Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I love you. I love you. I love you. - DLM

Hermione opened and closed her notebook a hundred times, running her fingers over the ink. Each time she traced the words, a lump formed in her throat. 

She was subdued for most of her visit at the Burrow. 

The next two weeks went by quietly. The warm, lazy days. The pink-orange foam sunsets. Molly’s cooking. Arthur’s worryingly ridiculous questions about Muggle culture. Harry came by almost every day to visit Ginny and stay for dinner. 

While Ron, Ginny, and Harry flew or practised Quidditch, Hermione transfigured some leaves into a blanket to watch them and read on the grassy knolls. Ron offered to take her for a ride, but she always refused.

As she paused her reading to watch them hoot and holler or do loop-de-loops, she wondered if Malfoy could ever be up there with them. It wasn't such a ridiculous notion. They played pick up Quidditch all the time. 

It was at nights that she missed him the most. The warmth of his body which heated up at night; how she turned into his arms and moulded into his chest, willing any space between them to go away; his stable breathing against her ear and in her hair. 

Hermione hadn’t written anything since she received Malfoy’s note. She sobbed on the train until she woke Harry with her shaking shoulders and quiet whimpers. She knew anything less than ‘I love you’ would not do. She did. She really did. She hoped that he understood. She was trying to respect his wishes. 

There were moments that were plagued with insecurity and anxiety. Hermione planned to talk to Healer Lee about it. Out of nowhere, she’d suddenly feel clammy; and her heart raced. Never full blown panic attacks. When the open air in the fields felt too vast without him. The idea of not knowing where Malfoy was and what he was doing sometimes filled her with dread. Other times, her heart just ached. She missed him, his familiar smell ... and his touch. It ached more if there was something she wanted to tell him, or saw something that reminded her of him. 

Logically, she knew it was the stimulation of the vagus nerve. A relic of a survival instinct. 

In one of her early mornings–one of the only times she was truly alone and the Burrow was quiet, she wrote in her journal that Lee suggested she keep.

She resented feeling this way. She wasn’t a clingy girl—anything. He told he loved her. Yet the title seemed so foreign. Simultaneously not enough and too much for what they were. Malfoy was simply hers. For a little while longer, at least. 

Instinct was also what kept her and Ron apart.

It never felt right. She was even more sure of it now. Ron didn’t push anything at the Burrow. Neither did he complain when Hermione stated she was going to sleep in Ginny’s room. She was grateful for that. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione sometimes saw Molly pushing Ron out the backdoor to talk to her–placing a full plate in his hands–so they could share and talk. Staring into his round, hopeful eyes across from him, she felt her heart hollow. Face down werewolves. Voldemort. Sure. But here, she was a coward.  

When she woke up, her hands always reached for Malfoy. She dreamt of soft, white-blond hair brushing against her cheek. His slick sliding against her chest. Legs entangled and pushing against each other. Her fingers skating along his stomach, sliding down to his light wiry hairs. Her nights were restless. She also dreamt of ashes, Bellatrix, fiendfyre, the Astronomy Tower toppling, and Ron and Harry bloodied. The sheets tangled up with sweat, and she threw her head back into the pillows, willing the days to go faster. 

Ron and Hermione took long walks; they played chess; and made their way to Diagon Alley on several nights. Sometimes he held her hand; sometimes she let him. 

One night at the Leaky, they waited for Harry and Gin to join them.

“What courses are you taking next year?” She scooted over the red banquette. 

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“You have to soon. You only have one more week to decide and owl McGonagall’s administrative assistant.” 

Ron rubbed the back of his head, “I ‘unno. I’ll take what you and Harry take, I guess.” 

She admonished him, “Honestly! This is your future. You can’t blindly follow me. I’m planning to take a Healing focus, and as much as you’re a wonderful human being, I don’t think you have the stomach for healing splinched arms and legs.”  

He shrugged, “My Healer said the same thing.” 

“That you shouldn’t be a Healer?” 

“That I should focus on my own future.” 

Hermione packed her trunk quickly. She didn’t have much. The conclusion was already foregone in her mind. Nothing had changed. She was in love with Malfoy. She couldn’t wait anymore. But she couldn’t stay longer, even if she wanted to. Last night, Ron made the decision for her. He didn’t yell or scream; it was worse. He grew quiet and his voice thick, “Why?” He looked betrayed. Haunted.

The two-way notebook laid empty for the past two weeks. Everything she wanted to say seemed so irrelevant or not good enough in response to his declaration. 

It was frustratingly difficult to not talk to him when they’ve been together almost every day for the past eight months. Without realizing it, she came to rely on Malfoy. Malfoy returned to Hogwarts today. She would go back tomorrow. That was enough time, right?

She added another task to her to-do list.

Hermione kissed Molly and Arthur goodbye, thanking them for their hospitality. She promised she would visit them again at Christmas. Molly looked resigned. 

She left when Ron and Ginny were at the shop with George. She couldn't stay around for another inevitable argument. She made some excuse about going back for Head Girl duties. But Harry's unsubtle, piercing stare showed that he didn’t believe her. He tried to convince her to talk to Ron again before she left, but Hermione refused. Harry looked at her disapprovingly – he always wanted to say more, but instead gave her a tight hug and kiss, whispering that he’d see her soon.

Hermione put Crooks in his cage who hissed at her, affronted by the small square footage. She had everything. She double-checked that her notebook was with her, then shrunk her luggage into her beaded bag and headed to the train station. The sun was high and she felt the warmth at the back of her skin. 

The night before she left the Burrow, she opened the notebook. She touched his words again, “I love you. I love you. I love you. - DLM.” Her skin tingled. 

Hermione wrote in the notebook for the first time in two weeks, “I’m returning on the 11am train tomorrow.” 

There was no response. She hated it. She bounced her leg nervously, even though it was a habit her mother tried to dissuade her of. 

She needed something to read. The three texts she brought to the Weasleys were already devoured. 

The Honeydukes Express trolley cart rolled by. 

“Anything off the trolley, dear?” 

“Oh, thank you. I’ll have an iced pumpkin juice, a couple of sugar quills, and a copy …” 

Her voice trailed off. Her mouth ran dry. And her heart thumped painfully in her chest. She fisted her shirt.

The Daily Prophet. 

The headline read, “Ex-Death Eater Malfoy finds true love at last with Greengrass Heiress in France.” 

Hogsmeade train station

He didn’t meet her at the train station. 

Was she expecting him to? Yes, if she were honest with herself. 

Her chest dropped when he wasn’t there. Her hands clung to the newspaper, crinkling in her ink-stained fingers. She didn’t know whether to cry or to burst out in anger. She reminded herself to breathe. 

Why didn’t he respond to her? There probably was an explanation for this. Even if there were, would it always be like this? Was he still in Nord? Did she actually expect the Malfoys to like her? To even accept her? Narcissa – the woman who watched as her sister tortured her? And accept her as what? Draco’s girlfriend? His betrothed? Did he even want her in that way? Did she? What about after Hogwarts? Where would their paths lead? What does ‘always’ mean anyway? 

When Hermione arrived at Hogwarts, she let Crookshanks out first to explore the grounds. He sniffed at her before running after some birds. He would find his way back to the Head Students’ dormitories. 

She dragged her knapsack and luggage back to her room using a feather light charm. She felt tired. Hogwarts was still quiet with few students staying over summer holidays, and the ones who did were probably out in Hogsmeade. 

Malfoy was back. His bags sat in the common room, still unpacked. 

What if he were with Astoria now? Is that why he wasn’t here? 

She saw red. The more she thought, the more her chest tightened. Pacing, she kept making up worse case scenarios. She couldn’t stay in the room. She grabbed her purple satchel and—

Hogwarts

The alcove entrance shifted, and there he was. Tall. White-blonde. Handsome. In casual clothes, if you could call it that. A button down with two top buttons undone and an undone tie. Loose black trousers. He raised one dark eyebrow. 

Hermione froze. She felt the air in the dorm shift. 

His mouth hung slightly agape. He was not expecting her, she realized. Something cold and painful thudded at her chest. 

He didn’t respond to her communique. He’d forgotten about her. Moved on. Went to Astoria. Someone better suited for him. The last year was for nothing.

Her eyes roamed over him. It had only been two weeks–less than –she kept reminding herself. 

Breathe, you idiot. Breathe.
1, 2, 3, 4. Inhale.
1, 2, 3–

There was a loud, cracking sound. And another. And another.

Every flame in the common room – candles, torches, wall sconces, and the antique chandelier above the couch – pulsed high and red. A sudden gust of wind blew from Hermione’s body toward Malfoy’s, throwing him back against the stone wall. 

His eyes grew wide, as he looked upon the flames of her uncontrolled Magic that rode up from her small form on the couch, swirling and sparking from her brown curls. Invisible forces flipped open the kitchenette’s cabinets and ripped them from their latches and hinges. Cracking and breaking apart the wood, splintering and cracking grey granite countertop. 

The granite shattered to the floor, offering a resounding smash to the ground. This drew Hermione out of her Magic-induced haze, and she looked behind her, surveying her carnage. 

This hadn’t happened since she was six.

Mortified, she ran past Malfoy out of the dorms. 

Malfoy froze, unaware of what transpired or why. 

What the ever-loving fuck—

Granger didn’t even bother to look at him when she ran out. He drew his wand and cast a quick Tergeo spell to clean up most of the rubbish. The room was still in disarray. "Repararo," he muttered. Cabinets that were pulled apart from their hinges and the shattered granite moved back into their original positions, but he couldn’t be bothered to do much else.

Granger was a fright.  

For a second, he wondered why he was not vexed about her outburst. As he passed the couch and coffee table to get a closer look at the kitchenette damage, he saw the Daily Prophet laying waywardly on the couch , wrinkled and tear stained. 

The Hogwarts grounds were quiet and sparsely populated, but the castle seemed to breathe light in the warm summer air. The sun was high in the sky. He tried to think of the different places she’d be–library, Quidditch Stands, Black Lake, Astronomy Tower. He went to all of them. She was nowhere to be found. He walked the corridors of each floor. Hogwarts seemed to be having a bit of fun with him. 142 staircases, some rickety and creaky, some grand and sweeping, changing directions and swivelling when he tried to get from one landing to another. [1]

He was in no mood. The sun outside was setting. He’d been on this wild goose chase for houses.

Maybe he should head back to their dorms. She had to come back sometime. 

“You there, Malfoy boy!” His head shot up sharply. 

It was Barnabas the Barmy beckoning him from the seventh floor, pushing away the trolls in his tapestry. 

“Don’t call me, boy,” Malfoy growled, standing on the sixth floor platform. It reminded him too much of Voldemort. 

“You looking for a lost Witch? About yay high? Big puffy hair?” 

“Yessss,” he hissed. 

“Noisy crier, that one,” Barnabas complained. Malfoy scoffed. 

Barnabas stepped back from his portrait frame and bowed. It only took a few more seconds for Malfoy to catch up. 

Room of Hidden Things. 

He hesitated for a second, remembering his Sixth-year in there fixing the Vanishing Cabinet. The sleepless nights. The loneliness. He couldn’t eat. Gaunt and dark undereye circles on his already thin frame. Honestly, he never gave much thought to the room after Crabbe blew it up.

A heaviness settled over his chest, and he almost choked at the unexpected thickness lodged in his throat. 

He heard rumours that the Room, like the Castle, was near-sentient and could fix itself. Malfoy walked across the enchanted tapestry three times, thinking about Granger, and the door appeared. 

As he passed through the Barnabas’s tapestry and door, a slight hum of Magic flowed through him–a not-unpleasant feeling of electricity raising the hairs on his forearms.

Malfoy was instantly transported back to Sixth-Year. The Room of Hidden Things looked different. While there were still hundreds of dusty old items in there, in the centre sat a large chaise lounge with Granger’s form lying atop of it. Her chest rose up and down steadily; her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t asleep. As he walked toward her, she felt a warm sensation, like a breeze filling the room. Her eyes immediately darted open, but she didn’t focus on him yet.  

A small fire burned in the hearth, even though it was the dog days of summer. The flames pulsed higher as he approached.

He sat down beside her, and touched her forehead, moving away some tendrils stuck to her sweaty forehead. The couch dipped under his weight, causing Granger to turn toward him and blink slowly. She sniffed and sat up with her back flushed to the chaise, bending her knees to her chest to protect herself against him. 

“I found you,” he said quietly. She snorted. “Let’s talk.” He sighed heavily. “It isn’t what it looks like.” Hermione’s eyes flashed gold. 

At his words, her hands sparked red embers. Waves of Magic flooded her chest. Uncontrolled. She yelped in surprise, as her fingertips burst into flames that licked around her palms, but it didn’t hurt. She watched her hands in wonder, then turned a hard stare at Malfoy, “You want to talk, so talk.” 

“Why didn’t you write me the last two weeks?” he inquired blandly, but his eyes was directed at his shoes. Malfoy didn’t look at her. It was too much. 

Hermione seemed to sparkle as she sat up, her hair gaining height as red-gold sparks flew and scattered around her curls. “What the fuck, Malfoy?! That’s what you want to talk about? Are you actually–blaming right now! Is that why you took up with her? ” she sneered.

“I didn’t–”

"–That’s not what it looks like! Skeeter may be a right cunt, but those pictures had to come from somewhere. It’s all over the Prophet . I’m such a fool. I’m so fucking embarrassed. I thought you said you couldn’t even leave the estate. Is that another thing you lied about–just like you lied about loving me? You want to keep a regular shag at Hogwarts, while you traipse all over Europe with your betrothed Pureblood Witch?”

Malfoy’s features darkened. “I thought you knew me better by now,” he clipped.

“I thought I did too,” she retorted. “But I haven’t seen you deny anything so far.” She gripped her knees tighter against her body.

“You’re so ready to believe the worst in me.” That was not the response Hermione was expecting. She stared at him, trying to understand what went wrong. Her eyes bore into the side of his head. Malfoy was still staring at his shoes. Her fire-sleeves tamped down. [2] 

Then she backed away from him on the chaise, “No! No, you don’t get to use that against me. You don’t get to tell me I ought to know you better when I come back, giddy at the prospect of telling you I love you, and I see you, along with every other Witch and Wizard in Great Brain, on the front page of a country-wide newspaper practically discussing your nuptials. This is not conjecture, Malfoy. When were you planning to tell me?” 

Malfoy drew in a sharp breath, “You love me.”

Her face turned back to him for a second, “Am I not supposed to?” 

“I don’t know, Granger. Do you? You didn’t respond to me for almost two weeks. You were at the Burrow with your ex-boyfriend.” 

“Y-you fucker!” She jumped up and paced in front of him. “I knew–I KNEW you would hold it against me. You told me not to! It was one of your sick tests, wasn’t it? Is that it? I didn’t respond, so you don’t have to feel guilty about fucking the first Witch you see in France? Goddamnit, Malfoy. It was two weeks!” The last two words trickled out of her mouth in almost whisper, trying to hide her voice breaking.

“Are you done?”

Her eyes narrowed, “Don’t act like I’m being irrational. I’m not being a jealous girlfriend. Just because you’re not saying anything doesn’t make you more mature or that you have a better handle on this. I will not be made the other woman; and I will not accept this.” Malfoy didn’t say anything.  Hermione gestured to the door, “Get out.”

Malfoy didn’t move from his spot. His expression remained neutral except for the momentarily flash of silver she caught.  

“Fine, you won’t go? Then you will listen. You drop this bombshell on me. You don’t allow me to say it back, even though you knew I wanted to. It was supposed to be a happy moment– the happiest moment–but you had to twist it into something you could control and manipulate . Now you blame me for not knowing how to write to you when you asked me not to say anything. I just wanted to respect your wishes.” She waved her hands dismissively, “It doesn’t matter. It’s all ruined, anyway. We’re done.” 

“I have never even looked at another Witch since we’ve been together. I didn’t need to,” he snarled. “I would hope you have more faith in me. But whatever I’ve done; whatever trust I’ve gained from you this past year is clearly fickle. No matter what I do. It’s all for naught, isn’t it when you just want to believe the worst in me. You just want to run back to what you think you know–what’s safe and comfortable. Like the Weasel ,” he sneered.

“Do walk on! You’re saying you wouldn’t be upset if you saw me on the cover of Witch Weekly with Harry? And I don’t see you denying anything, Malfoy.”

He reached out to her, gripping her wrist tightly. “I do , and I hate it. But I don’t bring it up,” his voice tight and gritted through his teeth.

Her eyes flared. “Don’t touch me,” Hermione warned. Red sparks emitted from her fingertips again. Electric jolts painfully coursed through his veins, but he held on. “I’m telling you, Malfoy. Let. Go.” She ripped away from his grip. Her eyes roamed along his hands. They were red from her accidental Magic: bleeding, cracked, and peeled. His beautiful hands. Long and dextrous. Like a pianist. Or a Healer’s. He didn’t flinch. His stare remained on her pink-rimmed eyes. 

The words seemed to have the desired effect, though. She stopped moving and stood halfway between the door and the chaise. “You didn’t have to do it like that,” she said quietly. 

“Like what?” 

“Tell me you loved me before you left.” 

He winced for the first time. 

“It would have been kinder to let it go. We could have kept a nice memory of what we had. I would have appreciated you telling me you were betrothed. But that’s not what Slytherins do, isn’t it? They have to make sure every angle is covered. What if the negotiations didn’t work out? Need to come back and have regular shags with the Head Girl–” 

“What are you even saying?” 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Malfoy. The Daily Prophet said you’re betrothed to Astoria Greengrass ,” she said her name as if it pained her to articulate those syllables. 

“The Daily Prophet is rubbish.” 

“I know what I saw. You weren’t on a date with her?” 

He didn’t respond. 

“I thought so. Can you please go now?” 

“Granger …”

“Can you just–” 

“Granger …”

“Please, Malfoy.” 

“Why didn’t you write to me?” 

“I did! You didn’t respond. Not that it matters, I saw the paper today on the train. Were you even going to tell me?” Her voice was small and meek.  

Malfoy looked her over. “I wouldn’t …” he trailed off.

“I don’t know if you would, Malfoy! That’s the point! What am I supposed to think? A picture of you with another Witch while you told me you were visiting your mother!” 

“I can’t control what Skeeter writes or anyone else for that matter! Bloody hell. I knew Skeeter as an Animagus thing would come back and bite me in the arse,” Malfoy muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. [3]  

“No, you can’t. But you can control your actions. You were on a date with another woman!” 

“Nothing happened! I didn’t touch her. I barely spoke to her. “My mother blindsided me with the Greengrasses during brunch. Then I showed them the gardens while my mother and her were five feet from us, but Skeeter didn’t include that in the picture. When I got there, Astoria–”

“Don’t you dare say her name to me!” she spat, knowing full well that her demand was ridiculous.

Her resolve crumbled a little. “I’m allowed to have questions when I see a picture of you on a date with another woman.”

“I’m asking you to trust that I wouldn’t do that. I’m not–I’m not the one who puts themselves on the line and waits for two weeks to hear–”

“So you resent me? Isn’t that rich? When I tried, however many times, to tell you it back?” 

“When has the Golden Girl actually ever listened and shut her mouth?! All you had to do–”

“You’re impossible! If I’d known you were going to thrown that in my face, I’d never–”

“–Never what, Granger?”

“I wouldn’t have come back early!” she hissed. “All I wanted to do was tell you for the past two weeks was that I loved you. Why is this so difficult?! Why can’t–” She sat back down clumsily on the couch and hid her face between her bended knees.

Malfoy’s eyes softened. “You love me?” 

She smiled sadly at him, “That’s not enough, is it?”

Malfoy looked at her incredulously, “What wasn’t pictured in the background was my mother, Adorabella Greengrass, and Daphne.”

“A chaperoned date. How traditional and proper.” 

He snorted. 

“So it wasn’t a date? You could have led with that.” 

Malfoy was silent. 

“It was? Speak, Malfoy! I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m not a Slytherin! I’m not as adept at Occlumency as you are!” 

He took a deep breath.

“My mother set it up. I was an unwilling participant. Astor– She was helping me pick some herbs for some potions I’ve been toying with in my potions lab.There are degrees of truth to that article. She wants to set me up with the Greengrasses, because it will help consolidate our vaults and keep the Malfoy line going.” 

Hermione moved back as if slapped. “I’m not interested in the details of your date,” she sneered. “Right then.” She smoothed down her skirt, trying to keep her hands busy and her voice from trembling. “It doesn’t change the fact that it was a date and that it’s out there for the public to consume. You’re betrothed, for all intents and purposes. And what am I? Your dirty little secret until you graduate? Then what? You get married right afterward. There must be something to be said for Pureblood Wizards. You never have to go without–”

“–You trust Skeeter? Over me?”

“I believe what I saw! Did you say you’re not going to marry her?” 

“I had to be polite.” 

“Did you now?” She cocked one eyebrow up. 

“I said I’m not interested.” 

“That’s not good enough!” She balled her fist and slammed it into the couch cushion.

“What?!” 

“Because your family is going to keep setting you up with other Witches! And I’m what–just supposed to be here waiting for you as your dirty little Mudblood secret at Hogwarts while you go on dates?” 

“Don’t–I broke off negotiations with Pansy! For you! Why would this one be any different?” 

That stunned her. But as Hermione processed what Malfoy said, her Magic crackled once more. Her near-sentient hair glowed a dark red. “Don’t you dare fucking say that. It’s not even true. You don’t get to pawn Pansy off on me; we weren’t even–” She stalked toward the door. 

“You’re running off again? Hm?! It’s really putting a kink in your plans, to act all sanctimoniously and high and mighty, isn't it? What would the Golden Girl be if she didn’t thumb her nose down at a former Death–” 

“–Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!” she shot back without turning around.

He followed her from the couch. His long legs quickly overtook her and his arms encircled her waist to force Hermione to face him. “Stop trying to leave and pay attention to me.” 

Malfoy didn’t plan on saying that. He wanted to say “talk to me.” As soon as the words flew out of his mouth, he felt sick. Sick that he made such a childish and needy demand. He was just so sick of her not believing in him. 

“Don’t touch me!” She struggled against his hold.

“What–you’re going to hit me with your Magic again?!”

“I can’t control it!” 

“Don’t. Hurt me.” 

Hermione stopped struggling. She stared at him, “What?” They both breathed heavily, a few inches away from each other. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m not going to–” 

“Make me hurt like you hurt.” 

She scoffed, but she was scared. “N-no. Stop it, Malfoy.” He grabbed her hands and her fingers sparked once more. Duller this time. “Stop it!” She backed away from him and took out her wand twirled in her hair. He was prepared for a spell to hit his chest, but she flicked her wand and quietly incanted “ Ferula.” His hands were wrapped in bandages.  

The air inside the Room of Hidden Things suddenly was sticky and suffocating. Hermione’s stomach lurched. “I’m going to be sick. I need to get out of here.” Her eyes looked pained, staring at his hands. She reached for the door, but his hand shot out to grab her by the waist again. 

“We’re not done talking,” Malfoy declared. 

“Yes, we are.” 

“No, we’re not.” He pulled the crook of her elbow in for a rushed kiss. 

Her eyes hardened, as she searched his face … for something. She didn’t close her eyes. The golden specks in her pupils turned dark. She drew her lips into a thin line, breaking their kiss and any further attempts. 

Malfoy tried to grab her back to the chaise lounge. When she widened her stance– such an inelegant Muggle thing to do –he flipped her up over his shoulders and carried her back. 

“Malfoy! I am not an object. Put me down!” She pounded on his shoulder blades. He smacked her arse. She shrieked indignantly.

“You’re mine,” he growled. 

“I'M MY OWN! I’ve been on my own for the last two years.”

“No, you haven’t!” 

He threw her down on the chaise. Both of them panted, their chest heaving. Their cheeks were flushed from the exertion. Hermione couldn’t ignore the tug in her lower abdomen. Malfoy pulled her face to his, cupping the sides of her head. “You want to be mad at me, fine. Scream at me. Bite me. Blow up our dorms. But don’t you dare act like I haven’t been there with you. Like I haven’t held you when you’re having nightmares or lying sick on the floor for the past year. Like I haven’t cleaned your face from your nose bleeds.”

“You’re going to throw that back in my face? I’m so sorry that we're still fucked up from the war,” her voice dripped with adolescent malice. 

“No, you fucking idiot. I would do it again. A thousand times over. Just don’t–don’t act like I have been there,” he muttered. His left hand swept through his hair as he looked away from her glare. 

Hermione tapped down her instinct to wrap him in a hug. To mould herself into him. She wished she were a permanent stain on his chest, so he would carry her with him always. “We’re going around in circles. Your parents are setting you up with eligible Witches. To the world, you’re as good as engaged. There’s nothing else to talk about, Malfoy. What else is there to say? You’re going to get married. If not to Astoria, to some other Pureblood Witch. We were just buying time. The Daily Prophet just made me face reality sooner than I wanted to.”

“Don’t say that.” 

“The truth? C’mon, Malfoy. It hurts terribly, but I understand. You do what you need to do to keep your family together. I’m not going to ask you to choose. Remember?” 

“I didn’t agree to it. I was ambushed by Mother and Adorabella. I accompanied her to the greenhouse and back. That’s it.”

“At what point of the negotiations are you?” she spat. It was a low blow, but she couldn’t help it. 

“Beginning stages. We are to court publicly first by being seen at particular galas and political functions and get to know each.” Malfoy didn’t blink. Hermione felt like someone punched her in the left tit. They were silent for a while. “I’m not marrying Astoria.” 

“You will!” she stomped. He looked at her confused and bewildered. “You want to have this conversation; here it is. I hate it. I hate that we have to talk about this. Because it makes me seem like I want–And we aren’t even–You will want to marry her eventually. Because it’s easier. And you don’t have to justify yourself at every turn. When this isn’t enough–”

“–Don’t presume to know what I want, Grang–”

Hermione continued to talk over his interruption, “When this–whatever this is–the star-crossed lovers thing wears off. You’re going to resent me–H-how do you know you won’t resent me? Do you actually think your parents are going to allow you to be with me–a Mudblood? Not even as a w-wife,” she stuttered at the word. “But as someone you take out with your friends? Gods know I can’t even sit at the Slytherin table.” 

“Do you want to?” 

The innocence in his question caught her off guard. “That’s not the point.”

“That’s precisely the point, Granger. You want me to sit at your stupid Gryffindor table?! Is that it? Is that what this is all about? You say you're my dirty little secret. But what about you? You ever going to tell Scarhead and the Weasel?!”

“You aren’t! And don’t you dare turn this around on me. Harry knows, okay? Ginny and Ron.” His grey-blue eyes flickered with triumph for a second. “Your parents are going to disown you. Maybe get gelded or something. Burned off the Malfoy tapestry or whatever you Purebloods do for breaking tradition. That’s what happened to Andromeda! I’m just trying to do what’s inevitable. So please, just let me keep a bit of my dignity.”  

Malfoy is unfazed. He almost sneered at her, “You want to break up with me and tell me you love in the same breath.” 

Her eyes narrowed like she found him irritating. 

“I thought about it. There was a lot of downtime in between walking around the Nord estate and waiting for a message that never came-she rolled her eyes-Theo was right. Father is not going to disinherit me. He may threaten it but they would not risk the vaults going to the Black family or defaulting to the Ministry,” Malfoy’s eyes grew cold. 

She snorted. “Just because Theo has the misfortune of having Nott Sr. as a father doesn’t mean he’s the expert on son and daddy issues.” Hermione’s offhand comment suggested a familiarity with Theo that he wasn’t quite comfortable with, but he tamped that feeling down.

Another time. 

“But it doesn’t change the fact,” Hermione said quietly.

“Of what?” 

“That your family won’t stop setting you up with Pureblood heiresses from all over the Wizarding World. We haven’t even–And I’m supposed to –”

“What, Granger?” 

“This is too difficult!” she whined. “It’s hard not to come off like–if we continue this path–and it’s wayyyy too soon. Like I really am crazy. And of course not. We’re only 19. What if you don’t want me after–I don’t even–I need to stop talking before I say anything–” Her heart leapt into her throat. Malfoy let her ramble, even though he couldn’t quite make sense of what she was saying, but he got the gist.

The edge of his mouth folded into a small smirk. “What made you think that I wouldn’t want you?” 

“Besides the British Wizarding World’s most prominent paper saying you were someone else’s?” He frowned. “Don’t get mad at me for trying to make sense of this situation. You shouldn’t have to make those sodding decisions, like risking your … for a high school roman–” 

He swallowed. “Yes, I do,” he said roughly. 

“Well, that’s stupid, Malfoy!” He scowled at her. “What if I don’t let you?”

Malfoy’s eyes flickered. One thing he didn’t anticipate. He didn’t do well with surprises. He moved closer to her, trying to intimidate her. He became obstinate. “You wanted this, Granger,” he growled. "You fucking wanted me. Now you got me. I’m in. I chose you. If you want to run, run now.” [4]

His tall form crowded her space, and her body instinctually reacted at his closeness. For the first time in hours, she grew shy and speechless. Her cheeks tinged with pink.

“I. Told. My. Mother," he finally added.

That shut her up. 

She smoothed down her skirt again, looking embarrassed. “Oh, well, why didn’t you lead with that?” 

“Between the five seconds before you ran from me and when you wanted to blow me up?” 

Hermione shrugged, “It’s not like I could control it.” She stared into his eyes, trying to look for some kind of hesitation or deceit. Perhaps expecting or hoping for some? She couldn’t find any, only his grey-blue eyes boring into hers. If she didn’t know him so well, one might mistake his cold stare for anger. She supposed she made him angry too. 

Without warning, he gripped both her wrists and waist, and dragged her against his body, cuffing his long limbs around her until they both were flushed against one another and lengthwise on the couch. She squirmed and struggled, finding her movements stiff against his familiar scent of warm mahogany, earthly sweet leather, and fresh mint. 

“I hate this,” she said into his shoulder, then bit it. 

“OW, Granger!” 

She didn’t apologise. “I hate that everyone thinks you’re engaged.” He dug his chin into the top of her fluffy head. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest. Or maybe it was the other way around. 

“Yes,” he agreed. “But I’m not. I’m yours.” 

“I hate you.” Muffled. 

“Of course,” he drawled. It was a joke, but it hurt a little. 

“I love you.” A small, meek voice vibrated against the column of his throat. Feeling uncomfortable at the vulnerability she displayed, she shifted and tried to burrow into his chest.

“What?” He pulled away from her a little to get a better look at her face. 

“You heard me.”

“Say it again,” he demanded.

“No.”

“Say it.” 

“I hate you.” 

“The other thing. Granger …” he warned. 

“I love you. I love you. I love you. Okay?”

“Granger, I lov–” 

The verbal diarrhea unleashed itself, “I love you, Draco. I don’t like that it was tainted by the Daily Prophet … I was coming back on the train so happy to tell you … then I was thinking the worst things. Nothing seemed right to tell you in the notebook, because nothing could top what you wrote. And I didn’t want to make it seem like I was disregarding what you were feeling by discussing mundane things like Molly’s dishes or Charms. So I thought I would wait to tell you when I got back. I’m sorry if it made you feel like I didn’t want to talk to you. Then I come back on the train to see you on the cover of a newspaper on a date with a beautiful Pureblood Witch. And I’m scared and angry and jealous. I don’t want to lose you. But I don’t know what the future will bring. And you have family to worry about, and I–I wish I told you before. I already knew. But I j-just wanted to be respectful. I love you. I do. A lot, okay?”

She blinked against his shirt, seeing and feeling nothing but soft, dark fabric. She was not going to cry. 

Malfoy tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “Granger, I love you. I shouldn’t have made you feel bad about not writing. I wanted you to be sure. I got mad and I was waiting–And it turned into this.” 

“You’re mine, Draco.” Her hands gripped tighter around his shoulders.

Malfoy nodded, “I love you.” He closed in to leave a soft, sticky kiss along her lower lip. 

They closed their eyes and rested for hours. Trading their breaths for each other’s. Not sleeping. Not fucking, although she felt him hard and long along her thigh. Just tracing their fingers across the hard planes and curves along each other’s bodies. His hands untucked her shirt from her skirt and trailed up her tummy. Trying to get as much skin to skin contact as possible. He sighed at the familiar warmth of her body, a deep, aching need lifted from his shoulder. His legs clamped around hers, not allowing her to move away from him.

Malfoy whispered into her hair, words she hadn't heard uttered since their first night together. “You’re mine. You’re not alone. You’re mine.” She allowed herself to believe him. She could have this for now.   

They swayed to no music in front of the fireplace, his hands cupping her lower back and arse. The embers burned low. She pressed her head against his chest, “I wrote to you yesterday. You didn’t respond.” 

“What’d you write?” 

“That I was coming back early. Telling you what train I’m on.” 

“I left some books and my notebook in my potions lab. Artemis will be bringing them back shortly,” he said matter-of-factly. 

Hermione let out a relieved exhale, despite herself. “Oh. Well, at least that’s something. You have a potions lab?” 

“Nothing like the ones in Wiltshire. But it’ll do,” Malfoy said nonchalantly. “I would have been at the station if I’d known,” he added quietly. She drew back and appraised him like Crookshanks.

“You would have,” she agreed hesitantly, trying to settle more securely into his embrace. Him. Their relationship. The thoughts sounded foreign to her. Her hands still shook as they wrapped around the nape of his neck. “You gave me a rather big fright today. I’m still coming down from it,” she said jokingly.

“Worse than …” he said with a smirk. 

“Oh, right. I suppose that’s how you know you have me like a smitten kitten, Malfoy. Aren’t you special?” She pushed off her tiptoes to whisper into his ear, “Instead of Bellatrix's 'Mudblood,' perhaps I should have your name etched into–” she said in a half-cajoling fashion but it was tinged with truth. Gallows humour, Healer Lee called it.

He froze in their soft sways. His eyes turned a steel grey, and his neck muscles pulled taut. His fingers grew cold. Hermione watched Malfoy turn into a statue. 

“I haven’t got any options! I’ve got to do it! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill my whole family! You don’t know what I’m capable of, you don’t know what I’ve done!” Hand shaking, wand trembling. Screaming inside his mind. Someone behind him whispers. Bony fingers curled around his waist. “Do it, Draco. Kill him. For the family. [5] 

“Hey, hey. Draco. Draco, come back,” she said softly. “I’m here. You’re here. Look at me. Can you see me?” Hermioned tapped her finger on his sternum in time with his heartbeat. She took her wand and whispered a Glacius charm onto a small pillow from the chaise, freezing it. She placed it in his hands, as she rubbed the back of his neck. “Can you feel this? Tell me what you feel. Describe it to me.” 

This wasn’t the first time Malfoy got into an episode. She read up on this. 

Dissociation? She wasn’t a psychiatrist. She never knew what set him off. Sometimes it was a whisper or a touch. Sometimes a word. She assumed the memory was related to Voldemort, but she never pried. He would tell her if and when he was ready. She knew touch helped. The cold too.

She continued to rub his neck until he relaxed. 

Hermione led him back to the chaise lounge, and laid him down. She cocooned him in her arms, pressing her forehead against his. He let her clasp his face in both her hands. Something warm sparkled under her touch. She proceeded to lightly brush against the space between his eyebrows until his breath grew steady. He pressed his nose against her neck and hair until he fell asleep. His familiar scent of warm mahogany and earthy leather permeated through her skin. As he napped, she played with his fingertips, rebandaging his hands and healing more of his wounds with her Magic. Then when she was sure he was asleep, she followed him. Hermione fell into a deeper sleep than she had in weeks. 

They walked hand-in-hand along the corridors back to the Head Student dormitories. They didn’t say much. Few students passed by, and barely batted an eye at them. Probably because it was dark. Or maybe they didn’t care, Hermione surmised. It wasn’t until they turned the corner to see Theo’s tall, lean form leaning heavily against a classroom door and a smug expression plastered on him. 

“Theo,” Malfoy quipped. 

“Drake.” A slow grin grew across Theo’s face. He nodded toward their clasped hands, “Granger.” 

A warmth spread all over her cheeks. 

Never had someone said so little with such a big impact on her. 

Theo opened his mouth to say more, but Malfoy dragged her up the staircase, which mercifully swung away from the dark-haired Wizard, “Sod off, Theo. We’re busy.” 

The second they walked into their dormitories, a flurry of damp skin, clumsy limbs, and wrinkled fabric meshed together. She didn’t know who moved first. She ran her hands across his face, pulling him to her. She let out a light cry in his face, simultaneously feeling like her chest was cracking open and hot liquid pooling around her lower abdomen. 

Their kisses were hurried and sticky. Trying to push and pull one another for no other reason than to feel each other under their burdensome clothes. Any distance was too much. 

Malfoy walked Hermione back to the couch until the back of her knees hit the furniture, letting out an “Oof” into his mouth. Then he flipped her over his shoulders– again –and walked purposely to her bedroom.

“Malfoy!” 

“Shut up. Now we’re going to stay here. We’re going to sleep here. Every night. Together. And I’m going to fuck you. Every night,” he said commandingly. She felt herself ache inside at his words. Her chest caved and that indescribable Magic between them sparkled and pulled taut. 

He threw her onto the bed. His eyes were dark and predatory. Hermione leaned back on her elbow, watching him impatiently unbutton his shirt. She could see him straining against his trousers. She reached out and slid a hand against his torso, unbuckling his belt and zip. Hermione slipped her hand inside and grabbed onto his cock. His knees immediately buckled. Before she could slide along his length, his hand shot out to stop her. 

Malfoy pulled her hand out of his pants and skated up her arms to the back of her neck.  

He then loomed over her body on their bed, his legs bracketing her hips. He looked into her eyes and sighed lowly, his own were sparkling. Her hand skated up the side of his face. She couldn't say anything. If she did, the lump in her throat told her she would cry. Tears already tugged at the edges of her vision. 

So she pulled him down for a deep kiss, tangling her tongue with his. Pouring everything she couldn't say into it.

He moaned against her mouth. Hermione took this temporary distraction and hooked her ankle around his, pushing him down on the bed. He smiled mischievously as she straddled him. 

“You’re mine,” she rubbed her cheek against his neck muscles, then licked up his throat and kissed him again. 

“Fuck–yes” he whispered against her mouth. Malfoy returned the favour. It felt as though her entire body was bathed in his Magic. She could live for this. This–this was enough. It was more than enough. 

Hermione sighed against his ear, and licked his lobe. Then she had a wicked idea. She gently pulled Malfoy’s tie from side to side, loosening the backend. She slipped a finger into the Windsor knot, undoing it and curling the silk around her hand. 

Hermione’s expression turned feral and dark. She practically ripped the rest of Malfoy's shirt off, kissing along his neck and chest. Then she pushed his back into the bed. He didn’t fight her.

He smirked, “This is surprisingly sexy, Granger.” 

“Shut up.” 

She kissed him. A long, languid kiss, opening his mouth slowly. Changing from probing to possessive. Their noses brushed against one another and their mouths slotted together. Her lips pushed harder against his, licking over his teeth and nipping his tongue and bottom lip. She pulled away from his mouth, leaving him breathless. She continued her trail of wet kisses from his cheeks, jaw, stomach, until she reached the wiry blonde hairs beneath his belly button. She wanted to lick him all over until he was drenched in her.

Hermione–still straddling his hips–fussed with his belt and trousers, pulling them down to his ankles. Malfoy kicked them off.

A familiar CLINK from the belt, as his clothes hit the ground. Malfoy was now entirely naked with Hermione on top of him, fully clothed. He couldn't help but thrust up into her against her knickers. She moaned softly at the friction between his naked length and her dampening knickers. Upon his thrust, her hands reached out to balance herself on his stomach. 

Malfoy watched her intently. She looked angry and possessive. Her hair crackled. And he liked it. She laved Malfoy’s pelvic bone, causing him to moan and clutch at her hair. She inched down his torso to focus on his hard cock pushing up and against his stomach. She enveloped the entire head with her hot, wet mouth. Her unruly hair blocked Malfoy’s line of sight. He didn’t like that. So he gathered her hair in a makeshift ponytail to watch her devour his cock. 

She licked along the entire length of his shaft, breathing hot, damp air on his cock as she used her dripping drool to stroke him slowly and steadily-in the motion that he prefers-gripping firmly at the base and twisting at the head. Drawing him in a hot gaze, she held his stare as she took him as deeply as she could. Until he hit the back of her throat. She kept his cock there as long as she could. Pushing her throat into him, letting her spit dribble down and her eyes water. He groaned and dropped his head back. She finally released him and bobbed on the head, sucking gently and tracing along the thick vein underneath his shaft. She timed her licks with her strokes, the collected moisture on the base of his cock acting as slip for her hand movements. She let him go with a slight POP of her mouth. 

“Fucking hell,” he cried out.

 She gave him a half smile before moving back up to straddle his hips. 

“Let me taste yo–”

“No.” 

Hermione took his tie that had been left to the side of their bed and wrapped the fabric around both his wrists. Before she went any further, she asked tentatively, “Is this okay?” 

“Whatever you want, Granger,” he breathed. She shivered at his words.

She positioned his hands up and on either side of his head. With a tap of her wand and a quiet whisper of an extension charm, the tie lengthened and she knotted his wrists tightly behind the metal bars of the headboard. As she reached over him to complete her task, Malfoy lifted his head to lick her sternum, the undersides of each breast, and her nipples as they passed up and across his face. Each lick rewarded him with a small moan.. 

Hermione looked down at Malfoy–the man she loves–tied up, naked and hard beneath her. She didn’t know what came over her.

No, that was a lie. She knew. The jealousy. The possessiveness. The threat of losing him. The fear of him choosing a Pureblood Witch over her. That she wasn’t good enough. 

He met her smouldering gaze. And she is wet. So wet. 

She pressed her mouth against his body. There wasn't a spot on him that her hands or mouth do not travel, explore, or kiss. His left side is more ticklish. He shuddered when her tongue lapped up the sweat between the shell of his ear. He didn’t like her touching his armpit. He squirmed when she licked the hair beneath his belly button. His toes curled when she breathed on his perineum. Hermione tried to commit each movement and sound to memory. 

Because she loved him. So much that she felt like her chest could burst. But also because she’s scared that one day she will not have him. That life or responsibilities will take him away. And he will forget her. She couldn’t help but feel this-all this-was temporary.    

His grey-blue eyes matched hers in intensity and intent. With his hands bounded, Hermione touched, squeezed, sucked, bit, and licked every inch of him. Scratching down his chest with her short nails. Scraping her teeth against each nipple, then kissing them soothingly. She was still dressed in her casual T-shirt and skirt. She kissed him fiercely. With fire. While digging her fingers into his hips and sliding up and down his body. Then she leaned back against her haunches, slipping her hands underneath her knickers. She dipped a finger in and started touching herself. The white cotton fabric blocked his view of her movements. 

It is this–this movement that caused Malfoy to growl and rattle the headboard, bucking up his hips, and trying to push forward and break the binds. She wondered if the knot would stay. 

He grunted out, “L-let me see.” 

With gods knows where the courage came from, she did. Pulling her knickers aside, she continued moving a finger in and out. Slowly. Each slide, making a wet, obscene sound. Then she added a second finger, stretching her walls. They both let out a groan. After a few more pumps, she pulled them out. Her fingers glistened under the final light of the day from the window. She wanted to try something. So she put the fingers back into her mouth, tasting herself for the first time without Malfoy prompting. Slightly tangy with a liquidy musk. 

“FUCK!” Malfoy managed to get out. “Put … mouth.” His broken sentences made her feel triumphant. 

So she did.

Hermione brought her fingers to his mouth, while her head dipped lower and kissed his chest, her tongue licking around each nipple in messy, open-mouthed kisses. 

“Come up here,” he groaned. She moved up and kissed the corners of his lips. Malfoy stuck his tongue out, licking her cheeks and any part of her salty skin he could reach. Finally. FINALLY. She kissed him. He opened his mouth readily–intermingling their juices between them. She shuddered. 

He kept thrusting his hips forward and up. She ached and dripped for him. She crawled up his chest and onto his face, her knees on either side of his head. Malfoy stared up at her, open and curious. "Sit on my face, Granger," he demanded. She sat back on her haunches and dipped down. Malfoy devoured her through her knickers. Licking desperately. Trying in vain to move the gusset to get at her core. 

She steadied herself by holding onto the headboard and moved up on her knees, leaving her cunt just slightly out of reach. She waited until …

“BLOODY FUCKING HELL!” he yelled. Frustrated and horny.  

Then she knelt lower and moved her knickers to the side. She let him lap her up. His nose pressing against her clit. His tongue at her folds. It was perfect. It was cool, wet, and hot at the same time. He then tenderly kissed each side of her inner thighs, and Hermione fell even more in love with him. 

“Draco …” she cooed, as she moved back down his body. 

The headboard continued to rattle. She saw his wrists were white and pulled taut. She dropped gentle raindrop kisses across his forehead, cheeks, jaw, and lips. She licked him from his neck all the way down to his shaft and ended with a circular motion around his perineum. He finally broke. 

“Say it,” she commanded.

“Please.” 

“Please, what, Draco?” 

“Fuck me, Hermione.” 

The last confines of her sound mind allowed her to incant a Contraceptive spell. She Vanished her soaking knickers and sunk down slowly on his twitching, hard cock that wept precum. He let out an animalistic yell. His beautiful face twisted into something between pain and pleasure. 

He pumped up and into her, stringing together incoherent words and phrases, “Good girl … fuck … wet … so fucking tight … fuck.” She cried out at the strength of his thrusts, touching herself while he moved roughly under her. He came with a roar, twitching and pulsing inside her. Waves after waves of spasms leaving his body. He stayed hard. Inside her. 

Hermione stared at him, breathless. She wordlessly Vanished his tie. Her body shook as his orgasm set hers off. Her cunt contracted around him in deep, slow throbs, squeezing him hard and drawing her down under the tides of pleasure. Her hips rolled against his. Again. And again. And again. As she bared down with her hips, she stuttered, “Gods! Draco, I just–I love you so–”

Her head fell limply onto his shoulder. His arms dropped down to his sides and quickly enveloped her waist, dragging her tight against his chest. Malfoy kissed the words out of her mouth, biting her lip and repeating into her mouth, “I love you–love you.” He kept thrusting into her–holding her hips flushed against his–long after their orgasms subsided. Slow. Deliberate. Movements. Each thrust produced a small gasp from Hermione and light tingles in his balls and toes.

He never wanted to stop fucking her. 

She drew playful, little runes on his arms and shoulders. Devotion. Love. Fidelity.

Until she moved her lips against his pale skin, “Mine.” 

His cock twitched at her voice. “Yours,” he replied. Without warning, he flipped her over and pressed her into the bed with a thrust. His fingers replaced his cock. Hermione hissed at the sensitivity. He was unapologetic, “Fuck … my cum … into you.” Malfoy massaged her slit and slipped into her core, curling two fingers against her pelvic wall, then closing her lower lips with his thumb. She let out a breathy moan and clenched around his long fingers.

As he kissed her neck, he murmured, “Full of me” and pushed up into her again.  

Malfoy woke in the early morning, rubbing his eyes. There was an insistent tapping at the kitchenette window. 

Hermione barely stirred. He had taken her three more times last night and their sheets smelled like sex. She didn't allow him to pull out of her until she or he fell asleep. Before he got out of bed, he kissed her cheek. She wiped the ticklish movement away without opening her eyes, but reached out to lock her arms around his waist. His eyes softened at how much she resembled a wanton koala bear even while asleep, gripping him as if she were afraid he would Disapparate into thin air.  

He pulled up his boxers and padded to the window. It was Artemis, his trusty snowy white owl, and he came bearing communique and a small package of his missing books. 

Aug. 15, 1999

 

Dearest Draco, 

It was lovely to see you for two weeks. It has been so long, my sweet boy, since I’ve looked at you and held you in my arms. You’ve only grown more handsome in my wake. The dinner table now is quiet without you, but I look forward to the end of the year when I will be free of this forsaken property. I have much to oversee in the renovation of Malfoy Manor, and cannot wait to see you upon graduation.

Mippy has wrapped up your books from the lab and sent them along with Artemis. I’ve put in a couple of extra sweets in the package. 

I hope you do not hold the misdirected brunch as a thorn in your heart. I could not bear if you were angry with me, my dragon. 

While news of your new dalliance surprised me, I should not have been. Men are weak-willed, and will take what is close and easily accessible. She is an acceptable distraction for now. As you have been for several years, I need you to continue to be a pillar of strength. You are the Malfoy heir and the man of the Manor now. The world is at your feet. You need only take it. So take it. [6]

I cannot help but think about how this particular alliance will assist in restoring our family’s name and navigating the new world. I will write to your father and ask him to pause contract negotiations. He may yet see reason. As for the Greengrass girl, she is still young and for now, amenable. I will assist in the moulding of her into a Malfoy Lady when I am released from this wretched place. Furthermore, in today’s “modern” day and age, it would not be considered proper for a Witch before she has graduated from an academy. The Greengrasses will not object, if I put it to them like that. 

The tides have changed, and we, as Malfoys, learn the sea. 

All my love, 

Mother [7]

 

As much of a blessing as he’ll ever get.

Malfoy crumpled up the letter.

“Incendio,” he muttered. The parchment burst into small flames and left nothing but ashes.