned her skin. Not over the kiss of November could cool her down as she waited for him to call after her—chase after her. 

But he didn't. 

Draco didn't follow her, chase after her, or reach out to tell her it was all a misunderstanding. That he did care. That he wanted this as badly as she did. That this was just a silly argument and they could go back to his and he would pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be okay. That he wouldn't hurt her. 

Again, that didn't happen. 

No, instead, Hermione kept walking and walking until she couldn't feel that resounding ache within her chest anymore. She kept walking until the numbness outweighed the pain. She just kept waking. 

Chapter Text

GOLDEN GIRL: DESPERATE? OR A COLLECTOR OF RICH PUREBLOODS?
By Rita Skeeter 

Just this past Friday evening, Hermione Granger—named 'Golden Girl' and supposed best friend of the infamous Harry Potter—was seen at the Leaky Cauldron with not one but two Purebloods. Is the witch eager to fit in? Or is she trying to slide her way into society's good graces? I have it under good authority to know that the witch was said to have crashed a lovely lunch with Ms Parkinson and Mr Malfoy. The pair was claimed to have dated during their time at school. 

Of course, Ms. Pansy Parkinson has been gracing the scene for years since she graduated from Hogwarts. The witch is said to have several marriage matches and prospects. She is the emerald of the season, according to the gossip of debutantes. 

As my dear readers know, Draco Malfoy was in attendance as well. The wizard was recently released from Azkaban with the Ministries' blessing and placed into a program for the rehabilitation of ex-Death Eaters (and, might we add, reformed). It is known that Malfoy's hearing is in a few weeks by the High Council and Wizengamot. 

Well, listen here, readers: a very well-informed inside source has told me that Draco Malfoy is nothing but a model citizen! According to this source, he is remorseful and caring. Not to mention, he plans to restore the Malfoy name. It is even said (by a trusted inside source) that he plans on donating funds and his properties to create hospitals. Well, I, for one, just swoon when I hear this wonderful news. Wizarding Society as a whole would be honored if the other rumors were true about him re-establishing the ancestral Malfoy Wizengamot Seat. 

Readers, it would be remiss of me if I didn't circle back to the witch at hand—Hermione Granger. Is the girl just dying to get her claws on another fine gentleman? Or is she out to ruin his reputation by crashing what could potentially be the new 'it' couple of society between Ms Parkinson and Mr Malfoy? 

Stick with me, Rita Skeeter, and I promise to give you all the latest reports and fresh gossip of Wizarding Society. 

The paper crumbled under Hermione's fingertips as she raised her head, glaring at the kitchen wall as if it was the bitch Rita Skeeter herself. 

Okay, yes, every bit of her should've been pleased by the good press Draco was getting and the acceptance he would receive from the Prophet's words (or rather, Rita Skeeter's words). This was what she wanted, right? To let the world know that Draco Malfoy was reformed and could easily integrate into Wizarding Society? That he wasn't this big, scary Death Eater, and he was remorseful for all the things he was forced to do by his father's hand? 

Yes, it was, but right now? All Hermione wanted to do was scream. No, actually, she wanted to find her way into Skeeter's office and trap her back in her jar where she belonged. Ugh!

"You saw it?" Harry's voice dragged her from her thoughts. 

Glancing up, she mumbled out, "Unfortunately." 

Shuffling into the kitchen, he squeezed her shoulder before opening the fridge to grab his usual breakfast of cereal and milk. She winced as she watched the cream splash onto the wooden countertop. Whatever. She really didn't have it in her to care right now. 

"It's not that bad," Harry went on, claiming the seat in front of her at the table. "I've read worse from her." 

"Not that bad?" Hermione laughed. "She practically called me a hussy who's eager for a Pureblood husband, and I apparently crashed Pansy and Draco's date!" A low snarl formed in the back of her throat. "It wasn't their date! I was at the Leaky, having lunch with Pans, and he crashed said lunch!" 

She didn't even want to reflect on the part where the day was already going sour, and she let her insecurities and doubts fill her veins as she jumped to conclusions. Better yet, the part where Draco convinced her to go back to his flat (in front of the supposed person with whom he was dating, courting… whatever), and they had very enthusiastic sex on his sofa and then on the counter that morning. Oh, and she really did not want to acknowledge the massive storm that occurred after said counter experience in the bodega and the park after their run-in with Theo and their ultimate fight. God, could she even call it a fight? 

Closing her eyes, she took a long breath. Fuck. 

The reality? She hadn't heard from or seen him since Saturday, and now that Monday rolled around, she found herself not wanting to go to work or even acknowledge that the weekend was over. 

Worse? That sour unease she felt from the moment she walked away haunted her throughout the passing minutes. 

"Hey?" Harry's voice pulled her out of her reverie. Glancing up, she met his emerald gaze. "So, I forgot to tell you, but after the meeting on Friday, Kingsley wants me to have more one-on-one sessions with Malfoy. Said that maybe this week, you can put yours on hold?" Harry held up his hands when he noticed the shocked look on her face. "Only if you're okay with it, and it's not gonna mess you up, Mione." 

"No, no!" Hermione blurted as her mind churned. "That's… uh, totally fine. Perfect, actually." 

"Alright. Good. Great." Harry shoved a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. Swallowing, he added, "That way, Malfoy isn't in the Ministry that often. I was thinking of doing more house visits, and I think Narcissa is planning on visiting him." 

Hermione pretended to listen, but in all honesty, Harry's words went in one ear and out the other. Instead, her mind was focused on the simple fact that maybe she wouldn't have to face Draco for a day or two. Or face him until she figured out what the hell was going on with them and could properly separate 'work' and 'him' into two categories rather than the chaotic mess of her mind. 

Either way, even if she still didn't believe in Divinations, she wasn't about to dismiss luck when it looked her right in the face. Call it Divine Intervention or whatever, but it felt almost serendipitous. Fate, even. 

* * * 

Draco knew he should've been the grown adult about the whole thing. He knew he should've gotten into the Floo (directly connected to Grimmauld) and fixed this. And for a second, he was even thinking about it as he stood in the shower, hand pressed against the tile with water cascading down his back, but then that fucking owl had to show up bright and early this morning. 

After that? All reasonable actions went out the window. 

Okay, yes, he could admit that he royally fucked up. Big time. Arsed the whole thing and then some. 

Not to mention the Prophet this morning with its ink-stained pages practically begging to be set ablaze. The headline had been enough to send that sharp pulse down his spine, but the article? Ha. It spurred his need to go right to the building, walk through the double doors, and buy the entire bloody business. Why? Because Draco Malfoy could. Hell, he could buy every godsforsaken newspaper printing company in the entire wizarding world before the ink even dried. The Daily Prophet? The Evening Prophet? The Sunday Prophet? Every-fucking-Prophet. Witch Weekly? The Wizarding World News? The New York Ghost? La Gazette des Sorciers? He could tear them apart from the inside, erase them from existence if it meant that they'd never publish another word about Hermione Granger again. 

Correction: if they wouldn't print another word about her without his permission. 

Obviously, if it was about the two of them, then that was perfectly fine by him. Perfection, actually, because it would be them together and not another soul. 

And that was the first issue: them. 

Gods, when did he start doing that? Grouping them together like they were a couple? He knew that was potentially what she wanted, considering that was exactly what she had asked him yesterday. Yet… the minute those words came out of her mouth, he froze. Why? Because the gods know that he didn't do that when Pansy brought it up, but Hermione did. And maybe he should've mentioned the whole “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” thing sooner before any other outside forces came in—or rather, before Theo Nott had to stick his sculpted aristocratic nose in Draco's business. 

That brought him to his second issue, and why he placed a bag of peas over his swollen eye. 

The minute Hermione walked away from Draco, what did he do? Oh, nothing. Not chasing after her because that was obviously too easy for someone like him who wanted to make things more difficult. No, instead, he went over to Theo's and punched the git right in the face. Of course, Theo got in a few throws (hence the budding indigo bruise over his eye and split lip), but Draco had given it back tenfold. Fucking dickhead. 

Glancing down at the letter he received this morning from Harry fucking Potter, King of the Scarheads and the Savior of the World, Draco growled. Really? Not even a memo from her. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Instead, Hermione bloody Granger had to get Harry to let Draco know they would not be meeting at all this week, and he was not needed at the Ministry. 

Yeah, that should've made him really fucking happy, but somehow he felt the opposite effect. 

He needed to see her. Gods, he craved it in a way that made him itchy all over, like his skin wasn't his own. Even the dragon on his back hid beneath his wings, curling up rather than stretching out for the first time since Draco got it three years ago, like it needed her, too. 

And that was just fan-fucking-tastic, wasn't it? Icing on the cake of his already shitty morning in his shitty flat drinking shitty coffee because, in the haste of seeing Theo at the bodega, he forgot to buy some more. 

A groan escaped him as he crumpled the parchment in his fist, tossing the note into the rubbish bin. 

What did she expect him to do? Really? Did she expect him to confess everything pressing down on his chest to her in the middle of a park, like some Hufflepuff? Did she expect him to get on his knees and beg her to stay? That he couldn't help that his suffering thoughts didn't match his heart, which felt like it really only beat for her nowadays. That he hadn't felt this… alive in so long, and that scared him more than she could ever know. 

If she asked him what he wanted now? Today? What would he say? The truth? Draco didn't know. He thought he did, but something changed over the past few weeks. 

Somehow, she'd gotten under his skin and settled there without her even trying. And that? Gods, that wasn’t what he was used to. Not one bit.

It was honestly better when she was that know-it-all swott with her hair pulled back and her oversized robes and coffee-stained blouse sitting before him, asking him Ministry-approved questions because it was her job. Now, when he thought of her, he didn't see that anymore. No, Draco saw her laughing with her hair in a honey-brown halo around her sweetheart face and crinkled whiskey eyes. He saw fortune cookies, Chinese takeaway, and a burnt breakfast in the morning. Cups of Earl Grey and bitter coffee. He saw her barefoot, wearing his old grey Slytherin t-shirt that went past her knees. He saw the way she looked when she was bathed in pleasure and filled with a euphoria that only he could bring. He saw her water-soaked body pressed against the tile as his mouth drank from the space between her collarbone. He saw the girl who didn't let scars define her and held her chin up high, and sometimes (most of the time) got a bit too into her head. He saw someone obsessively addicted to books, orange part-Kneazles, and bubble baths with a glass of wine. 

He saw her: Hermione Granger. 

And that? Gods, the categorical evidence of his metamorphosis terrified him because it wasn't rational for Draco Malfoy to feel this way. Ever. 

See, he didn't do this—relationships and whatnot. Even if he did, his experience really only was with one person. Singular.

Hell, he'd been in Azkaban for five years, and before that, he was living under the same roof as a by-the-book psychopathic madman and his deranged aunt. There really wasn't room for dating and quick snogging then. There wasn't even room for Parks when he was tasked with killing Dumbledore at only sixteen. Even before that? Draco knew things wouldn't be easy in terms of his love life. He was predestined to marry someone right out of school that his father negotiated with, because that was what Purebloods did. 

No, it was what Malfoys did: breed and control. 

Those two tasks were poisoned into Draco's blood and etched within his brain the minute he turned thirteen. The same day Lucius told Draco that he was of age now to fuck and screw, and one day, all of that would be placed in a marriage bed with a wife he didn't know or didn't love. Actually, he was pretty confident his father told him: 'Stick your cock in whatever you want, son, but if I hear you ever having feelings? I'll beat it out of you quicker than you can even blink. Feelings are for lesser men, boy. And you do not have the luxury of softness. You have a duty and a legacy to uphold.'

That was the first time he realized things would be different.

The next occurred when Snape sat him down after his fourth year and told him that he needed to learn Occlumency. The next thing his godfather told Draco was that this? This world he lived in under raw privilege and bloodline prestige? It wasn't a game anymore, and soon Draco would be forced to come to terms with it, whether or not he liked it.

So when Snape told him to lock it all down and throw away the key, he did. By that point, it really wasn't even up to him anymore.

After that? He placed every thought of periwinkle dresses, bushy-haired witches crying on staircases, and swotty mouths into a steel-clad box and shut it. He learned how to not feel because that was how he would survive. 

The nightmares only came because it was reality instead of his feverish fantasy of her. The minute that he saw her bleeding on the drawing room floor, he knew things would never be the same. 

But now? Standing in his kitchen with this gods-awful feeling in his chest behind his ribs? He didn't know what to do. This wasn't an easy fix, and he had no one to talk to besides her. 

That realization slammed into him like a freight car, violent and unyielding. It beat him down and chewed him up. It didn't even bother to spit him back out. No, that came in another, more monstrous form that Draco had never experienced before. It slithered up his throat, spilling from his mouth like the unhinged jaws of a serpent as he screamed. Carmine clouded his vision, blinding him to rational reason as he swiped his hand across the counter, knocking over his porcelain mug of coffee. 

He didn't care. He didn't care as it shattered to the ground, spraying liquid everywhere, covering his jeans in the acrid scent. He didn't care about anything because that was how he could survive. That was how he was raised to live by Lucius Malfoy. Uncaring. Cold. Calculated. A monster wearing human skin with vacant grey eyes. 

Pressing his palms against the counter, he heaved out a breath of air, hating how it felt stagnant in his lungs. Salazar, what was happening to him? What was going on with him that he felt this… this wrong? 

The sound of the Floo activating snapped Draco out of his thoughts as Harry Potter stepped into the flat. Fuck…

Draco quickly turned, wandlessly cleaning up the mess with the sharp flick of his fingers. Breathing calming out into a steady flow, he methodically slid his Occlumency walls into place. One by one. Brick-by-brick. Every single crack became sealed off, and the wounds cauterized as he felt himself hide away. By the time the last wall slid into place, the weight in his chest had dissipated, the fire within his veins cooled, and all that remained was perfect, beautiful silence. He became a hollowed-out thing. A void. Nothing. 

Some people say Muggle drugs are the best high. They were wrong. Nothing compared to the exquisite relief of feeling absolutely nothing at all. 

"Hey!" Potter greeted as Draco rounded the corner. "Sorry about the mix-up today. Mione wanted—" he paused, brows arching high as he took the damage on Draco's face. "You look like hell. What happened to you?" 

Draco shot him a withering glare. "Charmed, as always, Potter. I could ask the same thing about you."

Ignoring him, the wizard stepped further into the flat, crossing his arms. "Look, I know we're not friends and all that." Ha. Understatement of the year. "But you might want to do something about your shiner and split lip. A Healing Charm, perhaps? Just a suggestion, cause if you want to keep your reports clean, you need to look the part."  

In another universe, where Draco wasn't currently Occluding until his brain felt numb and his life depended on it, he raised his middle fingers at Harry Potter. But in this shitty one? The one where he currently couldn't give two flying fucks? Draco Malfoy just stood utterly still, arching one single brow at the wizard. 

"Are you going to… uh, fix it?" Potter asked slowly. 

"Can't," Draco replied flatly, blandly. Now, it was Harry's turn to gawk at him. Sighing heavily, Draco gestured to his face. "Traceable magic, Potter? Remember? Your precious fucking Ministry will know if I've healed myself. Unless… you'd like to explain why my wand was suddenly performing unauthorized Healing Charms and—" 

"Fine! Got it, Malfoy!" Potter snapped, letting out an exasperated sound, and Draco couldn't help but smirk. Closing the distance between them, Potter raised his wand. "Hold still." 

Magic zipped through him, nipping at him, and if he weren't Occluding, he would've said, 'Ow.' Gods, Potter was really fucking shitty at Healing Charms. Fucking idiot. Yet, they let him be an Auror because why the hell not? He was Saint Potter—still saving lives and all that other bullshite. 

Draco touched his lip experimentally, wincing at the resolute sting that shot through him. 

Seeming to notice his shitty spell, Potter sighed as he tucked his wand back into his robes. "Sorry, not my best work. Hermione's better at this Healing Charms." 

At the mention of her name, the walls within his head wavered, and his pulse spiked as if a tremor had wracked through them. That massive pendulum swung back and forth, and in one second, it might just all go… boom. A catastrophic mess that would ruin him.

Fuck. It was jarring how bloody strong her presence was, even if she wasn't in the room. 

Rolling back his shoulders, Draco meticulously placed back up the fallen bricks, reinforcing them with every shitty memory he could. The moments where caring only led to pain. At the moment, he felt the phantom sting of Theo's fist connecting with his face, the sharp crack that split his lip, and the resolute ache in his bruised ribs. The moment when she walked away. 

Draco schooled his features into apathy as he asked: "What are you doing here?" 

Immediately, Potter's lips curved down. "Didn't you get my owl?" 

Right. That. The walls wavered again, but this time, the irritation bubbling in him kept them steady. Of course, he got the fucking note—the note that wasn't from Hermione because clearly she couldn't be bothered to speak to him after everything that happened in the park. But why would she even bother to write to him? Honestly? Why the fuck would she want to talk to him after he let her walk away? 

Bitterness climbed up Draco's throat, drowning him. Fuck. 

It was becoming more complicated to Occlude now. Gods, it had been so easy in Azkaban because there? Hell, he had built a fortress of numbness—hollowness. If he didn't? The Dementors would've torn him apart like vultures. It had been survival there. A necessity. 

Here? Now? It wasn't even close. There was no life or death situation on the line, only his heart and his own inability to process anything. It felt like drowning in a sea he refused to swim through, letting the waves pull him under and cold water fill his lungs. 

Oblivious to the waning emotions, Potter wandered aimlessly around the flat, taking in the space. "You've actually made this place livable," he commented, nodding. "Looks a hell of a lot better than when we first dropped you off here." 

Draco gave a noncommittal hum, following the wizard's movements. Yeah, of course, he knew it looked different (no thanks to Theodore Nott and his excessive need to intervene), but could Potter see the other evidence, too? The marks that were undeniably Hermione Granger in the thick sage green knitted throw she brought over because she claimed she always got cold here? Or the ridiculous Muggle calendar with kittens on his fridge that she got just to annoy him? Hell, she even glued her stupid part-Kneazle's face on a few of them. Worse? Said stupid-part-Kneazle-kitty-monster-thing was growing on him. Then, there was the stack of books by the leather armchair. The ones he couldn't bring himself to move or give back because the pages smelled like her? The flats by the door? 

Did Potter see it? Could he tell that Hermione had woven herself into his life, thread-by-thread, until she was inescapable? That every inch of his Ministry-provided flat felt like… her. 

Draco rubbed at his chest, attempting to ease the dull ache there. 

Potter turned back to him, pushing his circular glasses on his nose. "We're just going to do some simple work this week. Nothing intense. But on the bright side—hey, you're almost done, Malfoy." 

Every bit of him knew he should've felt relieved because this was the best possible news that he could receive. Yet, he wasn't. Not one bit. That resolute ache only expanded into a canyon within his chest, acting as a void where not even his Occlumency walls could patch it up. 

Losing a breath, Draco focused then on the clench of his fists by his side, the burn of his muscles, and the press of his trimmed nails biting into his palms—anything to anchor him to the present and the acute numbness within him. Why? Because if he let himself feel, even for a second, everything would unravel like spools of thread, ducking every which way, and there would be no chance of stopping it until the entire flat was covered in layers of his raw emotions. 

Draco Lucius Malfoy did not unravel. He stitched himself together with control and indifference because he spent his entire life being told that emotions were a weakness. 

Yet that was the problem with control; it was only an illusion, and right now? It was slipping. Fast. 

When Draco didn't respond, Potter let out a long sigh. "Look, I know you don't want to do this with me and Hermione, but you have to. We're so damn close to the end, Malfoy. So close. Then… you'll be done. That's it. Just need a few people to sign off and a hearing in front of Wizengamot and the High Council. That's it." Potter held Draco's gaze then. "So, can you at least try to pretend like you're remorseful or even care?" 

Draco scrubbed at his face, exhaling sharply, feeling the scratch of his signet ring against his skin. "Fuck," he swore under his breath. "I know. I'm just… distracted." 

It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. Really? It was the safest answer he could give because how could he explain the truth? That the reason he was acting like this—taking one step forward and ten steps back—was because of Hermione Granger. Because she was in his gods-damn head and bathed in his memory, and no amount of Occlumency could erase her. That the moment she walked away, something inside him cracked, and now he didn't know how to fix it? That he spent his whole life being told that emotions were a weakness and that love was just a tool. In the end? Draco never learned how to handle these… feelings. 

The reality? The war happened. Azkaban happened. She happened. And now? He didn't know who the hell he was supposed to be. 

No, he couldn't possibly verbalize any of that because the witch just so happened to be Potter's best friend and current roommate and Draco's boss (or whatever the hell she was). Either way, she was the one who signed off on his reports and the one who would be the voice that freed him in the end. 

Yet, some of Draco wished he could talk to someone about the itch inside him. Wished that he could tell Potter, because (despite everything) the wizard was someone who actually listened. Potter remained neutral in all circumstances, which Draco needed right now. Potter wouldn't just tell him what was right or wrong, and he wouldn't just blindly support him like Pansy or judge him like Theo and Blaise.

The thought occurred then: When was the last time that his friends asked if he was okay? Or hell, how he was fucking doing? 

The short, sweet answer? Never. Draco couldn't pinpoint one single time that Blaise or Theo or even Parks just asked him how everything was, and if his mind felt okay, and how he slept at night. But guess who did? Her. Hermione. Even if half the time it was for the Program, she asked him how he felt that day or what was happening inside his head. The other times? It was during those lazy moments tangled in crisp white sheets as his fingers traced her spine and hers traced his tattoos, knowing that she wanted to ask what each one was about. She held him close when his nightmares woke him up, and she stayed. 

Or she did… until he chased her away by leaving her hanging in that park. 

Draco barely noticed when Potter spoke again. "Look, I get why you're distracted. I mean, with everything going on? With… you know?" 

Blinking, he looked at the dark-haired wizard in front of him. Did Potter know? He couldn't know, right? And for the first time in years, a foreign, uncomfortable emotion slid like the scales of a snake under his skin: nerves. 

See, the thing was, Draco Malfoy never got nervous. Ever. He couldn't even think of a time (minus his youthful adolescent years) when he ever felt like this. Fucking hell. What was happening to him? 

His features were impassive when he drawled, "Not quite sure I follow?" 

"With your mother?" Potter said slowly. "She's still coming to visit on Wednesday, right?" 

Fuck. Now, how could he have forgotten about that? Honestly. It had been weeks of petitions and paperwork (even handwritten letters on Hermione's part because she insisted she wanted to help) to get the Ministry to allow this one thing. 'Dangerous,' they said. Yeah, because Narcissa Black Malfoy, with her Guerlain rose-scented perfume from the Bons & Amour Apothecary and her custom couture-tailored robes from Twillfits & Tattlings, was such a hazard to Wizarding Society. She lived in Paris, for Merlin's sake. She still sat on several charity boards because when she offered to step down after the war, they refused to let her go. 

Yet, the simple fact that he'd forgotten all about his mother coming to visit made the hollowness within him feel ten times worse than before. 

"Right," Draco nodded slowly, swallowing down the bile. "Of course." 

Potter stared at him for a second longer. "Okay. Well, since she's a family member, an Auror has to be present." 

A dry, humorless laugh escaped Draco. "Right. Because my forty-eight-year-old mother is such a fucking danger. Go right ahead and call in all the forces. Maybe even get a few Dementors in there just to be safe." 

Potter rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath.

"What's that?" Draco arched a brow, folding his arms over his chest. "Got something to say?" 

"Just that you're a real prick. Other than that? No other notes." 

"Just curious? Have you looked at your fucking face in the mirror?" 

"Oh," Potter laughed darkly, and for a second, there was a flash in those emerald eyes. There were rumors that the Sorting Hat almost placed him in Slytherin, and now Draco could see why. "I could say the exact same thing about you, Malfoy." 

Draco waved a lazy hand. "If you need to say it, then say it. Don't hold back. Not with me, Potter." 

There was a standstill between them as the tension within the flat pulsed, climbing up the walls and hanging above their heads. The idea of who would break first? Would Potter continue to goad him? Wanting Draco to fail just so he'd have an excuse to call in the forces and throw him back in prison where he belonged? Would that recklessness that Draco once saw in a flooded bathroom come out again? The one where Potter used spells without thinking of the consequences? 

Yeah, Draco had the scars to prove those actions. 

Closing his eyes, Potter let out a long breath. "Look," he said, meeting Draco's gaze. "I won't bother you tomorrow. Not with your mother. The Ministry picked out some secluded café for us to go to, but I'm not—" Potter rubbed the nape of his neck. "I won't be breathing down your spine the entire time. It'll just be you and her." 

Draco didn't immediately reply, preparing for the catch because there was always a damn catch. 

"I'm going to give you that, Malfoy," he went on. "You and your mother deserve that much." 

Warmth pulsed behind Draco's sternum, and gods… he hated it. Why? Because the damn git was right. So many would jump at the chance to listen in, dissect the conversation between the two of them—the ex-Death Eater and his mother, who risked it all. Those people? They were like vultures circling, waiting for a twist of a word or any expression or something to claim to others. 

Swallowing thickly, Draco looked away, muttering, "Thanks." 

Gods, even that word felt foreign on his tongue, rusted from disuse over the years, because what had he done to be thankful for? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

"I know you think we're all the same—the Ministry, the Aurors—but we're not," Potter sighed as his tone shifted into something more intense. "I don't… agree with a lot of things they've done with this program. You want my honest opinion?" 

Draco flickered his gaze up to the ceiling. "Not really," he mumbled. "But you're going to give it to me, anyway." 

"I think it's a fucking circus," Potter said sharply, ignoring Draco. "I think they've dressed it up and made it look like some grand act of redemption—like they're saving you. They're not. Not one bit. All they're doing is parading you around, putting you in the spotlight, and forcing you to relive some of the worst moments of your life." Pausing, Potter scrubbed a hand over his jaw. "I know I've had a hand in a lot of this—a lot of you having to do all that bullshit. And I am sorry. I know what it's like. I really do." 

A muscle in Draco's jaw twitched, but he remained quiet. Did he? Did Potter actually know what that was like? To know that whatever words came out of his mouth in those sessions were written down, recorded, and most likely played for all to hear? That when his file was read in front of the High Council and Wizengamot, everyone in that room would know what was happening inside his head? That there would be no escaping it? Every wizard and witch who held a Seat would know the horrors he faced and the choices he had to make, and while they were held in confidence not to repeat them, it would still be ingrained in their heads. 

"When Kingsley first offered me a position in the Auror Department, I thought it was a dream come true." Harry's darkened gaze focused somewhere beyond Draco's shoulder. "It's all I ever wanted since McGonagall asked me fifth-year what I wanted to do after Hogwarts. And then…" A bitter laugh escaped him. "Then… I met Robards." 

Draco stayed silent as he watched on because, well, he was pretty fucking curious about where this was going. 

"There's not a government out there that isn't full of corruption. No one is high enough to be off the moral scale of good and evil. The world is grey. I know that." Potter looked at Draco then, and something painfully honest in that expression made his stomach coil into dense knots. "It's just a few more weeks, Malfoy. If even that. Just a few more weeks of keeping your head down and behaving. No slip-ups, and please, for the love of god, don't give them a reason to throw you back in Azkaban." 

A scoff escaped Draco, but the sound was hollow. "Right. Because I'm just dying to go back there." 

"I'm being serious, Malfoy. This isn't a game. Not anymore." 

No, he knew that. He could feel it in his bones with each passing second, and while he could agree with Potter that this program was a joke and something designed to parade Draco around like a monkey in a zoo—it was ultimately his fate. His destiny. And there was no way in hell he would go back to Azkaban. 

Potter shook his head as he walked towards the hearth. Grabbing the Floo-powder out of the bowl, he paused and asked: "Do you want to come over and watch the match tomorrow night? Ginny's away, and—" he shrugged. "I don't know. Could use the company and all." 

Every bit of him itched to ask where Hermione would be that night, or maybe the simple question: Is she home? Can I see her? 

Gods, what the hell was wrong with him? One, her presence shouldn't be the sole reason he wanted to enjoy a good Muggle ale and a football match on a plush leather sofa. Two—okay, fuck, Draco didn't have a second reason. Whatever. The first reason was good enough to wipe out the itchy need within him to go over to Grimmauld and see her.

While he still didn't know what he wanted or needed to say to her, he knew that just seeing her face for a second would ease this… ache within him. 

And maybe this was a sign from the Fates? Gods-damn divine intervention. Maybe this would be just what Draco needed to figure things out once and for all because she would surely ask that question again, and this time, he would have an answer. 

Sighing heavily, Draco finally said, "Sure. Why the hell not?" 

Chapter Text

"Chin up, darling!" Pansy grinned, guiding her inside the darkly lit bar as 90s music throbbed overhead, exacerbating the headache already starting in Hermione's temples. 

"Are you sure you want to be seen with me?" Hermione groaned. "The Prophet might think I'm trying to ruin your life." 

For a Tuesday night, the Bitter Raven was shockingly packed, filled to the brim with Ministry workers and other witches and wizards, all in dire need of half-priced cocktails and wine at Happy Hour. And for whatever reason, Hermione allowed Pansy to drag her sorry arse out of her office and into said bar for a glass of wine. 

"If you're pouting about that stupid article the cunt witch wrote by the end of the night, then I'm going to hex you!" Pansy asked, leading her to a spot at the sleek, marbled bar. Signaling for the bartender, she grinned. "Two glasses of your house Zinfandel, please." 

Hermione slumped against the stool. "Said witch claimed that you and—and him are in some sort of courtship, and I'm the slut trying to break it up." 

Rolling her sable eyes, Pansy flipped her hair off her shoulder, angling her body to face Hermione. "One, she did not call you a slut. If she did? I'd march right over to the Prophet and rip her a new one into next Sunday. Fucking cunt," she snarled under her breath before composing herself. "Two, I'm not even going to indulge you there, darling. You're being ridiculous. Even for you!" 

Yeah, alright. Hermione knew she was being a bit dramatic and ridiculous, but she had her reasons. Right? It had now been three days since she'd left him there in the middle of the park. Three. Now, the taut tension between them could be felt for miles. She thought not seeing him for a few days would make it all better, but it only exacerbated the gaping wound within her. Even Crookshanks was being rather pissy at the moment, glaring at her with those yellow, accusing eyes. Ugh! 

To make matters worse? She had to spend the better part of last night sitting cross-legged in her bed, listening to recordings and reports of Draco starting at the very beginning. It was hard to hear that cold, calculated sound in his tone and the varying differences between the man who walked out of Azkaban five years later, practically skin and bones. It was even more challenging for her to look at the pictures taken within a prison cell, each year that provided sufficient evidence that those yawning years nearly destroyed him. 

Then, there was the buzzing piece of knowledge in her head that Draco was finally seeing his mother tomorrow. Finally was the key word because the number of loopholes, handwritten notes, and hours spent sitting with Kingsley and Harry to figure out how to make this work all led to this moment. 

And she hated—hated that she cared so much about this.

The idea that she wanted to give this to him more than anything in the world. She remembered the moment last week when she and Harry sat Draco down in her office and told him the meeting was finally approved. Better yet? The moments when Harry left them alone, and Draco laid her out on her desk and worshiped her like there was no tomorrow. The silent 'Thank You' she heard in every kiss, every caress of his hands over her body, and every bit of pleasure that he gave her. The aftermath when he told her that he couldn't wait. Not again, and the two used her emergency Floo to go to Grimmauld, knowing Harry wouldn't be home for hours.