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Like every Sunday morning, Hermione sat at the worn wooden table of her parent’s kitchen, hiding a grimace as she listens to her mother go on and on about the newest style profile in Witch Weekly’s fashion spread. She does her best to be supportive and patient, she really does, especially considering her parent’s dedication to immersing themselves in the magical world following their memory restoration and move back from Australia. These weekly breakfasts, with her father’s cooking, her mother’s coffee, and a review of the week’s wizarding news have been a big part of their healing relationship.

All things being considered, Hermione is beyond grateful for the way her parents refuse to give up the fight to be a part of her world, and really, their reaction of overexposure after everything she hid from them leading up to the second war was reasonable. Hermione had just never quite imagined having her own mother parrot back Pansy Parkinson’s fashion advice to her. Really, the injustice of it all.

“Oh, but Hermione, this part about dressing to your color profile is so well reasoned. I’ve been telling you, you’re definitely a soft autumn, you shouldn’t be wearing all this bright red! Look, like it says here, ‘A Soft Autumn will be brought to life by slightly warm toned soft shades. Your best tone is Sage Green!’” Helen Granger finished reading triumphantly.

Hermione’s Gryffindor core immediately rejected this suggestion, but in favor of keeping the peace, she simply smiled and took another sip of the lovingly brewed coffee.

Her father came in from the garden with fresh tomatoes in one hand, the Daily Prophet in the other.

“Alright then, who wants an omelet?” he asked jovially, “And what a great article on broomstick cleaning practices, I can’t wait to discuss with Harry and Ron at the Burrow this evening!”

Hermione suppressed a groan.

…

Like every Monday morning, Hermione wakes up early, reads for pleasure for a half hour as she drinks a cup of morning tea, and dons one of the many ‘chic professional witch’ outfits her mother and Ginny had pushed her to buy. Dementors take that conniving Pansy Parkinson, convincing Helen Granger that the only thing left preventing her daughter from making good on the promise of her Golden Girl status is her wardrobe. Never mind that the update had come with a significant uptick in the respect she received in her interdepartmental presentations or in the number of date requests she was met with from other young wizards she came into contact with at the Ministry. It hadn’t changed one particular wizard’s treatment of her, regardless of the ‘superior style’ of her skirtsuits.

At eight on the dot, she packed her work bag, slipped on her comfortably charmed heels, and headed to the office.

Hermione loved her job, she really did, but the number of projects requiring her to work alongside the Department of International Cooperation entailed a lot of meetings with a certain someone she can’t quite figure out her feelings towards. But, creating sweeping change for magical creature rights must transcend arbitrary human borders, and thus, working with Draco Malfoy was a necessary evil.

After an hour of frantic paperwork, the fight against the never-ending piles on her desk is a bit closer to fruition, and Hermione heads to her first meeting of the day.

“Granger.” Malfoy greets her with his signature calm façade, but she thinks she can see the slightest upturn of his lips at her happy gasp when she sees the pan au chocolate placed next to the coffee he’s brought her. She’s not sure how this particular habit started, but far be it for her to complain about a drinkable coffee with the Ministry sludge to compare it to.

“Malfoy.” She responds, “Is this croissant a bribe for anything in particular, or were you just feeling generous this morning?”

“At this point, you are well aware that these meetings go best when you are both caffeinated and fed,” he replies with a smirk, and rolling her eyes and taking a sip of her perfectly prepared latte, they get to business.

After many months of planning, their combined efforts are culminating in an international conference in France the following week. She can only hope that the level of detail and care that they have put into the Werewolf Protection Act will enable it to pass easily, though dissent due to bias rather than logical arguments is always hard to combat.

Preparation has meant many long days researching the conference attendees from across Europe’s wizarding governments, bringing together her magical creatures specialty with Malfoy’s seemingly encyclopedic familiarity with wizarding families and politics. Malfoy is competent, knowledgeable, and frustratingly, endlessly professional in his icy regard. He never rises to the various baits she has thrown his way, and she struggles to see past his cool mask, only the smallest of smirks breaking through when he’s managed to win an argument or she has gotten too heated, loudly expounding on a topic she rationally knows they agree on.

She has lunch with Ginny before she has to head to Ireland for the rest of the week for a tournament with the Harpies, catching up on the newest restoration project she and Harry are doing at Grimmauld and on news from Ron, still on the continent gathering ideas for the expansion of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes to the rest of Europe.

Her life is good, full of the people she loves, finally all happy and safe following years of turmoil, danger, and the final desperate battle of mind healers and personal growth necessary to recover from such a disturbed childhood. She is doing the work she loves, she has an apartment filled to the brim with books, and if sometimes, only sometimes, she wishes she had someone to share it with, well, she’s only human.

Dating as a war heroine is about as difficult as it sounds, with most wizards seeming more interested in her accolades and status than in hearing about the real person behind those things. She’s done sharing a table with someone who expects the Golden Girl to be sitting across from them, not her, a flawed, unconventional, complicated person, and she doesn’t have it in her to be anything but true to herself, not after fighting so hard for her right to be a part of this world.

Tuesday and Wednesday roll past, blurs of project updates and paperwork and reading through some of the musty old journals one of Malfoy’s ancestors had left behind. Really, it was disgusting, reading the words of a man who so openly planned and executed centaur hunts, but if one can see past the blind hatred and prejudice, the journal actually contained quite a bit of detailed information as to herd migratory and behavioral patterns. Hermione supposed good research was good research, and removing the initial intentions of its collection, this information would greatly help her next legislative endeavor to protect land historically used by centaur herds.

By the end of Friday she’s feeling antsy, getting excited for the France trip the following Monday. Everything is in place, logistics and itineraries planned to her exacting standards, but she can’t help herself from wanting to do one last check-in with Malfoy. Plus, she has to return the journal, not wanting to keep it too long in case this could prevent her from borrowing any future tomes she might want from the manor’s library. The route to his office from hers is familiar at this point, and with a quick knock at his door and a responding welcome, she steps into the small space.

Malfoy has replaced the standard Ministry furniture with his own of far nicer quality, a warm mahogany desk, bookcase, and matching chairs making the space seem more welcoming than the hardboard of her own office can accomplish.

“Hi, Malfoy. I just wanted to stop by and return these journals as well as double check that the accommodations you arranged are confirmed.” She spoke in somewhat of a rush, the intimacy of the small, private space putting her on edge. The smell of his cologne hung in the room, a teasing temptation of spice she can’t quite put her finger on.

“Granger, you know you’ve already confirmed our accommodations with me multiple times. The Malfoy Townhouse in Paris is only a block from the conference and has been sitting empty for years. If you’re uncomfortable staying there, you only need say a word and I will arrange for a hotel, but I can assure you it’s a supremely comfortable residence. You needn’t worry, your rooms will be on a different level entirely from my own, and our house elves are well paid and taken care of.”

She can’t help but notice the slight flush to his cheeks at the end of this pronouncement. Does he think she’s afraid to stay with him?

“Okay, okay, I apologize. I didn’t mean to question you personally, or anything, I’m just a bit of a control freak.  I know you are a good man, Draco, despite our pasts. I’m really looking forward to this trip,” she cuts herself off before she can become even redder, embarrassed. She, perhaps for the very first time, had called him Draco to his face.

He considers her, face a stony mask, before his features soften, starting with the eyes, then moving down his face as his mouth relaxes into what might even be a small smile.

“Alright then, Granger. I’m looking forward to it as well. We’re going to get your legislation passed. And thank you.” He responds, and she can’t mistake his tone for anything but sincerity.

It cuts through her walls and pretenses, the way this enemy turned coworker turned almost partner hears her when she speaks, gets her in a way she has struggled to achieve even in her longest standing relationships. As they increasingly worked together to get her legislation passed on the international stage, his childhood cruelty has not made itself known, and though his wit is still sharp, it is now employed against her political nemeses and ministerial incompetents.

She spends a moment of reflection, perhaps more than a moment, because as she comes back to herself, she realizes she has stood in front of his desk for who knows how long in reflection. He is leaned back in his chair, relaxed as he observes her with an expression of wry amusement on his face. There is something dominant about his posture despite his location below her, something about the spread of his legs or the width of his shoulders, the way his perfectly tailored suit stretches over his leanly muscular body, and she feels herself unconsciously straighten up under his observation, spine straightening, chest pushing out, just a little bit.

“Well, then. I suppose I’ll see you Monday then. Unless you’re coming to the pub?”

Ever since Luna had started her torrid on-again, off-again romance with Blaise Zabini, of all people, there had been a softening of the borders between their friend groups, and more often than not, she found herself on Fridays sharing sips of whatever new cocktail Theo Nott was trying, laughing with Neville as he attempted to instruct Daphne Greengrass on how stop killing her houseplants, and covertly sending glares towards the back of Pansy Parkinson’s perfectly styled head. Malfoy was often there, quietly sipping a Firewhiskey as he conversed with his fellow Slytherins, occasionally grinning or chuckling at Theo’s antics or even Neville’s jokes, since the two of them had inexplicably become rather friendly. Once, he had let out a full, uninhibited laugh at a story Harry had been telling, and she can remember the rich, deep sound of it, of the way joy had transformed his face, followed by something like disgruntlement as he realized just who had incited his laughter.

Malfoy stood, now towering over her despite her heels, and made his way over towards his coat rack to don his thick overcoat.

“I can’t make it to the bar tonight, but I’ll walk with you to the apparition point. I want to double check the library for materials we might want to parry any Dutch rebuttals, you know how they are about precedent.”

She can’t quite account for the way her heart drops a little at the fact that he won’t be there. It’s not like they interact overmuch, but there is something about his steadiness, the pensive way he always thinks before speaking, his well-reasoned insights and well-considered quips. Hermione can’t deny the level of discourse has increased since the addition of the Slytherins, even if she has to admit that some of the most thoughtful discussions originate from Pansy. Ugh. It might be time to become…friendly. The horror.

“Oh, okay,” she responds, following Malfoy’s lead as he holds his office door open for her. Verbose, Hermione. She chides herself. Brightest witch of her age my ass.

They trace the familiar path to the Ministry floo, stepping through one after the other into the cheery evening of Diagon Alley.  As she emerges onto the street, shaking off the indominable ash that can come from even the cleanest of fireplaces with a quick nonverbal cleaning charm, she finds Malfoy standing to the side, waiting for her to right herself. She strides over, and they fall into step as they move towards the Leaky Cauldron and the apparition spot outside.

Hermione can’t help but run through the strategy they have thoroughly gone over one last time, noting the people they simply must talk to, the people to avoid, the conference sessions she cannot miss and the ones they will have to split up for to make sure no important information is missed. He simply nods along with her points, making a nonverbal sound when she remembers to check in for his agreement.

“Well, I guess I will see you first thing Monday then!” she announces cheerily as they reach the apparition point.

“Yes, seven at the Ministry. Until then, Granger.” He responds.

“Have a good weekend, Malfoy!” She says as he twists into black smoke, the silence of the swirling form a holdover from his training as a Death Eater, arguably the only part of that life he still carries apart from the mark on his left arm. She stands, thinking about the boy he once was, the man he has become, how much more she might have the capacity to like were he to let her through his impenetrable walls.

With a sigh, Hermione turns on her heel and heads into the Leaky.

…

Its Sunday again, and as Hermione walks from the apparition point in the garden up the path to her parent’s house, she runs through her packing list in her head, making her way to the kitchen, where music plays softly and the warm, sweet smell of cinnamon emanates from the oven.

“Hermione, darling, you’re here!” Her mother greets her as she enters the room with a carafe of orange juice, which she hastily sets down on the counter before bustling over to the sideboard, where the ever-present newspapers rest.

“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone!” She exclaims as she brings the Sunday edition of the Daily Prophet over to her.

“Mum, I told you, you can never believe the rubbish they publish in the society sections, Rita Skeeter is not to be trusted.” Hermione says with a groan. “And I’m not seeing anyone right now! I’m too busy with work.”

“Oh, but darling, just look at this. These moving photos really tell a story.” She continues, nudging the paper closer to her daughter.

And there, on her kitchen island, under the blaring headline Golden Girl and Reformed Malfoy Heir Cozy Up on Diagon, she finds an image of herself exiting the public floo in Diagon, another victim of Skeeter’s mildly illegal but highly effective new paparazzi surveillance techniques. Just a few weeks ago, a magical camera very similar to this one had revealed one of the Minister of Magic’s undersecretaries cavorting with three different women in his department within a 24 hour period, the resulting scandal leading to a flurry of interdepartmental memos about appropriate workplace conduct.

But this image as she exits the floo is no less sensational, at least to Hermione. As the loop begins over again, Malfoy can be seen in the background, eyes almost set on the camera as he waits for her. The expression on his face is a confusing mixture she just might term yearning, but as she appears he quickly begins to turn, and they set off together. Now she can see the positioning of his body and the tilt of his head and the small, affectionate smile he wears as he glances down at her speaking animatedly about what she knows to be boring logistics. She’s almost embarrassed to see how giddy she appears as she begins to walk a bit ahead of Malfoy, chatting away, but it’s impossible to ignore the attentiveness with which he listens.

Her mother chatters on about the handsome young man she’s seen with, how tall and broad he is, and what a unique color hair, and Hermione can only brace herself for the onslaught as her mind reels. Is this really the way he looks at me when I’m not paying attention? Is that really the way I act when I am with him?

True comfort has always been difficult for her to achieve, self-consciousness over whether she is blathering on, annoying her companions, pushing people away a holdover from her early Hogwarts years. She’s used to holding back her anxieties, ideas, excitement, keeping those things locked away inside, but she realizes that over the past few months working with Malfoy, he has never made her feel burdensome. He simply listens, gray eyes enigmatic, locked on her face. Has he been paying attention all along?

She tries to resist, but even as she explains to her mother that no, this is just a work colleague, the one she works with on the international werewolf legislation project, yes, that competent fellow who helped so much with that French delegation drama a few months ago, no, they are not romantic at all, a spark ignites in her chest.

…

Hermione examines Malfoy as they wait for their portkey to his Paris townhouse. He is sorting through a sheaf of papers, eyebrows slightly scrunched as his eyes scan quickly over the documents before he nods to himself and tucks them away into his suspiciously spacious interior coat pocket. The wool trench coat stretches over his shoulders, and Hermione shakes her head slightly in an attempt to dislodge her mother’s admiration of that very feature.

Malfoy’s eyes meet hers, and for a moment, they stand, just like that, gazes locked, and the connection feels momentous, like maybe that slop in the Daily Prophet might have hinted at something real. She gives him a close lipped-smile, sweet and hopeful, and at his returning small grin, that spark from the night before catches, a warm burn spreading through her body.

While her earlier years were largely overshadowed by impending war and her remaining focus on academics, Hermione still prides herself in being aware of male interest. She can still remember the thrill of meeting Viktor Krum’s eyes in the stacks of the Hogwarts library, his gaze carrying a weight that told her she was important, interesting, wanted, if only for her physical attributes. A certain type of proprioception, a womanly intuition of her surroundings as he brought himself into her orbit, first for books, then for conversation, graduating to stolen kisses.

She can now recognize that same thread of early and unspoken desire hanging in the space between her and Malfoy. It had been hidden from her before, locked behind a wall of her own preconceptions and expectations, but now, she can reflect on how courteous he is, how thoughtful, how dedicated, with new eyes. The only thing she has left to do is decide whether or not to act on this knowledge.

…

His townhouse is, of course, gorgeous. A beautiful three-story building with carved limestone, iron balconies, and tall arched windows in the classic Haussmannian style and a beautiful walled garden in the back, Hermione can’t help but fall a little in love with the space at first sight. Malfoy is all gracious host, guiding her through the main living rooms on the first floor, noting his bedroom at the top of the second story landing as well as a few guest rooms and an office. He begins to explain that he had a guest room on the third floor prepared, when she decides to begin her game of push and pull.

“Well, I don’t see why I need to be an entire floor away. A room on this floor is more than sufficient, assuming that is acceptable to you,” she challenges, raising her chin and meeting his eyes with a boldness characteristic to her house.

Malfoy looks taken aback, just briefly, before his features smooth and he responds, “Of course, whatever you prefer. All of the rooms are kept ready for use.”

“And, this way you are closer in case something goes bump in the night,” she teases as he begins to lead her to the door across the landing from his.

She resists taking a half step back when he whirls around to face her again. “I will never let something happen to you, certainly not in my house. Not again.” His tone is vehement and his throat bobs, “Never again.”

It’s the closest they’ve come to addressing their contentious shared past in years, not since his stilted apology and her awkward acceptance at the beginning of their working relationship. Hermione can’t help but give him a warm smile and place a hand on his forearm, yes, that forearm, grazing her thumb lightly over the soft fabric of his jumper.

“I know, Malfoy,” she says back, gentling her tone so he can hear her sincerity, “I know I’m safe with you.”

His throat bobs again, and he leaves her in her luxurious suite without another word.

…

The next few days are an absolute whirlwind as the conference proceeds and the Werewolf Protection Act inches closer to a reality. She’s grateful for the many hours of preparation, the advanced translation charms enabling smooth communication, the detailed research backing up logical and humane decisions rather than rash, emotional ones. And moreso, she’s grateful to Malfoy for his equal level of dedication, his competent handling of high-handed diplomats shown through both sharp retorts and charming rejoinders depending on the circumstance.

They don’t talk much, no time to do so, but there is a closeness that transcends their previous interactions. Moments, like opening their bedroom doors at the same time before proceeding to the kitchen for breakfast, or walking side by side between sessions, his hand guiding her gently at the small of her back in a crowd, that feel like they are only steps away from something new, something more. Emboldened by her Prophet realization, Hermione now sits slightly closer, allows more frequent incidental touches, is freer with her smiles. If Malfoy minds, he certainly doesn’t say anything. For once, she feels not just that he is on her side, but that they are a team, it is their side, an equal partner to take half of the weight. It’s a heady feeling.

In the evenings, after large, raucous, wine-soaked dinners that might move forward agreements just as much as their formal daytime sessions, Hermione is too exhausted to do anything but collapse in the massive four-poster bed in her suite. Malfoy plagues her dreams, his deep voice arguing the points she had clearly laid out in their preparation materials with a conviction that can’t be manufactured.

And, on Friday, after a three hour debate over free Wolfsbane access that hinged on an obscure law Malfoy dug up from the 1500s that allowed Veela unrestricted medical attention due to their extreme susceptibility to Black Cat Flu, the Dutch delegation was appeased and the Act was finally, finally, signed into law.

The room slowly emptied as Hermione began sorting through all of her materials, preparing for the likely lengthy Ministry debrief in store for her upon their return. A throat clearing caught her attention, and she looked up to meet Malfoy’s gaze tied to hers.

“Congratulations, Granger,” he said, for once a wide grin spread over his normally inscrutable face.

Joy, pure and undiluted, at their triumph, overcomes Hermione’s attempts at professional reserve, and with the room now only containing the two of them, she can’t help but let it overflow, her face breaking into a smile, and, not overthinking things, she launched herself into his arms.

“Thank you, Malfoy, really, I couldn’t have done this without you. I never imagined you’d be such a good partner when we started, but… thank you.”

She’s hugging him, arms locked around his torso, face in his chest, and she can’t help but breathe in his scent. He’s warm, male, hard under her cheek and all at once his arms come around her to return the embrace, pulling her further into his body with one arm around her waist and the other around her shoulders. Hermione luxuriates in the feeling before he releases her and steps away, once more meeting her eyes.

“Of course, Granger. This project meant a lot to me, so, thank you for letting me be involved.”

His voice is a bit tight, fraught with emotion, and they linger in each other’s space, her face tilted up, his tilted down, eyes locked. She can’t help but let her gaze drift, irresistibly pulled to his lips, so close, before meeting his eyes once more. Hermione feels like she’s falling, but no, that can’t be right, not when her body is resisting the ever-constant pull of the ground to instead gravitate towards the man standing in front of her.

For a moment, they remain locked in this state of limbo, on the verge of something new and different and exciting, before he suddenly breaks off, hand coming up to rub over his mouth and jaw. She stands, puzzled at his obvious distress, before his voice explodes from him as if he can no longer keep his emotions in check.

“Hermione, I… Merlin. Look, please don’t toy with me. I’m not sure how much more I can take. These past few days have been different, you’ve been different. You’re always so alive, so bright, but since we got to France, you’ve been shining some of that light on me, not just your work, and, well, I can’t help but hope. I know I can never deserve you, but maybe, I could try to. I could try so hard for you. Just, please, tell me. Tell me I’m not alone in this.”

His gaze, so often obscured by the cool masks he wears, is now open, vulnerable, a passion she could only dream he has now made evident, what was once buried deep beneath the surface now come to ground.

The bloody Daily Prophet… Hermione thinks to herself, chagrined at how much longer their impasse might have stood were it not for her recent revelation that there was more here. Maybe, just maybe, everything was here, right in this room.

So, with courage and resolve and burgeoning hope, she closes the gap between them again.

“You are not alone,” she whispers, the moment feeling too delicate for anything more, “you’re not alone at all.”

And finally, breathed out against his lips, “I’m right here, with you.”

Their kiss starts in a gentle exploration, sweet, closed mouth brushes of lips against each other, learning how to bridge the distance in height and the shape of their mouths, before rapidly expanding, hands running over arms and chests and backs, his finding a home at the back of her neck as exploration turns into plundering, tongue tracing her lips and teeth and tongue. Hermione feels consumed, the heat between them burning as their bodies move together, the undulation of their hips matching the movements of their mouths.

She breaks apart, moving mere inches from his mouth to whisper, “Take me home, Draco,” and everything melted into a whir of black.

…

The academic part of her brain is taken with the smoothness of his apparition, the swirl of smoke characteristic of his Death Eater training a far gentler transition than the instantaneous pop of her own apparition. They have landed in the entryway of the townhouse, the sumptuous foyer and grand staircase far less enticing than the man standing before her. He’s released her following their rapid return to the townhouse, and the space between them now feels fraught with the equally rapid change in their relationship, in the things that have been said and done.

But Hermione is having none of that, ready to leave behind the hesitancy that has defined their past week.

His eyes are trained on her as she approaches, his hand meeting hers as she reaches out to take it, running her thumb over his.

“You mean it, Granger?” he says, “you would be with me? I’m not the easiest person to be with, my reputation is absolute shite, our shared past is dreadful, I… I don’t have much to give you.”

Hermione set her jaw as she answered, “Draco, that’s absolute nonsense, and I think somewhere, you know that. You’ve more than demonstrated that you no longer believe in blood purity, that you’ve rebuilt yourself and your life. I’d be proud to be with you, there’s no such thing as being undeserving here. I decide what I deserve, and if that’s you, a man who stands by me and helps me realize my goals, then everyone else will just have to get used to it.”

Slyly, she adds, “Besides, the Prophet has already outed us. I didn’t see the need to demand a retraction then, and I certainly don’t now.”

He groans, “Merlin, that article. When will they stop referring to you as the Golden Girl? You are very, very much so a woman,” he says as his hand releases hers to grip her hips, bringing her pelvis against his once more.

“Hey, I liked that article. I didn’t realize how you looked at me, not until I saw it from a different perspective,” and in the spirit of honesty, continues,  “Didn’t really realize how I looked at you, either.”

“And how is that, exactly,” he asks with a grin, trailing kisses across her forehead and nose.

She tilts her head up, reveling in his gentle kisses, heart buoyant, bubbles of giddiness spreading throughout her body.

“Well, like you were someone I could be myself with. Talk about anything with. Be safe and heard and whole,” her voice becoming more breathy as his kisses move to her cheeks, then her jaw, “and of course, my mum freaked when she saw. I’ll need to have a talk with her before you can meet,” his kisses have trailed to her neck now, as she finishes on an exhale, “need to tell her to play it cool.”

Draco looms over her, hands on her hips, mouth at her pulse point beating rapidly against his lips, “no need, Granger. With your permission, I certainly don’t plan on playing it cool, not anymore,” and with that, he scoops her into his arms and strides up the stairs to his bedroom.

…

Hermione lands on his bed, and then he is on her, mouth ravaging a path from hers, where she matches him with equal fervor, before moving south, lips meeting the skin of her clavicle, hands quickly divesting her of her button down as his lips continue along her cleavage before kissing across her stomach. His eyes meet hers, waiting for her nod of permission before her skirt is gone, vanished with wordless, wandless magic and exposing her black lace knickers and stockings.

She can’t help but writhe as his kisses and fingers trail across her hips, slowly stripping off one, then the other stocking, before finally peeling her knickers down her legs.

Hermione thinks she should be embarrassed by the sodden material, but what lies between them is too electric for self-consciousness, their connection strumming too strongly for hesitation. With a whine, she gets him to crawl back up her body and take off his own shirt, leaving his chest bare for her to run her hands over the muscles and scars of his chest as their mouths clash and bodies grind against each other. Desperately, she runs her hands down to feel his hardness pushing insistently against his trousers, grasping the rigid length through the material as he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Not yet, darling. Not until you’re ready for me,” he says, bringing his body back between her legs as she whimpers, thinking she has never been so ready, not in her entire life, but then, as his tongue swirls around her clit and her back arches at the overload of pleasure, as first one, then two of his fingers work their way inside of her, as her climax burns through her body, satisfaction making her limbs heavy and heart race, she will allow him this preparation, however and whenever he may please.

Instead of making his way back up her body, Draco seems content to continue his attentions, licking through her folds, tonging as deep as he can go as his thumb lazily traces circles around her clit, never quite pressing on it directly, somehow building her back up again so quickly after her first release. It’s been months since her last partnered orgasm, but still, she can’t remember ever feeling this level of pleasure, the dedication of her partner, the surprise and teasing and closeness of it all making her long for more, even as it is being delivered. She pulls at his shoulders, a mess of moans and whines as he finally lifts his head, meeting her eyes as he wipes his wet face with the back of his hand and gifts her the downright filthiest smile she has ever seen.

Her heart clenches as he says, “Did you need something, darling?” His tone teasing and light and joyful and so, so sexy.

“Yes, you, now, please, Draco,” she pants, and he is quick to divest himself of his remaining clothing before, at last, joining her once more, slotting their noses together as his body aligns with hers. She eagerly brings her legs around his hips, tilting them hopefully until the tip of his cock runs through her wetness, their combined groan lost as their lips meet again and again.

“Okay, baby,” he says, “Anything you need,” and begins to push inside of her.

The stretch is mind-blowing, her mind, like her heart, blown open wide to the man slowly, carefully, lovingly penetrating her. She can’t help but clench around him, even with only a fraction of his cock inside of her, her body eager and ready following his curtailed ministrations, and as he pushes fully inside of her, she can’t help but fall apart again, eyes squeezed shut against the torrent of sensation.

As she comes back to herself, she feels the delicate kisses he places on her eyelids, nose, mouth, and slants her own mouth hungrily against his, eagerly, happily welcoming him with her whole body. Arms wound around his shoulders, legs around his hips, the depth of her feelings are almost overwhelming. He’s here, he’s mine, he’s better than I ever could have expected. We’re better than I ever expected.

He must notice the tears at the edges of her eyes, because he pulls his face back from hers, eyes full of concern and tenderness, “You ok, Granger? Are you hurting?”

She smiles at him, beams really, before tightening her arms around him, “No, no, not at all. Just caught up, just because it’s us.”

His kiss is all-consuming, that us reverberating through both of their bodies as he starts to move his hips, the push and pull of his cock steady against her walls. She cries out in pleasure, at the rightness of their bodies moving together, his larger frame pinning hers down to take it, to take all of him, to absorb the power of his thrusts and catapult them both to the edge.

Their mingled breaths heat the space between them, and as she draws ever closer to her peak, it feels like the magic in her body is rising to the surface, mingling with his, dancing along her skin and creating something beautiful and tender and new. Eyes locked on each other’s, breathing frantic, his pace increases, thrusts growing deeper and harder, reaching a new place inside of her, and she cries out his name in a high whine as she feels herself reach the place of no return, orgasm overcoming her reticence, her desire to wait for him, to not fall apart unless he was right there with her. But right then, right as he feels her tipping over the edge, he surges inside of her and holds, cock buried deep as his own release takes him.

An expression of pleasure so acute it is almost pain is painted over his expression, and Hermione can only bask in the moment, in the togetherness and rightness as her breathing slowly returns to normal. Above her, Draco looks shell shocked, his own chest still rising and falling rapidly, arms braced above her head.

“Are you okay?” she asks, hand rising to trace his cheek, bringing his face down to meet hers for a kiss, as sweet and tender as their sex had been hot and carnal.

He smiles, a laugh shaking his body, which she can feel all the way through her own, as his still hard cock remains deep inside her.

“I’ve never been so okay. I’ve never come that hard. You’ve ruined me, utterly ruined me,” he admits, and she veritably glows with happiness.

She smiles back at him, smiles so easily and fully, she wonders if she will ever stop.

“Well, let’s clean up, get some food, and then maybe I can ruin you again,” she responds cheekily.

He gazes down at her, what feels like the whole world in his eyes as he responds, “I thought you’d never ask.”

…

Draco’s hand is slightly damp in hers as they stand on the front steps of her parent’s house. It’s Sunday morning, and after a full day in bed spent in kisses and murmured confessions and accioed pastries and as many lovemaking sessions as their bodies could bear, he had asked, nervously, if he could join her weekly visit to her parents.

His acceptance of her felt natural, with both their recent developments and the respect he has given her over the course of their professional relationship, but to want to spend time with her parents, her extremely muggle parents, so soon after declaring themselves, made clear to her the strength of their developing bond.

She rings the doorbell, and shifts her weight from foot to foot, wincing slightly at the twinge of tenderness between her legs.

Draco turned to her, eyebrows scrunched in concern as he gently admonished, “You really should have let me bring you a healing potion,” and more quietly, “I hate that you’re in pain because of me.”

Hermione can’t help the smile that splits her face at his guilty expression, having very, very much enjoyed the actions that were bringing her only slight discomfort.

“No, you silly man,” she replies, “I like feeling what you’ve done to me. What we’ve done together.”

His eyes heat, and they begin to lean closer before footsteps bring them to face the door again right as it is finally opened by a slightly harried Jean Granger, her husband just a step behind her.

“Hermione, dear, why didn’t you just apparate into the garden like usual? You know – oh,” she cuts herself off, noticing Draco standing with Hermione, hand now gripping hers with slightly too much pressure.

“I hope it’s okay, I brought my boyfriend for brunch,” Hermione boldly states, “Mum, dad, this is Draco.”

“I knew it!” gasps her mum, and a surprised but not unhappy Draco Malfoy is ensconced in her warm embrace and two quick pecks on his cheeks before they are ushered inside.

Hermione makes eye contact with her father, whose memories of her school days are slightly more intact than those of her mother.

“You’re happy, Mimi?” he asked, “He makes you happy?”

Hermione can’t help the reemergence of the smile that has felt glued to her face for the past day.

“Yes, dad, extremely happy,” she responds, voice slightly choked on her depth of emotion.

He nodded, and asked, “And do you think bringing this young man around is going to be a new habit of yours?”

She nods back, answering, “Yes, I think it might be.”

“Well, alright then,” he says, a bit gruffly, and the two of them follow the sounds of a cheerfully chatting Jean Granger inside the house.