Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hermione stared at the wall, wondering for the hundredth time what she was doing there. She wasn’t particularly happy about turning twenty-five, let alone being forced to attend a party in her honor. 

The room was much too festive, confetti floating about, balloons tied to her chair, far too much champagne being poured.

There was a time when Hermione had assumed she'd never make it past eighteen, and yet, here she was. Twenty-five and still alive. Guilt threatened to push to the surface for her lack of gratitude, but she pushed it down.

Everyone was drunk and she was bored. 

Some of the attendees had wandered off, others were sitting at the table, playing some adulterated version of exploding snap, too loud and boisterous for her taste.

Awfully listless for a birthday girl, was what Ginny had said earlier, giving her a sympathetic smile and a cocktail. Hermione had eyed it suspiciously but Ginny had assured her Theo hadn’t touched it. “It’s safe,” she said, giving Hermione a squeeze before wandering off to find her girlfriend and party co-host.

It was strange, growing up, Hermione thought, glancing at the unlikely group gathered around Pansy Parkinson’s formal dining room table.

Ginny and Pansy. Blaise and Neville. Harry and—well, nobody yet. But the way he and Theo Nott looked at each other told her it wouldn’t be long.

She couldn’t admit it aloud, but she was jealous. Of Harry and Ginny’s easy split and their clean, friendly reconciliation. Of the way others got to choose freely, openly.

Her gaze flicked to Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass. He had his arm slung over the back of her chair, giving a half-grin to something she’d said.

Suddenly, Hermione couldn’t breathe.

Her chair scraped back from the table. She muttered an excuse to Ron that he didn’t hear, much too busy listening to some story Daphne was telling about Snape. Hermione left, seemingly unnoticed, her heart pounding in her chest.

She found her way down the corridor and into Pansy’s powder room, ran cold water over her wrists, splashed her face. She tried to get a grip.

Her reflection in the mirror was pale, her eyes haunted.

Who had she become?

Her hand fell to her cheek, surprised to find warmth there. Lately, she’d felt so cold.

The only warmth in her life was forbidden.

*****

Even as a child she’d find herself looking at him from across any room. He’d be sneering, saying something awful to her or someone who mattered to her.

He’d called her a mudblood once.

But she’d also watched him glare at Blaise and send a tripping hex at the man for asking her to dance. Blaise had side-stepped it easily; he almost seemed to be expecting it, which only made Draco scowl more.

As if he had any right to care.

Once, very briefly during eighth year, right after this dirty, lovely thing between them had begun, there had been rumours that Draco was already engaged to the younger Greengrass sister. Hermione had almost died.

She’d managed to avoid him for a week before he trapped her in the potions classroom.

“You’re avoiding me,” he'd said, taking her face in his hands when she refused to look at him. “Tell me what happened.”

The rumours were wrong, he’d assured her.

"I'm not engaged."

Not yet.

The relief she’d felt had been immense, albeit temporary. That sick, heavy feeling at the thought of him with anyone else was devastating. It was unfair, but knowing that didn’t make it any less true.

When he kissed her, she'd tasted tears, and it was only then that she realized just how much she cared.

She’d never wanted to care.

Hermione was a pragmatic, sensible person. 

Not enough to keep her from having sex with him though.

Or to prevent herself from falling in love with him.

*****

“Shit,” she muttered to herself, and rubbed her temples, looking at herself in the bathroom mirror. “Shit, shit, shit.”

The juxtaposition between her forlorn expression and the festive sounds echoing from the dining room wasn’t lost on her.

She dried her face quickly, afraid someone would come looking for her, afraid she’d have to lie. She was so tired of lying.

When she stepped out into the dim hallway, she sensed him before he touched her.

An arm wrapped around her middle. Warm, strong, familiar. Forbidden.

“Shhh,” he whispered, covering her mouth with his free hand, pulling her  back inside and locking the door behind them.

Their eyes caught in the mirror and she was mesmerized by the contrast of them. She, in a tight black dress, and he, in a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hands under the hem of her dress, already dragging her knickers down her thighs.

“No,” she breathed, even as she melted into him. “We said we wouldn’t—”

But then his lips were on hers, and she was dragged under once more.

*****

A year ago, on her twenty-fourth birthday, Ron had proposed in the middle of a packed pub.

He’d been drunk again. They all were.

Hermione didn’t hold it against anyone. They were still young. Barely past their teenage years, still fumbling their way through a post-war world.

But it had been her birthday. And Ron had proposed to her quite loudly in front of all of their friends, coworkers, and what felt like half of magical London.

She’d said yes. Automatically. Reflexively. Because she’d felt the assumption of every eye on her. Had they been alone, she would have said no.

Broken things off once and forever.

But she’d felt sick, out of body. The only thing mooring her were the grey eyes on her.

Later that night, Ron was asleep on her sofa, snoring away, instead of celebrating or shagging her like she imagined other newly engaged couples to be doing. The idea of it wasn’t particularly enticing to her either.

He hadn’t even bothered with a ring.

Hermione had sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a second mug of chamomile, debating whether to spike it with a calming draught.

She shivered, remembering the proposal. Knowing in her heart, it was performative, what everyone expected of them.

Even Harry had seemed thoughtful, rather than thrilled at the scene.

The first person to congratulate her had been Astoria, Draco standing behind her with a tight jaw and narrowed eyes.

Why? He’d mouthed to her, and she’d turned away. He knew why. It was only a matter of time before he’d be put in a similar spot.

Draco had never been good at hiding his disdain for Ron. She imagined how she might have felt had she watched him propose to Astoria, and fought a wave of nausea.

Sometimes, Hermione suspected that Astoria knew. She watched Hermione closely, and watched Draco’s reactions to her even more. Draco insisted she didn’t know, and that he didn’t care if she did. Neither of them had signed up for this.

As if summoned, suddenly there was a tap at her kitchen door.

She knew without question who it would be and sprung up from the table to answer the door, though she knew—she knew—exactly how it would end.

And it had.

Draco Malfoy stood in her doorway, ominous in black robes, his white-blond hair almost glowing under the porch light.

It was bold of him to show up there, knowing Ron would be home. But he didn’t look the least bit worried, as he pushed his way into the kitchen like he had every right to do so.

“Is he asleep?”

“Are you insane?” she whispered. “He could wake up at any time.”

“You said yes,” he hissed. “I heard you.” He huffed a bitter laugh. “We all heard you. Very disorienting when just this morning, you were begging me to come all over your tits.”

“Draco…” Why must he make it sound so…vulgar? Though it was true. She had begged. It wasn’t the first time, and though she knew it shouldn’t have happened in the first place, it wouldn’t be the last.

At that very moment, his hands were on her and she was letting him touch her, arching into him even.

He found his way into her dress-robe, and into her knickers. It was embarrassing how wet she already was. He hummed in smug satisfaction, his breath hot on her throat.

“Waiting for me, were you?”

“No,” she lied, and felt him smile against her skin.

Somehow he’d backed her into the dining room table, and turned her around, so she was bent over it.

Ron was asleep only feet away. She knew she should stop what was about to happen, should have it stopped years ago now.

Once she understood she couldn’t just walk away, she should have ran.

But instead, she gasped, let him spread her legs, and tear her knickers aside.

He dipped his fingers inside her, and she clenched, unable to stop herself. He groaned low in his throat at how ready for him she was.

She stood there waiting, practically dripping onto her kitchen floor, as he fumbled with his belt. Then his cock was at her entrance, hot, and hard. The broad tip of him slowly sank inside, as she gasped, biting her palm to keep from moaning.

“Fuck, Granger,” he breathed into her ear. “Sometimes I think you were made to torment me. But I know for a fact that you were made for me.” He nipped her earlobe, none-too-gently.

“Draco,” she panted. “Harder, please.”

“You can marry him,” he growled, giving her what she wanted, pushing harder into her. He pressed her down against the table, fingers squeezing her hips. “But you’ll never forget about me. My cock, my tongue, the way I make you come. The way I make you feel.”

“Draco…”

Oh gods, he was so deep in her. He made her unmoored, a mess. Every fucking time.

“But what difference does it make?” she managed to choke out. “As if you have any more choice than I do.”

His thumb brushed her clit, first gently, then began to work circles around her swollen, most sensitive area, playing her body in the way that nobody else ever had or likely ever would.

“It makes a huge fucking difference to me,” he gritted out into her ear. She could feel him beginning to throb and pulse within her. Knew it was only a matter of time before he was filling her with his warm spend.

Gods. She craved that feeling, his warmth inside her. Dripping out of her for days to remind her that he’d been there. He was the only one she’d ever let come inside her. 

“You love being fucked like this, don’t you Granger?” he breathed harshly into her ear. “Being reminded of who you belong to. Your perfect little cunt making me come…fuck.”

His hips stilled, his cock throbbing his release inside her.

The feel of his hot seed painting her made her come so hard, she saw white sparks and tears ran down her cheeks.

“That’s it, Granger. Come for me.”

Like always, he broke her apart and put her back together again, always different, never quite the same ever again.

*****

Every time Draco sank into her, she felt herself falling more beneath the surface, to a place she couldn’t come back from. It was a feeling she would do almost anything for.

There were periods of time, short blocks where she could white knuckle it.

Times she traveled with Ron, though she knew it cramped his style, bogging him down when he’d rather be celebrating with his teammates. There were times when she’d travel alone for work, telling no one where she’d be or for how long.

She’d wonder if perhaps she could go cold turkey.

But then someone would have a birthday, a wedding, a baby, a reunion. Another pair of their friends would couple up. And she’d be right back in his orbit, back in his arms, back in his bed.

The longest they made it was two months. Hermione was practically crawling out of her skin by the time Draco finally came to her office and locked the door.

They met in the middle, crashing into each other, tearing at clothes, until he had her against the wall, lifting her up and pushing into her as they both sighed in relief.

Hermione had never cared for substances. She rarely drank, she’d never smoked. But she understood addiction.

Everyone knew that one had to want to stop.

But no matter how many times she tried to stop, she couldn’t bring herself to want to.

*****

“I hate you,” she whispered, back in Pansy’s powder room. “You ruin everything.”

Draco hummed, kissing her neck again.

“I’m already ruined for you, darling.” Then he spread her legs and pushed inside her.

“Fuck, Hermione, you feel so fucking good. How do you feel this good?” he groaned into her neck, holding her tighter, sinking impossibly deeper. “So fucking wet for me. So fucking perfect. It’s not fucking fair.”

It wasn’t.

Not to them.

Not to Ron.

Not to Astoria.

Not to any future children they might have.

The thought made tears spring to her eyes. She knew what came next once Draco was engaged.

A fast-tracked pureblood wedding. The requisite heir. So far, she’d been able to head off any wedding planning. It was lucky for her that Ron seemed as unhurried as she was. Molly had been insufferable but for this, Hermione and Ron were on the same side.

Narcissa, on the other hand, would be…well, she assumed even more insufferable. They’d been planning this wedding since Draco had been a young child.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to force herself back to the present. Of course he noticed her sudden stiffness.

He froze, lifting his face from where he’d been kissing and sucking her breasts. His brow furrowed, and his hand moved to her cheek.

“What is it?”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head, pulling his face to hers, trying to distract him with her mouth. She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t speak it into the air.

All the hotel rooms.

Their friends’ guest rooms or living rooms, long after everyone else had gone to sleep.

The garden at the Burrow after Ginny and Pansy’s engagement party.

Anyone could have caught them, but she hadn’t cared.

All the times she’d hidden behind her office door while Draco fucked her into the rug with his hand over her mouth.

The times she snuck to Malfoy Manor, once a place of nightmares. But these days, lying in his ostentatiously large bed, in the quiet of his room, in his arms, all she could do was dream.

And after every single time, she’d whisper, “Never again.” And he’d chuckle, a dark, knowing, possessive sound.

“Sure, Granger.”

They needed to stop. She knew it like she knew runes. Or the scars on Draco’s chest.

Draco could drag his feet all he liked, but Astoria wouldn’t wait around forever for that promised Malfoy ring.

And where would that leave them?

Ron had been talking about babies since they’d first started dating, but Hermione was responsible with her monthly potion to a fault.

She couldn’t do that to a child—couldn’t bring them into this world, into the home of a mother who wasn’t in love with their father. Who pined for the husband of another woman.

Eventually, she thought, with that sick throb again, another child’s father.

Gods, what had they done?

*****

It was that stupid fucking song that jolted Hermione back to the present. To her twenty-fifth birthday party.

To the moment they began to sing the ratchet happy birthday song she could go the rest of her life without hearing.

Birthdays were an ugly thing now, a reminder of all she’d lost. A reminder of who she no longer was and who she was becoming.

Every time she heard that song, she remembered her childhood, she remembered the night she obliviated her parents. Everything that came after.

Everything that had brought her here, surrounded by all of them. People she loved.

Her best friends.

Her fiancé.

And a man she was deeply in love with who wouldn’t stop looking at her. She both did and didn’t wish he would stop.

That had always been the issue, hadn’t it? The push, the pull.

That line between wanting to stop but not really. Hermione wanted to transport them to another life, one without blood status and old traditions and expectations. Without fame for things they were much too young to be known for.

Theo poured more champagne, though Hermione only wet her lips at the rim. The last thing she needed was a lack of inhibitions. She was trying, trying, trying to do the right thing.

But she could still feel him between her legs, her cunt still tingled, his cum dribbling out into her knickers.

Only moments before, he’d been inside her, just down the hall, with their friends and loved ones none the wiser.

“Leave him,” he’d panted, his breath hot against her neck. “Leave your fucking fiancé.”

“I—I…oh gods, Draco,” she cried out, much too loudly, but she couldn’t fucking think.

His hands held her arse, his grip bruisingly tight, as he fucked her with quick hard grinding thrusts that had her weeping, her entire body trembling, right on the precipice of shattering.

He knew how to keep her right on the edge, knew exactly what it took to break her apart, to make her fall to pieces in his hands.

Perched on the sink, her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, she pulled him down to kiss him. She wanted to shut him up, to make him stop thinking. To stop that sickly dread in her gut at what he was implying.

“I fucking mean it, Granger,” he’d said, his voice a mixture of quiet anguish and pleasure. “Because if you don’t…fuck…if you fucking don’t…”

“Stop thinking,” she whispered out loud. “Just fuck me. Make us both come.”

He ground against her again, and she squeezed the muscles of her cunt, so tight she could see the strain of holding back.

“I’ll have to ask her,” he said through gritted teeth, thumb brushing her cunt, and making her entire body jerk. “And I really, really, really don’t want to fucking do that.”

A shaky breath and then, “I fucking love you, Granger.”

She sobbed as she came, teeth grazing the corded muscles of his neck. She panted and cried into his skin, her nails digging into his back as if she could keep him there by hurting him, as if that wasn’t what they’d been doing all along.

Hurting each other. Hurting others, yes, but hurting themselves the most.

“We need to get back,” she’d realized in a panic.

The dinner party—her birthday party. If everyone hadn’t been so drunk they’d have wondered where she’d got off to.

“They’re still playing,” he explained as if he’d read her mind. “A few others wandered off as well. Nobody knows we’re gone. Or at least not that we’re… together.” His voice dipped on the last word, and something about it, sent a hot jolt of heat straight between her legs.

He groaned as he felt it, and reluctantly pulled out, rivulets of cum dripping out as he did. She stood, squeezing her muscles to keep him inside, then gasped when he turned her around, reaching down between her legs to push the remnants back inside.

Hermione tilted her head at their reflections in the mirror. Draco’s eyes met hers, and the look in his eyes could have stopped her heart.

She might have stumbled were he not there, his arm strong around her waist, holding her up.

“I have you, Granger. I’ll never let you fall.”

Hermione may not have recognized herself, but she knew him. She knew them, together, even if nobody else did.

She put a hand over her mouth to stifle the sob.

“I don’t even know who or what I am anymore,” she whispered. “Whenever I look at myself, I wonder what the fuck I’m doing. Because, Draco…” she heaved in a gasping inhale. “All I see is you.”

He inhaled sharply, brushing her curls off her shoulder, kissing her neck, eyes fierce as they met hers in the mirror. There was nothing he would have said in that moment that she wouldn’t have believed.

“You’re mine, is who you are.”

She exhaled. Nodded.

If there was anything at all that she knew to be true, it was that.

She was his.

He bit his lip as he watched her—watched their reflection—as his fingers slid through the mess between her thighs.

“Yours,” she agreed. But she wanted to cry. She wanted to ask him stupid things, so instead, she clenched around his fingers, hard enough to make him draw a shaky breath. He removed his fingers from inside her, lifting them to his lips and sucking their combined release off of them.

“Mine,” he reiterated, licking his lips in what seemed to Hermione to be more feline than serpent. “But, Granger,” he whispered, kissing her shoulder. “You’re so much more than that. And I’m going to remind you of who you are if it’s the last thing I do.”

After, he fixed her knickers, helped her adjust her dress before straightening his own clothing. Then he cupped her face and kissed her hard.

*****

Hermione arrived back in the dining room first. Draco followed ten minutes later.

In the time they were gone, everyone had gotten progressively drunker. She took the seat next to Ron; Draco slid into the one across from her, beside Astoria.

Under the table, his foot brushed hers, then nudged more firmly. When she didn’t pull away, he bracketed her foot with both of his dragon-hide boots. Their eyes met and he smirked, just a little.

It was a bold move in front of all their friends and their significant others. Hermione didn’t miss Astoria watching them.

Theo and Blaise watched, looking away when Hermione noticed. They would never give away Draco’s secrets—or Hermione’s for that matter—but they knew. And if they knew… who else did?

Hermione pressed her ankle firmly against Draco’s and left it there.

*****

It was someone else’s touch on her leg that unraveled everything.

Later, after the song she hated, and charmed confetti, Pansy brought out a comically large birthday cake once everyone started to sober up.

“Make a wish, Granger,” Blaise said, giving her a loaded smirk when the cake was set down in front of her.

“Shall we have a toast to the birthday girl?” Pansy said, clapping her hands, and everyone’s champagne flutes were suddenly full again.

The ball of dread in her stomach grew.

Ron’s hand found her thigh and Hermione jumped in her seat, just as Astoria laid her head on Draco’s shoulder, her eyes on them.

Hermione stared straight ahead, eyes back on the wall, feeling her heart begin to pound in her chest, anxiety making her vision blur.

It was all wrong. The wrong hand on her, the wrong man lifting a glass in her honor, hand tightening on her thigh. This man was preparing to toast her, while across the table, the man she loved sat stiffly with another woman at his side.

Hermione abruptly pushed his hand away, stomach nauseous, her ears ringing.

It was wrong. .

She stood, fighting the extremely strong urge to Apparate right out of the room, out of the world really.

Suddenly everyone got very quiet. She could feel every pair of eyes on her, waiting, and fought a wave of dizzying nervousness.

Even Hermione had no idea what was about to come out of her mouth.

“I—” she swallowed. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Hermione?” Ron asked, his blue eyes slightly slower than usual, confused. His brow furrowed. “What don’t you want to do?”

Hermione’s breathing sped up. She knew she’d hyperventilate if she didn’t slow it. She’d grown very well-versed in managing her anxiety over the years.

“Us. All of this.” She gestured around them. “I can’t—”

She blinked, looking around the table.

The cake. The champagne. Dean trying not to make eye contact, while Blaise looked on thoughtfully. Ginny, frozen mid-sip, Pansy, with a raised, extremely unsurprised eyebrow. Harry, mouth tight, while Theo whispered in his ear.

Ron, eyes narrowing, slowly putting pieces together. Next to him, Daphne watched the scene quietly. In a different moment, Hermione would have put a few pieces together of her own.

But all she really saw in the moment was Draco watching her, wholly alert, focused entirely on her.

Waiting to see what she needed from him.

For a moment, she was lost in the grey of his eyes, the cautious hope in them spurring them on. She didn’t realize how long they were looking at each other until others started to fidget.

“Malfoy?” Ron said, stunned, looking between them. Draco didn’t take his eyes off Hermione.

Astoria sat up straight, a tired annoyance on her face. “Malfoy?” he repeated. “You want Malfoy?”

“Here we go,” she muttered. “It’s about fucking time.”

Ron turned his attention to Astoria. “And you knew?” Hermione vaguely noticed Daphne leaning toward Ron as if trying to talk him down.

Astoria scoffed. “You’d have to be blind not to.”

“Ron—” Hermione tried, but he wasn’t listening. There wasn’t anything she could say to make this better.

“You’re a slag for a Malfoy?”

“Don’t.” Draco warned, voice like pure ice.

He pushed his chair back and stood as well, making his way toward her. Hermione felt her vision beginning to blacken around the edges.

For so long, she’d been living a lie she didn’t even want, and the thought of it all cracking open was disorienting. Would there be relief on the other side? Perhaps. Perhaps not. There were no guarantees.

But the idea of staying the same, of living such a wrong version of her life—she couldn’t fucking breathe.

“Ron,” Hermione tried again. He looked at her, with a pinched expression.

“With him of all people?” He shook his head. “I understand–some of this. We’ve been together since we were eighteen and…it’s never been easy. But Hermione, I thought you were smart. I had no idea you were so fucking stupid.”

“Don’t fucking call her that,” Draco hissed.

Astoria rolled her eyes. “Please,” she scoffed. “Don’t pretend you’re any better. You used to hate her and everything she stood for.”

“You’re right,” Draco said simply. “But I’m not pretending anything anymore.”

His eyes moved to Hermione, his expression concerned and intense, his fingertips brushing her wrist.

“Granger,” he murmured. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to justify yourself. Not to them. Not to anyone.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Ron asked, scowling, looking from Hermione to Draco and back.

“Ron,” she said simply. “We’ve been over for a long time. You know that.”

He blinked at her. “So what…you’re choosing Malfoy?”

She looked at him, then felt herself leaning into the tall, blonde man at her side. She hadn’t realized she was shivering.

He was so warm. Solid and real, when everything felt like a dream.

“Yes.”

Nobody in the room, aside from Ron, looked particularly surprised.

“I’m choosing him.” Mostly though, she was choosing herself.

*****

At the Manor, in his darkened room, Draco held her through her sobs, kissed away her tears.

“Breathe, love,” he whispered. She buried her face in his neck and inhaled his scent, wrapping herself around him. He held her tighter. “You’re good. You’re so, so good.”

As was always the case with them, an embrace turned into something more, and soon, they were skin to skin, his lips traveling down every inch of her body.

He kissed between her breasts, down her belly, only stopping when his face was between her thighs.

“Open for me, darling.” She did and he groaned seeing how wet and ready she was for him, her cunt swollen and glistening.

Bracketing her thighs, his arms holding her open to him, he began to kiss her there, flicking and stabbing his tongue along her most sensitive spots.

She propped up on her elbows, watching him, head lolling back on a cry.

“Draco,” she breathed, her body weightless. “What if I don’t ever want to stop?”

His eyes met hers.

“Then we won’t stop.”

“What if you want to someday?”

His eyes were silver molten pools as he moved to hover over her, taking his weeping cock in hand, and teasing her folds. She reached for him, gasping when he tapped the swollen tip against her clit once, twice, again.

Merlin, she was so wet, she was practically soaking through the silk sheets of his bed.

Draco smiled at her in a way that only made her wetter. “I won’t.”

With a sharp thrust, he was buried deep inside her and they both sighed. “I could never want to stop.”

Hermione clutched him, hot tears in her eyes as his cock dragged perfectly along every sensitive spot inside her.

“Perfect fucking pussy,” he murmured, watching himself slide in and out of her slick entrance. “Perfect fucking girl.”

Their eyes met and held as he fucked her, in slow, deep, grinding thrusts. She could see in his eyes he was close, could feel it in the way his cock thickened impossibly more.

“Granger,” he groaned. “Hermione. You’re going to make me come.” She keened, tightening around him as her own orgasm built in her womb.

“Don’t pull out,” she begged, though he rarely did. She locked him inside with her legs wrapped around his hips, her clit beginning to pulse. “I’m so close, Draco, don’t go.”

“You want me to fill you up, do you Granger? Want me to flood your pretty cunt? Make you drip with me for days so everyone knows you’re mine?”

“Yes,” she practically sobbed, as every muscle in her body began to tighten.

“Oh fuck, you’re making me come. Here it comes, baby.”

Draco groaned as he spilled inside her, his release shooting hot, thick streams of cum against her cervix. Her cunt contracted and her vision whitened as she came in ecstatic pulses for what felt like forever.

Then after, they curled together, for once, not rushed, no longer hiding.

“Who am I?” she huffed a laugh.

“Well, for one thing, you’re brave, stupidly so.” He kissed her temple.

“You’re beautiful, so fucking beautiful, it makes me ache. Ever since I was a boy and knew I’d never be able to possess you.”

Hermione brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, because your father would have Avada’d us both.”

He sniffed a laugh but didn’t respond. “You care about people. About creatures. About what’s right. Somehow…” he exhaled, “you care about me.”

“I do,” she said, fingers playing with the hair at his nape.

“What about Astoria?” She asked. “What will she do?”

“She’ll be fine.” His voice was fond, both toward Astoria for being strong, and toward Hermione for asking.

“She didn’t ask for any of this. She was only sixteen when the betrothal was first arranged. Someone else will love her. The way she deserves.”

“What about your parents?” she worried. “They hate me. Everything I am.”

He was already shaking his head. “They don’t,” he said. She blinked. “They respect you. They’ve seen all that you’ve done. And they know, even though I tried to hide it from them, what you mean to me.”

He looked at her, eyes soft. “You’re so many things, Granger. You’re everything. But most of all….” he nosed along her jaw.

“I’m yours,” she said, giving him a soft smile.

“Happy birthday, darling,” he murmured, rolling her on to her back, his eyes molten pools of silver. Never had anyone looked at her the way he did. Her heart fluttered as did her core.

His lips met hers, and he dragged her under again, into the only place she wanted to be.

Hermione didn’t know what came next. As with every choice in life, there would be consequences.

But for the first time in years, she wanted to be there, with him, on the other side of twenty-five. 

Maybe, just maybe, birthdays weren't such an ugly thing after all.