Chapter Text
Draco’s lips consumed Hermione’s.
His kisses were ravenous, as if he needed to claim her, or feared she would change her mind if he allowed her a moment to breathe.
But Hermione kissed him back with equal ferocity, wanting to merge her being with his, feeling that each stroke of his lips was insufficient to satiate the hunger that had built since he’d denied her that night in the maze.
That night in the maze, she had been certain she would perish in the games.
Yet here she was: alive because of Draco’s disobedience.
And less than twenty-four hours ago, she had been convinced Draco would bleed out in front of her.
Yet here he was as well: alive, breathing, and kissing her into delirium.
Draco’s hands rose from her wrists, trailing up her arms to cup her face like a gentle prayer as she continued to savor and taste him.
Spearmint—the sweep, crisp taste caused her lips to hum with desire for more, more, more.
The world around them—fear, war, death, sinful servitude, and destruction—faded away.
Instead, Hermione’s world became him: the angles of his body, the desire to get closer, to feel him, and to know she truly had saved him when she had been so close to losing him forever.
Only then, as she beheld him suspended above her in Azkaban, teetering on the brink of death, did she confess to herself what she had always secretly known.
Her heart had cried out to him from the very beginning.
She had all but accepted that his lips would never touch hers again.
After surviving the games, he had seemed eager to dispose of her entirely.
Now, he was kissing her as if his life depended on it, and she was ready to savor this fleeting gift he was offering.
Hermione’s hands fervidly gripped his shoulder for support, rising onto her tiptoes as his hands moved to cradle her neck and waist.
She was teetering, leaning back towards the filled tub, barely suspended there.
But she trusted him, knowing he would not let her fall.
Though the mental image of falling into the water with Draco made a smirk dance upon her lips.
“What is it?” he grumbled impatiently against her bottom lip, sucking on it lightly for a moment before his tongue delved back into her mouth.
He was studying her, learning and memorizing every inch of her lips, the ever-diligent Slytherin with ambitions as boundless as the stars.
“I’m smiling,” she whispered with a soothing and mature tone she had never used before.
She swore she felt him shudder beneath her fingertips at the sound of her voice.
“Say it again,” he begged, his voice nearly tinged with pain as he moved to kiss her jaw, then her neck.
“I’m smiling?” Hermione repeated, her head swimming as his tongue swiped against a muscle on her neck.
The hand at her waist slid down to her hip, his grip desperate, as if he feared letting her go would mean losing her forever.
His fingers pressed into her jeans and the bare skin exposed where her shirt had lifted, hard enough to bruise.
She leaned into his touch, relishing the tangible reality it brought to this moment.
"Not that," he murmured softly, his lips working upwards and brushing against her ear.
"Draco." Her breath hitched, his name escaping from her lips without her permission as gooseflesh spread down her neck and chest, following the path of his breath’s caress.
He chuckled as he returned to her lips, a slow, rumbling sound that sent shivers through her. “Not what I’d had in mind, but it will do.”
She realized then what he meant, what he was asking her to say again.
A part of her, weary and yearning, wanted to declare her love for him again and again while trailing kisses across every inch of his body.
Yet a protective veil surrounded her, beginning to sober her uninhibited state.
Fear whispered that perhaps this was his way of assuaging guilt, a mere attempt to reciprocate what she had done for him, an effort to balance the scales so he wouldn't owe her a debt any longer.
That fear burned within her as his cold hand crept up her bare skin to her waist once more, tentatively slipping under her shirt, waiting for her signal to halt.
But she didn’t want him to stop.
She desired to seize this moment, tired of wondering what it was like to be kissed, through with waiting for someone else to grant her pleasure.
If defying the Dark Lord, to whom she might have vowed allegiance, meant impending death, she refused to leave this world without experiencing life's pleasures.
The world had taken enough from Hermione—she desired to respond in kind by claiming what she wanted for herself.
So she resolved to take what she could from Draco, greedily accepting whatever he offered tonight.
This one evening of respite would be hers before facing the inevitable.
She leaned forward, her fabric-clad chest pressing against his bare one, silently signaling for him to move through the language of her body alone.
He complied with her unspoken request, refusing to allow his lips to leave hers as he used his hands on her waist and back to guide her backwards. He leaned his back against the sink before pulling her towards him once more.
In a burst of courage, Hermione’s hands reached down for the hem of her shirt.
She prepared to pull it over her head, relishing the chilled air against her stomach as she gained ahold of the fabric.
It had been her blood, and Draco's blood, that had stained the once-pure white fabric.
Beginning to remove it from her person suddenly made a weight of anxiety lift off her shoulder, as if the battle in Azkaban had only been a tortuous dream.
She longed for it all to vanish, to forget her actions, to let go of what she had lost, and instead, to etch him into her memory as a replacement for the pain.
Draco hesitated, halting her hands as they moved to lift her shirt higher over her chest, his mouth hovering near hers. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," she interrupted briskly.
Their breaths mingled, her quivering exhale became his inhale as Draco silently yielded, assisting her in pulling off the stained fabric.
Draco briskly discarded the shirt onto the floor once they had it over her head.
Breathing became all but impossible as Hermione opened her eyes to see Draco gazing at her bra and the small curves of her chest.
His expression seemed to be a mixture of guarded awe and uncertainty.
Instinctively, she began to cross her arms over her breasts, feeling embarrassed about her size and wondering if now that he had seen her, he would end whatever this was before it truly began.
Draco’s hands tentatively reached for her wrists, pausing her sheepish movement to shield herself from his meticulous gaze.
Was he shaking? Or was it just her?
"Please. Don’t," he mumbled tenderly.
“I’m not…” Hermione fumbled with her words as she watched his chest rise and fall in a jagged motion. “I’m not... I’m sorry if I’m not what one would hope for.”
“Is that what you think?” He sighed, the corners of his eyes turning downward as he studied her face.
Her head bobbed as she averted her glance from his.
Releasing one of her wrists, Draco’s hand moved to her jaw, silently urging her to turn her face toward him once more. “You are everything someone would hope for.”
Someone.
But not him.
She noticed the measured words he chose and felt her fragile hubris crumble in an instant.
Draco’s hand trailed down to the apex of her chin, his thumb stroking just below her lips as he gazed from her mouth to her chest again, as though he was uncertain where to grant his undivided focus.
“Let me show you how much I’ve hoped for this.”
A sensation of static formed between Hermione’s legs at the sound of his voice, so primal and raw.
She couldn’t discern him—his desires, his feelings—everything about him was a fog.
The temptation to bask in his sudden admiration felt almost sinful.
Her thoughts whirled with insanity, or perhaps it was adrenaline, fueled by the look of yearning she swore she saw in his suddenly sky-blue eyes.
Slowly, she removed her hands from guarding her chest and reached behind, her fingers finding the clasp of her bra.
With a single deft pinch, she undid it.
Holding her breath, Hermione strived to memorize the way Draco looked at her.
There was a silent question in his gaze.
A hunger that mirrored her own.
Regardless of why he wanted her in this moment, she widened her eyes to answer simply: yes, please yes, for she didn’t trust her voice to remain steady under the weight of his stare.
Draco's right hand lifted, his fingers poised as if painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Slowly, he brushed the strap of her bra off Hermione’s shoulder, letting it fall toward her elbow.
He moved to her other shoulder and repeated the motion, his eyes fixed on the strap as it slipped down her arm, as if he didn’t trust himself to look at what was being revealed as the fabric dropped by her stomach.
Hermione shifted, allowing the straps to completely fall away from her arms.
The barely audible sound of the metal clasps hitting the floor echoed loudly in the dense silence between them.
Steam rose from the bath, causing her hair to curl, and his too—enchanting little spirals framing the sharp panes of his face.
She resisted the overwhelming urge to reach out and run her hands through his hair, though the temptation was nearly intolerable to suppress.
His gaze was a drug she’d become addicted to in less than a minute.
She had never felt more powerful, more beautiful than when he observed her bareness with unrestrained reverence.
That look of need emboldened her to make the most idiotic decision she could fathom.
Quickly, she reached down and undid the button of her jeans, casting them down her thighs and calves and kicking them, along with her shoes and socks, towards the door the moment they were off her.
A long, slow exhale escaped her lips; she had felt so claustrophobic in the stained, demolished clothing.
There was something freeing about finally releasing herself from their hold.
Even more exhilarating was the look on Draco’s face—the pure surprise, the uncharacteristic shade of red flooding his cheeks—as if she had finally made a move he hadn’t foreseen in his own strategic mind.
Normally, he always seemed to be three steps ahead of her, but now, it was Hermione who held the reins.
The last layer of clothing felt easier to take off than the rest.
She hooked her thumbs under the thin, light pink fabric sitting at her hips—the final layer covering her femininity—and slowly tugged it down her legs.
When that too was discarded across the room, she stared at him with feigned confidence.
"Alright," she challenged. "Show me."
Draco’s eyes remained locked on hers.
They burned with a vehement tension, as if he couldn't restrain himself much longer.
But Hermione didn’t want his restraint—she wanted him undone.
She took his hands and placed them gently atop her breasts and held fast.
His cold, calloused fingertips brushed against her nipples, causing them to immediately tighten with a foreign prickling sensation.
There was something about the way he touched her, as if she were entirely forbidden, and he feared damnation should he be caught near her.
Her mouth fell open at the transient feeling against the sensitive tips, how quickly it made her heart rate soar with a thundering need.
"Show me," she repeated, her eyebrow arching in challenge.
He had always been her intellectual rival; this was what always lured her towards him, the way they pushed each other to the edge mentally and academically.
Now, she was challenging him in a far more physical manner.
The dam of Draco’s will power ruptured in an instant when she baited him.
He surged toward her, capturing her lips with his once more.
Leading her backwards until her bare back and head pressed against the wall, his hips pinned against her own securing her under his weight.
Their mouths became a rapid, tangled mess of desire as his hands tightened around her breasts, his thumbs running lazy circles on each of her nipples, causing little galaxies of energy to form under his touch.
Hermione released a shuddering breath into his mouth as the sensation of fireworks trailing from her breasts to between her legs was bringing her ridiculously close to a climax far earlier than she was willing to accept.
Hermione snaked her hands up the taut muscles of his arms and then ran her nails lightly down his bare back, savoring the feeling of his goosebumped skin under her fingertips.
She arched her hips into his, craving more of him, and immediately felt a hardness that confirmed he was as lost in the physical bliss as she was.
Moving her hands down his back, she followed the curves of his torso she’d so greedily studied when he’d opened the door of his room.
Her fingertips traced the waistline of his pyjama pants, teasingly cluing Draco into what she wished to do, how she longed to touch him, to wrap her hands around him and finally—
"Hermione," he growled wistfully into her mouth.
The exhale with which he carried her given name wasn’t filled with just desire—it was the breath of life, her name on his lips.
Her heart burst at how her name sounded when it fell from his tongue.
She let a finger dip under his trousers, trailing closer towards the current fixation of her womanly needs.
“No,” He whispered tightly. A single world that doused Hermione’s fire with humiliating finality.
Before she could make much sense of how to recover from the embarrassment, he added, “I’m showing you what I’ve longed to do to you. This isn’t about me,” he pressed his forehead against hers, struggling to breathe. “Let me give this to you.”
He didn’t wait for her response, instead he kissed her once more, the gesture chaste and patient, contrasting any prior times their lips had met.
He continued, traveling down to her jaw, and the base of her neck. Hermione tilted her head back against the wall, trying to coax the heat between her legs to disperse.
She couldn’t come apart, not yet.
He continued his journey down her body, his lips stopping at one of her breasts. His release of a single exhale against her wanting flesh made her entire body shake.
Draco used one hand to steady her, greedily gripping her backside and hip. He seemed to understand her legs were moments away from giving out, and was willing to hold her up himself.
It was then his mouth claimed her sensitive mound as his own, his tongue deftly tracing the circumference of her peaked flesh as his hand remained cupping her other breast.
“Oh,” She moaned, the sound escaping from her in a blinding instant of pleasure.
He seemed glad of it, for he rewarded her by lightly grazing his teeth against the soft nub before sucking the hurt spot, replacing the enticing sting with blinding pleasure.
“I—I can’t hold on much longer.” She blurted out on a fragmented breath.
Immediately, she regretted the confession, fearing he would find her naive, which, in truth, she was.
Instead, he kneaded her breast more generously, like her confession was fueling a new spurt of energy.
“Perfect.” He mumbled as his mouth left her breast and traveled down the center of her stomach. “You are perfect.”
He had said such things to her once before, and she had almost convinced herself she had imagined it.
But hearing him murmur his praise once more, she felt it seep into her being as if it branded her soul.
Hermione’s eyes flew open and she watched him kneel before her for the second time that night.
The sight was so intimate and docile that she felt emotions prickling in the corners of her eyes.
Her upper thigh seemed to be the newfound source of Draco’s worship.
His tongue lazily followed the small white patterns of marks that she’d always shied away from even glimpsing at.
She started to shift, to stop him from focusing on a point of her insecurities, but Draco’s hands tightly gripped her hips to hold her in place as he mumbled against her flesh, “Don’t you dare.”
Stunned into submission, she anchored herself by fisting his snowy curls in her hand. He breathed delicately on the eager flesh between her legs which throbbed with an undeniable need.
She was tipping over the edge, so close to falling…
“Draco.” She cried in ecstasy when his tongue slowly trailed over a spot so sensitive. She was a newborn star, radiant in her genesis.
He retraced the line he’d drawn with his tongue, increasing his speed with each swipe to cause frozen heat to stir within her stomach.
She could barely hold herself upright, the wall was her only leverage as she shook from the perfection of him, how he seemed to know exactly what to do in order to elicit the specific response he desired from her.
When his slender fingers tauntingly worked their way towards her opening, she bit down on her bottom lip to stop the sharp whimper that threatened to echo too-loudly in the small room.
His fingers glided up and down her opening with soft, sure strokes, driving her mad with anticipation as he glanced up at her, a hungry smile on his glistening lips.
Then the motion of his fingers shifted from a straight line to a tantalizing whirlpool, causing her eyes to roll back.
“I’m so close, Draco I’m—”
The helplessness in her voice shattered his patience, as he thrust two fingers inside of her while his tongue returned to its favored spot, causing the edging nerves between her legs to completely succumb to her dormant needs.
She was no longer in control of her voice, of the exploding cry of bliss that sounded distant from her as she shook.
It was like a bolt of lightning, a blinding sensation of perfection that she rode out on his fingers and mouth as he knelt before her.
She swore she even felt him moan against her, like her pleasure was somehow his.
When the rolling waves calmed and Hermione managed to open her eyes, she found Draco staring up at her, studying her with glassy eyes.
He traveled back up her body, again showering her with soft kisses, his lips so full and wet against her skin she wondered if that alone would somehow make her come undone once more.
When he stood fully, he towered over her once again. A self-satisfied glimmer shone in his eyes, reminiscent of the first time he’d caught the golden snitch. She had once ridiculed that co*cky twitch in his grin, but now it sent aftershocks of satisfaction coursing through her.
Leaning his bare chest against hers their breaths found a tandem rhythm to keep their bodies attached, like a sliver of space between them would be catastrophic.
His right hand rested at the base of her neck, his thumb tracing the hollow at the center of her throat as his smile grew reckless.
“Let’s get you in the bath,” Draco suggested tenderly.
Hermione blinked, her head jerking back against the wall with surprise.
Was that all?
Did he not want her?
Had she done something to make him lose interest, or had he never been interested at all?
Draco studied her eyes as if he was attempting to decipher an ancient language.
He kissed her lips softly, a brief touch, his lips warm and slick against hers.
She wanted more, she wanted to take him, to feel him around her and within her—
"Granger," he purred, bringing her back from the fuzzy space of lingering rapture. "Let me wash your hair.”
He stepped away from her, and the distance felt painful, as if their bare skin had merged during their entanglement and she was now being torn apart.
His hand reached out for hers, a gentle offering to assist her into the bath, as if he knew she was still standing on unsteady ground from the echoes of his adoration.
She obliged, using him to keep her balance as she stepped into the bath.
The moment her toe grazed the water, an exhale escaped her, one of a different sort of pleasure.
It was as if all the taut, pained muscles in her body softened with relief from the promise of a warm bath.
When both feet were in, she sank down fully, immersing herself in the heat, blowing out a breath to create small bubbles that circled her on their journey to the surface as her face and hair fell under the water.
She lingered for a moment, savoring the sensation of fresh water working to cleanse her being.
Once she finally emerged, she sucked in a loud, liberating breath.
Leaning her head against the porcelain edge of the bath, her mouth barely above the water’s surface, she relished in the peace that washed over her.
“May I touch your hair?” She heard Draco ask from behind her, his voice hushed as if he feared disturbing her.
She chuckled, eyes still closed, feeling somewhat intoxicated by the oddness of their entire evening together. Despite all that had just occurred between them, he still sought permission to touch her. "Of course."
He carefully undid the binder that had been holding half of her hair back, working slowly to unravel it, as if he feared pulling any strands or tugging too harshly.
She considered informing him that she didn’t mind the pain much; with such crimped, tangled curls, she was used to tugging and had developed a hardened skull.
But words evaded her, and instead, she enjoyed the uncharacteristic caution with which he treated her.
His hands left her skull when he finally freed the binder, but within moments, his fingertips returned, carefully massaging shampoo into her hair, as if trying his best not to disturb her.
She moaned from the relief his fingers brought, adoring how they rubbed her pressure points with serene precision.
“Is this alright?” he asked softly.
"It's perfect," she replied without hesitation, irrevocably content. "You don't have to do this."
“Debatable,” he replied with a layer of edge, “but regardless of whether I have to or not, I certainly want to.”
“Why?” she hummed curiously.
She listened to him slowly inhale through his nose, savoring the darkness behind her closed eyelids.
She felt no need to be on guard around the man she had once seen as her sworn enemy, not when they had exchanged acts of saving each other's lives against the explicit orders of their superiors.
His fingers left her skull. “Dip under the water once more.”
Hermione obeyed, surrendering to the warmth of the water, moving her head side to side as the soap dissipated into the water.
After a few moments, she rose above the surface again, leaning her head back as Draco repeated the massaging motion with a lavender-scented soap.
“When you were the voice in my head,” she began, unafraid of venturing into dangerous territory when her body was so exhausted and at ease, “you told me you didn’t know me. Why?”
“No, Granger,” he began, his voice not exactly harsh but edged with defensiveness, “I never said such things. I merely informed you that I hadn’t disclosed whether or not I knew you. But I didn’t lie and outright claim that I didn’t.”
“Is that what you learned from years as a Death Eater? How to weave a half-truth?”
“Don’t,” he pleaded, the sound compressed. “Don’t,” he repeated again as his fingers worked to the nape of her skull, this time his tone was softer, the beast tamed. “I dislike ever being imprecise with my words. It gave me no pleasure to get so close to lying to you.”
“I called out to you so often during those months of training… when I was scared, when I was angry, when I wanted to end it all—”
“I know. I heard you.” There was an apology in his tone, one she was inclined to accept.
Words danced at the edge of her tongue, words she wanted to give him, to see if they would ultimately shift the tide. “I’m not in love with Ron.”
“How your tune has changed in the last day,” he remarked.
Her eyes flew open at that, meeting his challenging gaze with the fire of her own. “I love Ron,” she swore she saw him flinch at the words, “I always have, and I always will. But I am not in love with Ron. I tried to make myself be, tried to convince myself he would be good for me... but I don’t love him like that. Not in that way. I've known for a long time. It’s more like how I love Harry. They’re two men I cannot imagine my life without; it’s as if our souls are tied together like siblings, without the need for blood to call us as such. What I did in the arena was for survival. That’s all.”
Draco fell silent at her confession, his pupils dilated as he absorbed it all.
"You put on a convincing show," he eventually mumbled.
"I could say the same for you. I never imagined you’d defect from the Dark Lord’s ranks."
"Then I fulfilled my role well." The precision of his gaze threatened to devour her completely.
Upon his silent instruction—the mere shift of his clouded eyes—she dipped into the water once more, rinsing her hair of the last of the soap.
When she returned to the surface, Draco lightly cleared his throat. “I should leave you to enjoy the bath so I can search for a change of clothes for you.”
He started to shift, and Hermione reached out, grasping for his hand.
“Stay,” she requested.
He let his fingers entwine with hers, weaving together in a perfect fit.
"I can comprehend the mysteries of the afterlife or an impossible potion recipe with far more ease than I can begin to understand the enigma that is you,” he uttered on a dazed exhale.
“Stay,” she repeated.
He swallowed tightly. “As you wish.”
Hermione closed her eyes once more, refusing to let go of her hold on his hand. She heard him crouch beside her, felt his free hand tangle in her hair to delicately comb it.
Words weren’t needed, at least not for Hermione, as her body began to drown in the exhaustion that had fought so adamantly for her attention.
Draco offered no conversation himself, seemingly too focused on her wetted locks.
Perhaps this was all a dream, for it felt too perfect to suddenly be her reality.
When the water’s temperature began to drop, Hermione opened her eyes, prepared to let the dream dissolve.
Draco’s eyes were open, fixed studiously on her.
The moment she began to sit up, he rose to his feet and reached for a towel on the shelf across the room.
Without looking at her, he set it on the edge of the sink and muttered, “I will go find you some clothing.”
Fluidly, he left the room, inaudible closing the door behind him. Hermione was left in a space that had once felt so small, now suddenly feeling too wide due to the vacancy of him.
As she made herself stand slowly, every muscle in her body fought against the exhaustion from life's brutality, crying out in pulses and tensing under her flesh.
She steadied her hands on the tub’s edge as she stepped out, feeling the cold of the room cover her body in delicate bumps.
Grasping the towel and preparing to wrap it around herself, she noticed her face in the mirror.
What had once been a macabre, frayed display of the battle fought was now fresh, plump red skin and already-curling wet hair. Her hair, so long these days, covered the tips of her breasts, which were still flushed from the turn of the evening.
The gash that had once covered her forehead had faded into a white scar.
She hoped it would always remain there, for she had no intentions of using a potion to try and wipe the mark’s final remnants away.
It made her feel an inch closer to Theo and Harry, to have a scar that served as a silent, physical message to strangers that this body had survived tumultuousness and was still somehow upright.
Sometimes, magic went too far, Hermione decided, especially when it completely removed the reminders and lessons of the past.
After all, a clean slate was fated to get stained once more.
Twisting and tucking the white towel around her body, securing it between her breasts, Hermione centered her breathing before she exited the bathroom.
The steam enveloped her as she entered the dark bedroom, the only light being the dim one from the bathroom seeping in, bathing them both in the dewy illumination.
Draco stood frozen at the sight of her, holding a fresh bundle of clothing.
“I brought a few options, just to be sure you found something you’d be comfortable in,” his tongue stumbled awkwardly with each word as he couldn’t seem to decide whether to set the garments on his bed or the desk. “I’ll leave you to change.”
“The sight of me in a towel suddenly scandalizes you?” Hermione teased, hoping to hide the injury in her voice.
Had she completely imagined what had occurred between them? Was her concussion worse than she’d initially presumed?
Draco chuckled humorously. “I don’t wish to overstep any boundaries.”
He felt too far away from her, like the universe lay between them.
She needed him near, to touch him, to remind herself he was alive, he was real.
But he seemed to crave as much space as possible, likely finally coming to and realizing the absurdity of his decision to kiss her.
“If anyone should be worried about their ability to overstep boundaries, it’s me…” Hermione’s throat burned with mortification. “I didn’t… when I told you how I feel for you, I didn’t want your pity—”
“That was not pity,” Draco interrupted, his voice calculated and subdued.
Hermione itched a spot under her hair. “Whatever it was, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to force you into something you didn’t want to do.”
His shoulders shifted, wringing out tension as he finally set the change of clothes on the desk before looking at her.
There was a storm brewing in his irises, so many thoughts in the flash of a moment Hermione couldn’t discern.
“You almost certainly have a concussion,” he ground the words between his teeth, like he didn’t want to release them from their pearly cage. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that.”
An odd, surprised sound left the back of Hermione’s throat. “You? Take advantage of me? I’m the one who seemed to have appealed to your guilt to take advantage of you.”
“Granger,” he protested.
Her words of shame picked up speed, a patter song rolling off the tongue. “I admitted to you that I love you not to trap you or use you, but just to explain to you what I did—”
“Hermione—”
“I know you don’t reciprocate the feelings, and that’s—”
He rushed toward her, merging their opposing universes into one as his hands compassionately held her face as he silenced her ramblings with his lips.
When he pulled away, she saw disbelief akin to her own echoed in his eyes, as pure a blue as a cloudless sky.
She wondered if she would ever comprehend the pattern of his ever-changing eyes.
“Can you not see how much I love you?” Draco whispered, his lips brushing against hers with every syllable of his gentle confession, his brows furrowed with astonishment. “Ask me once more why I saved you in the arena. Why I broke every order I’d ever been given to claw my way to you. Ask me why I entered your mind when you were in Azkaban and disobeyed the explicit orders I, and I alone, was given to have no contact with you.”
Her lip quivered against his. “Why?”
His thumbs stroked her cheeks, which became wet with tears as he divulged to her a long-stowed away truth. “There has not been a day since I’ve met you that I haven’t been a slave to my adoration for you. The fire of my love is a scalding inferno and I am all but diminished to ashes. I will soon have nothing left of me to offer you… You are the embodiment of what I had been trained to despise, and yet you are, and always have been, the sole fixation of my desires. And if you love me—”
“I love you,” she affirmed, her own hands rising to touch his face, to bask in the showering devotion of his words.
He shuddered through his own silent tears, his breaths heavy, like a weight of decades—or centuries—had lifted, the very world finally off his shoulders.
“Draco, I love you.” She repeated.
His mouth found its home upon hers once more, the sensation of his lips was rich as velvet while he slowly explored her.
It was as if before, he had been stealing moments, but now, he kissed her without fear, for he was finally assured that this kiss would not be their last.
They had both been operating on borrowed time, taking what they could without realizing that the other intended to give themselves over entirely.
His admission made no sense to her, how far back he claimed his love had gone. He had hated her, mocked her, and even abused her…
Their kisses grew in intensity, making her forget her analysis of reason. They were both starved for each other, longing to make up for all the wasted time.
“I want all of you.” She confessed willingly against his lips, her hands trailing towards his waistband as abandoned want built between her legs.
She felt him pant at her words before he gripped her towel and tossed it far away from them, his hands wrapping around her back and waist as he lifted her, bringing her legs around his torso, and carried her across the room to his bed.
“I am yours,” he promised her between hungry kisses. “Hermione, I’ve always been yours.”
“Prove it.” She challenged him as he laid her out amongst the silken ebony sheets.
He chuckled dreamily as he settled his body onto hers, granting her the perfect balance of his weight. Draco’s angry, scarred chest brushed against her own, which was ready and ripe for him to devour once more.
His unsteady exhale was followed by his eyes drinking her body in, like he’d only now allowed himself to truly register her baren state.
Hermione’s hand painted an invisible line down his stomach, following the harsh panes of his muscles before she took hold of the hardness of him over his trousers.
He shook as if he were on the brink of being overwhelmed. The man of marble and steel and unbreakable resolve, suddenly undone by her touch.
“Enough proof for you?” He taunted breathlessly.
Hermione bit the inside of her cheeks as she smirked and ran her thumb along his considerable length. “Not yet.”
His forehead dipped to press against hers as he groaned, she felt the hardness in her hand twitch from her goading.
"You very well may be the death of me, Hermione Granger," he murmured, maneuvering to free one of his forearms that had caged her in, fixing his hand under his waistband.
He tugged the material off, shifting to kick the trousers to the ground before lowering himself back down, hovering just above her.
Kissing her, he moved a hand down her body, following the small grooves of her breast, waist, and hips before trailing casually towards her front.
Ever the masterful study, his fingers immediately found the spot he’d discovered as the nexus of pleasure between her legs.
Her hips bucked upward from the shock of how quickly her body buzzed with desire for him to bring her to a climax once more.
Draco’s mouth fell open at the sight of her so responsive to his fluttering touches of seduction.
“Oh, god, please I want you—”
“Patience.” He whispered, kissing her lips, her cheek, her neck, her clavicle. “I want to take my time. I want to savor you, Hermione.” His voice sounded the most uninhibited when he murmured her name as he kissed down her stomach.
The sound was a chant of gentle admiration that made her heart and body pound with need as his fingers picked up speed, spiraling around her center.
It seemed illogical that she should have this. Both of them had tainted their souls, surrendering to the darkest deeds in the name of protecting each other.
The sins they committed were impossible to name, yet continued to stack up against them.
Was it permitted for two devils to glimpse heaven's embrace? Or would this be their purgatory, a fleeting memory of bliss before an eternity of solitary damnation?
The questions became lost to her when his tongue claimed her once more, tasting her with a fervor and zeal.
Her eyes opened as she gasped, her toes tingling from the sensation of his mouth against her. She now understood she would never grow tired of it. Each stroke of his tongue was an intoxicating elixir, for which there was no tolerance.
It was then she found him gazing up at her, his eyes full of triumph as he watched her writhe from his touch.
“Tell me what you want.” He murmured against her opening, pinning her hips and legs down as she twitched from the chilling lust of his tongue and mouth.
She wanted him.
She wanted the forbidden treasures she’d always been too afraid to claim as her own.
She wanted Draco to lose control as she had, to see his eyes glaze with raw pleasure, a testament to the passion she had drawn out of him.
More, more, more.
She wanted everything.
“I want you.” Hermione barely managed to whisper.
He hummed against her, the vibration of it triggering a short, strong spark that bloomed from her head to her toes.
“You have me, Granger. You’ll have to be more specific.”
“I want you inside of me.” She clarified, somehow even more stimulated by the way he managed to vivify her mind when there was no place for logic.
He granted one final stroke with his tongue before he murmured, “Good girl,” And left between her legs.
Draco seemed to be in no rush to reach her mouth again or experience pleasure of his own.
Instead, he was solely focused on Hermione’s euphoria, mapping her body with his lips and tongue, stopping at her breasts to worship them once more—taunting and teasing and attempting new methods of lavishing her.
When Hermione’s breath hitched, he'd pause and repeat the same tactic again, committing to memory which movement elicited which reaction from her.
She ran her hands through his hair, shaking with anticipation, hating how she couldn’t reach for him.
Yet the soft moans of pleasure from Draco made her realize that his focus on her breasts was as much for her pleasure as it was for his own.
Finally, he rose to her face again, she didn’t hesitate to kiss him, to claim him.
His lips parted for her, submitting without protest.
Reaching her arm down, she barely managed to wrap her hand around him as she delighted in the freedom from the prior impediments. Hermione began moving him toward her entrance, her stubborn impatience at wits end.
“This… this may hurt.” He warned her, his breath erratic and his voice muffled as she kissed him hurriedly.
“Please,” She begged, no longer ashamed of humbling herself, of conveying how much she needed him.
His loving fingers worked carefully, edging her opening, preparing her for him with his burning touch.
She knew it would hurt, but she also was certain the blissful aftermath would be worth whatever temporary sting she would first be met with.
His eyes locked with hers once more, a gradual question lingered as his pupils surged, like he was giving her a final chance to take back all that she’d admitted to him. Like he still refused to believe she truly loved him.
“Please, Draco,” she repeated, her voice a whispered melody of want—of need.
His name on her lips was ammunition for him to release any hesitancy. Gingerly, he shifted his hips, guiding himself into her, allowing her body the time to attempt to adjust to him.
She became lost to the world, her head arching back as she felt herself stretch and absorb the sharp pleasure.
For a moment, the pain was as harsh as a knife, she bit down on her lip in an attempt to hide the reaction, but Draco was too focused on her to miss it.
Instantly, he retracted himself and leaned down to kiss her lips and jaw, allowing time for the momentary hurt to numb.
She nodded her head against his, signaling she was ready for him.
He lowered himself into her once more and already her body was more eager to embrace the unimaginable fullness of him.
His mouth fell open in awe as he thrust further, reaching closer to the hilt.
She felt his presence throughout her whole body, as if by entering her, he gained access to her soul and her pounding heart.
Rocking against him, she crossed the final threshold, taking him fully. Her breath spiked and a whimper of release escaped her lips.
Draco kissed her again, like he couldn’t stand for their lips to not touch as he moved inside of her, gradually finding a rhythm. His thrusts were careful, each one building upon the next, but ready to retreat should Hermione exhibit any signs of discomfort.
Any pain she’d experienced was replaced now by the fulfillment of her deepest urge.
She wrapped her legs around him, the slight tilt of her hips somehow deepening his position inside of her, reaching an even more intimate angle which unlocked an untapped level of heaven.
“f*ck, Granger,” He cursed against her lips, the sound a hiss as his patience frayed. His pace increased as his fingers trailed back down to between her legs, right above where their bodies were now joined.
The dexterity with which he swirled his fingers while thrusting into her made the world begin to dissolve.
“Oh—oh Draco, I’m—”
“Come for me,” He gently commanded and pleaded, his voice a vibrant paradox of submission and dominance.
His next thrust was her undoing, the jolt of his fullness blended with the precision of his fingers in the exact spot they needed to be sent her hurling over the edge.
If Hermione were capable, perhaps this was what touching a star felt like.
Being destroyed and made new, all at once. Colliding with the ancient beauty of old in a moment of blinding ecstasy.
She arched into him and her vision went static from the glory of feeling him inside her as she throbbed and spasmed beneath him.
Grasping at his soft hair and the sleek sheets beneath her, she felt the world burst around her and within her.
When she gasped his name in the throes of her climax, she felt him stiffen within her before he too trembled within her, finally undone.
His façade of indifference received its final, shattering blow as he cried her name like a prayer to a god. Hermione understood him far more clearly now. No longer a Death Eater, he was simply a young man who had suffered in silent devotion, finally made whole.
Leaning onto his forearms, he collapsed beside her, resting his head in the crook of her neck as they both returned to earth. His arm wrapped around her, desperately claiming her to fulfill his namesake. Their sweat mingled, flesh against flesh, as they steadied their breathing.
He leisurely kissed her neck, twirling strands of her still-wet curls around his finger, creating a cage he did not wish to be freed from.
She gripped him tighter, entwining her arms around him, treasuring the thundering of his heart in response to her own.
"I love you," she told him once more.
His whole body stilled as if he couldn't even breathe at the sound of those three words. He pressed his lips against the harshly beating vein in her neck. "I don’t believe I will ever get used to hearing you say that."
Hermione’s hand trailed down his arm, it was then she felt the rough patch of skin, dried and irritated, from where his Dark Mark had once been.
He flinched at the touch, causing Hermione’s hand to retreat. “I’m sorry.”
His head shook against her neck and shoulder. “It’s just sore.”
“Will it heal?”
The pause before his reply was answer enough. “We don’t know for sure,” he disclosed, “Potter used the potions Pansy experimented with when he’d question Death Eaters as the Demon Serpent to see if he could remove the Dark Mark without killing us… When he finally did succeed, he had to destroy the evidence of the experiment so we couldn’t monitor the long term effects…”
His voice trailed off, but Hermione was able to fill in the gaps. Each of the Demon Serpent’s victims had been entirely mutilated, their bodies shredded from the force of the killer.
“So he was not only torturing them for information… but also using them for an experiment.” Hermione surmised.
“You’ll come to find we Slytherins are rather efficient.” Draco teased hollowly.
“Harry isn’t a Slytherin.” Hermione reminded him.
She felt him shrug against her bare chest, the movement so casual and new for him, for them. "He's only a Gryffindor because he begged the bloody hat.”
“He told you that?”
“We’ve, unfortunately, become quite acquainted these past months. A tale or two has been traded to pass the time.”
"You're just frustrated that you hadn't thought of standing up for which house you wished to be sorted into like he did. I've often wondered if you were meant to be a Hufflepuff," she mocked moonily.
Draco took the bait. "I would have been the youngest pupil in the history of Hogwarts to have Avada'd someone if I had been sorted into Hufflepuff."
A cleansing laughter bubbled out of Hermione, a mix of relief and the calm her body had sunk into.
Readjusting, Draco propped himself on his arm once more, brushing the frizzy curls out of her face to take her in.
"I will never get tired of that sound," he murmured, kissing her delicately and allowing his lips to linger for a moment before pulling away.
As Hermione pulled her left arm up to itch her nose, Draco's eyes shot to the inside of her forearm.
She realized too late what he saw and tried to toss her arm back down, burying the vibrant red marking in the silken sheets.
A ripple of sorrow flickered across his features as part of his face was illuminated by the flooding light from the bathroom.
"May I?" he asked, seeking her permission again as if she hadn't given her entire being to him already.
Yet this was a different kind of intimacy.
The violent memory of when he'd called her scar’s size a pity and had held her arm with hateful intensity marred her brain.
Why? Why had he been so cruel at times if his love truly ran so deep?
"Hermione?" He pulled her out of the cursed memory with his low voice speaking her name on a blessed hush.
With guarded resolve, she raised her arm, which he took in his hands as if it would shatter from his touch.
He studied the word "mudblood" etched on her skin: the imprecise kerning of the letters, the ugly font in a blazing red hue as bright as the day she’d been given the mark.
Yet his once silver, sharp, and hateful eyes were now pure blue and filled with sympathetic agony.
Leaning down, he pressed his lips to the top of the scar.
She flinched at his touch—not from pain, as the scar hadn't hurt in quite some time—but from surprise at the considerateness with which he kissed each letter and whispered against her pale skin, "You are beautiful."
Tears flooded her vision as he kissed each letter with a clandestine reverence he finally seemed capable of showing.
When he kissed the last letter, a sob escaped her mouth, the sound meager and strangled.
He leaned forward, enveloping her in his sturdy embrace, soothing her as the tears fell. Kissing her mop of hair, he ran his hand tenderly down the back of her skull.
“I don’t understand… I don’t understand why you hated me—”
“Never,” he promised. “I’m sorry… I never…” She felt his quivering sigh against her bare chest as he pulled her even closer, trying to shield them both from the pain of the past.
They stayed that way for a moment, finally letting out the emotions she had held in—from the games, from Azkaban, from all of her training.
He did not shy away from it; instead, he soothed her, kissed her, and called her pure and beautiful, swaddling such notions in authentic apologies for his past transgressions.
"I love you," he vowed to her again and again.
She whispered the same back to him.
After a few moments, she felt his chest stiffen before he pulled away slightly, taking her cheeks in his hand and kissing the tears away.
His eyes journeyed through a myriad of emotions before his brows caved inward, as if he had made a decision he didn't particularly enjoy.
Then, in a mild tone, he inquired with uncertainty, "Can I show you something?"
In the shadowed corridors of Malfoy Manor, a place she had once joyously left behind, Hermione found herself doing something she had never expected: she was walking hand in hand with Draco.
From the moment they had both gotten dressed in his room and sneaked through the hallways of the headquarters, their fingers had become entwined as if bound by the threads of destiny itself, with only death as a possibility to separate them now.
His touch spoke of possession that enveloped around her like a protective cloak, soothing her with each reassuring stroke of his thumb against the back of her palm.
As they stepped out from the secretive confines of their headquarters, they treaded cautiously down the hillside, the mist of midnight damp under their footing. The wind howled in Hermione's ears, sending her hair in a flurry around her as they distanced themselves a few miles from headquarters out of an abundance of caution.
Draco's kiss upon her hand was a silent vow, his eyes aflame with unspoken promises that whispered of eternal devotion before they apparated together.
Through the halls of Malfoy Manor, Hermione felt the absence of the once-concealing enchantments.
The walls themselves seemed to acknowledge her presence, no longer hiding Harry Potter from her gaze. An odd apology enveloped her, as if the house itself were speaking to her soul, reassuring her that it had meant no harm in its efforts.
She almost spoke aloud, telling the house that she didn't fault it for protecting her brother, but then decided against it.
"Where is your father?" Hermione whispered as they passed the library she had begrudgingly refused to visit during her confinement.
Fixated on the dark columns and the never-ending sea of bookshelves that reached the towering ceiling, she barely registered Draco when he told her, “He’s with the Dark Lord.”
Her attention returned to him as she followed, studying the back of his head for a sign of more information.
She wanted to ask if his father had known Harry had lived here or if he missed him.
She wanted to pry into his mind and begin to understand so many things about him.
While Hermione certainly had no love for Lucius—the haughty, blood-purist—she understood he’d played a part in crafting the man whose hand she now held and to whom she’d gifted her heart.
As the masked layers of Draco slowly peeled back, she already felt herself undone by the glimpses he granted her of his true soul.
He glanced back at her a time or two as they traveled through the home, as if he needed to check that she was there, real, and that he wasn’t imagining it all.
With each stolen look, she gave him a thin, adoring smile to silently convey: I’m here, I love you, I trust you.
She’d crawled into hell for Draco, knelt before the devil incarnate and sworn herself to him.
She wished he understood that devotion wouldn’t evaporate now.
Finally, they turned a familiar corner and entered the small room she’d encountered twice before.
The first time had been the night she’d seen him, wrecked with emotions, hunched before the Pensieve.
The second time had been when he’d helped her avoid Voldemort just barely, when he’d kissed her, succumbing to his desires for a moment.
That had been the first crack in her own resolve, the first night she could no longer hide from her longing for him.
He let her enter first, his gaze rooted on the patterns of the floor as she stepped inside.
Taking in the cramped space, she studied how each wall was filled with shelves and each shelf was overflowing with vials. The encased memories were dazzling silver-blue threads suspended in the crystal.
She swore she heard whispers, like the memories were speaking to her of what secrets they each concealed.
She glanced back at Draco, who swallowed tightly as he scanned her face.
“You’ve seen me here once before,” he murmured, indicating towards the Pensieve.
She nodded, uncertain but unafraid. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered.”
He licked his lips, his head swaying side to side in an odd manner, as if he were reevaluating his decision to bring her here. He was so tentative, so unsure, it was alien to behold him in such a state.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to do this,” he assured her. “I need… I need you to see me. To know now what I’ve been forced to withhold so that perhaps you can find a way to forgive me for all I’ve done and still have to do.”
His words made little sense, but she watched in silence as he deftly plucked the largest vial off of the back shelf, ripping the topper from it and pouring the generous, long memory into the Pensieve.
She observed the molten liquid reverberate as it sucked in the memory, the strand dissolving like salt in boiling water.
It clicked instantly; whatever lay in these memories contained the missing puzzle pieces that made up Draco Malfoy, the final paint strokes of the work of art that was him.
She had been trying to understand a mere caricature of a man.
Now, she was about to see the full picture.
She braced her hands on the ornate Pensieve, mirroring how she’d once seen Draco hold it, brushing her nearly-dry curls behind her shoulders.
Glancing at him one last time, he surveyed her nervously, his arms folded like a shield, guarding his heart.
She began to dip her head towards the rippling water when Draco said, “If something you see in these memories changes how you feel, I won’t hold it against you.”
Her heart felt like stained glass, shattering into a rainbow of emotions at his broken words, yet she could sense how hard he strived to sound completely put together.
“Do you think me that fickle, Draco? After all that’s already happened between us, I love you. Despite it all,” she reminded him.
His eyes flared with emotion as he smirked, the gesture forlorn, as if he were already mourning what they had together. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”
Hermione almost hesitated, for some part of her wished to never know what lay in these memories.
She didn't want things to change; she knew his heart was good, and she didn't need evidence to reiterate what she knew with her entire soul.
But something about these memories seemed vital to him, something he needed to give her for her to finally comprehend him.
He was a snake, shedding the final layer of his scales to unearth transformation underneath.
And she was a lioness; bravery was written into her fate.
So she plunged her face into the water and drowned herself in the memories of Draco Malfoy.
