Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t even know the house next door was for sale until he sees the lorry parked out front. 

It’s after noon by the time he gets out of bed, and two men have already worked up a sweat hauling furniture across the lawn and inside. Draco comes up with a few excuses to linger out front—watering a neglected rose bush, checking for any post—but he doesn’t catch a glimpse of his new neighbour all day.

He concedes it will probably continue in that fashion. As a lifelong night owl, he tends to miss out on much of the comings and goings of the conventional world. He makes another coffee and opens his laptop.

The words come slowly, trickling out like the last dregs of a bottle and fighting him on every sentence. After five hours of work, he only has five hundred of them to show for it. And he’s pretty sure he hates every single one.

The back door slams shut behind him, and Draco has the cigarette lit before an ounce of fresh air can make its way into his lungs. He takes a long drag and freezes. The smoke blows out around a smile.

His new neighbour is in the back garden.

Draco strides down over the grass and to the short stone wall separating their yards.

“Hullo, there,” he says.

The huge ginger cat gives a loud meow, and Draco chuckles. He reaches out and gives the beast a few testing scratches under his very squashed chin.

The bright yellow eyes sink closed as the cat presses against his hand, and Draco casts a glance up at the glowing windows of the house.

“You’ve certainly done well for yourself,” Draco tells him. “This is a very nice neighbourhood.”

The creature stands up from the wall, turning to encourage some scratches for his ears and shoulders as well.

Draco obliges. “Do you have an owner or just a paid team of staff?”

The cat gives another meow, sounding decidedly haughty this time, and Draco nods. “Figured as much.”

***

It’s dark out when Draco sees the flash of light from the car parked in next door’s drive. He doesn’t dash to the window so much as lean casually over to look. And then he nearly presses his face against the glass.

His new neighbour is a woman, apparently, and she’s—

Bloody hell.

He blinks against the darkness. She’s fucking gorgeous.

She’s dressed in a matching tracksuit, tight enough to display her incredible curves. A mass of dark curls drapes down to her lower back, and as she turns to open the car door, her cropped top reveals a stretch of tan stomach.

Draco eyes the duffel bag she swings off her shoulder and glances down at his watch.

10:15pm

Visiting her boyfriend, then. Naturally.

Lucky bloke, he thinks, sitting back down at the computer. His fingers hover over the keys for several seconds before he’s able to start again.

The hours drag by, and Draco’s startled from a near stupor when a bright beam of light tracks over his wall. He leans to look again as her car pulls back in.

It’s nearly three in the morning but she’s home. He raises a brow. Maybe not a boyfriend, then. Just something casual. Too casual to stay the night. Nothing wrong with that.

She gets out and his head shakes gently. Still a lucky bloke.

***

Over the next week, he’s forced to revise his earlier assumption. Either this woman maintains the most regimented schedule of dick appointments he’s ever heard of or she’s going to work.

She leaves most evenings and returns in the small hours of the morning. Her attire varies, but it’s always some type of loungewear. She comes home dressed the same, the only noticeable difference being the curls piled into a large bun on top of her head.

He thinks first of a hospital. She looks far too young to be a doctor, but she could work nights as a nurse. Though he dimly recalls that nurses tend to work brutally long shifts. And he’s never seen her in scrubs.

Maybe some kind of nighttime security? Surely she’s a bit on the small side for that. He watches her back down the drive before opening a new document. He writes a story about a femme fatale who takes down an entire compound of thugs with nothing more than a three-inch blade.

He tells the cat about it over a cigarette while they wait for her to get home.

As much as Draco hates to admit it, none of the possibilities he considers explain how she’s afforded that particular house by herself. It could have been bought with family money, of course, like his. But she seems to have quite the work ethic for someone who came up that way. Maybe not everyone with a trust fund turns out to be a no-good worthless layabout.

He ponders it as he takes the rubbish out, but he pauses with a hand on the lid of the bin when he hears the music. It’s loud, the bass vibrating right through the wall, and he’s drawn forward by the slow hypnotic beat.

He’s already at the edge of the window before his brain’s caught on to how creepy that is. And then all rational thought abandons him completely.

She’s there, in the center of the room, spinning upside down on a shiny silver pole. He stares, entirely transfixed, as she shifts the grip of her hands, letting go with her legs and stepping in smooth strides as though she’s walking on air.

It’s incredible.

A neon light somewhere in the room shifts colours over her body; first pink, then purple, red, and blue. He marvels at her strength as her toes only touch the ground for a second before she’s lifting herself again. She swings her legs up over her head like it's nothing.

He’s so distracted by the athleticism that it actually takes him a few long moments to appreciate the fact that she’s practically naked. She’s wearing nothing but a lacy bra and knickers in periwinkle blue, and he can see why when she stretches into a split and lets go with her hands completely, only the friction of the pole pinned between the skin of her hip and thigh keeping her in the air.

He watches as she unwinds gracefully, sliding lower as she spins until her bare feet meet the ground again. She sweeps one leg in front of her and drops her hips in a dramatic body roll in time with the music. Draco swallows heavily, tracing the lines of her curves as she uses the pole to turn and sink to her knees. She lowers her hands, her chest to the floor, arching her back with her perfect arse in the air. The beat drops, and so does she, sliding her legs out until her center nearly kisses the ground.

The bag slips from Draco’s fingers.

“Shit!” 

The clatter of bottles and cans falling onto the brick path seems impossibly loud, and he dives toward the wall of her house, pressing himself flat against it in case she looks out the window. He waits like that for maybe minutes, heart pounding in his throat as he curses himself for being the world’s most pathetic, perverted arsehole.

The seconds tick by, but the music just plays on. He doesn’t dare check whether she’s still dancing. He snags the bag off the ground and tosses it into the bin from a crouch.

***

She doesn’t use the practice room too frequently.

Draco makes the extremely unfortunate discovery that he can see the window from his kitchen and only checks a modest 37 times a day to see whether the light is on.

It’s nearly a week later before he sees a red glow suddenly illuminate the space between their walls. He’s just finished with dinner, and a plate nearly slips out of his soapy grip. His eyes widen as she moves into view. He can’t actually see the pole from this angle, but she’s hung a large section of mirrors on the far wall. Like something you’d see in a gym. She’s reflected clearly, large as life, as she takes a hold and climbs up. The sponge in his hands makes a slow rotation around the rim of a glass as he watches her spin. He doesn’t know how it’s possible—the shapes she makes. His jaw actually drops when she clamps the pole between her straightened legs and arches backwards until her hands find a grip below. 

Part of him wishes she’d put down a safety mat.

But, clearly, she doesn’t need one. She’s undoubtedly a seasoned professional. Her feet drop to the floor again, and she walks them out, leaning her shoulder back against the pole and putting her center on display for the mirror. There’s a smirk on her lips as she trails her hands up over her body, like she knows exactly how sexy she is. Tonight’s outfit is pink and mostly sheer. Draco can see the shadow of her nipples through the thin fabric.

And then, he—he drops the sponge and grips the edge of the sink. He can see her actual nipples as she slips the straps down her arms and unclasps the top. She pulls it off slowly, dragging it down over her chest and stomach. It falls to the floor with a casual flick of her fingers, and, fuck, he’s hard.

Her hands come up to cup her breasts, pushing them together. He doesn’t mean to press his crotch against the edge of the counter, but he’s aching.

She tilts her head to the side, watching the reflection as she drags her lower lip between her teeth.

Draco understands on a whole new level how she was able to afford every pound of the house in front of him. The performance is fucking priceless.

He can’t be entirely sure how long it lasts, but when she moves out of sight and the window goes dark, his dishes have never been cleaner.

He parks himself at his desk, resolutely ignoring his raging hard on. He’d decided that very first night that he was not going to wank over her. Surely that would be the first stop on a slippery slope toward hiding in the bushes and stealing knickers from her clothesline.

He’d caved once (twice) when nothing else was working, but he won’t do it again.

His fingers fly over the keys as he channels the frustration into a new piece full of gaping maws, agonising hunger, and all manner of dodgy food-related metaphors. 

He’s written more in the last week than the past six months combined.

He takes a smoke break around two and finds the cat on the wall as usual. It munches quietly on a fish-shaped morsel from Draco’s pocket as he runs a hand over the ginger fur.

“It’s not that I don’t feel guilty,” he tells him. “But you know I’m harmless.”

The cat turns his lamp-like eyes on Draco, and he quickly feeds it another treat.

“It’s harmless,” he repeats. Especially since she doesn’t know.

That doesn’t sit well at all, and he says a hasty goodnight to his furred friend before returning to the manuscript for a distraction.

He writes into the early morning, sleeping later than usual. His jaw cracks with a yawn as he pours the coffee, and then he spits an entire mouthful over the counter.

There’s a note taped to his kitchen window.

[image alt text: handwritten note in pink cursive script "If you're going to watch, it's polite to tip xx"]

Draco stares at the words, desperately searching for any other explanation. But, of course, there isn’t one. 

She knows. 

And somehow, the only thing worse than her knowing he’s a complete creep is her thinking he’s a stingy fuck as well.

He hides in his room with the curtains drawn all day, but he can’t resist peeking out as she heads to work. He waits a few extra minutes to be certain and then rushes outside.

He pulls out his wallet as he goes, quickly thumbing through the notes. He counts 100, 200, 300—

He’s only halfway through the stack, but he’s arrived at her top step. He debates for one second longer, then shoves all of it through the letter slot in her front door.

Chapter Text

She doesn’t go to work the next night.

He shouldn’t know that it’s atypical—shouldn’t have any idea about her movements at all—but he does.

He sits at his computer and drums his fingers over the keys without actually typing anything.

He’s fucking dying for a cigarette. He gets to his feet, pacing a bit and shaking out his hands. This is ridiculous. He should just go outside. It’s not as though she’s paying attention to what he’s doing. Not nearly the way he’s been doing to her. Or, at least, she likely wasn’t.

A grimace twists his mouth at the taste of his own medicine.

He pulls out the pack, tapping it firmly against his palm as he walks. He tucks a cigarette between his lips, but pauses with his hand on the back door. The lighter sits heavy in his pocket, and he considers. 

He lets out a scoff, pushing the door so hard it rattles in its frame. His mother could wallpaper the Manor with the list of ways he’s disappointed her, but he still can’t bring himself to light up inside.

The tobacco crackles under the flame, and he sucks in a deep breath. His eyes slip closed as the buzz of nicotine calms him at once. He blows the smoke out in a slow, steady stream.

He walks down onto the grass, trailing his eyes over the wall, but the cat is nowhere to be seen. Draco frowns before bringing the filter back to his lips for another long drag. He might as well make it quick without company.

No sooner has the thought crossed his mind than a door opens across the way, spilling light and a streak of orange out onto the lawn.

The cat leaps up onto the wall with a friendly chirrup, but Draco’s gaze is locked on the porch.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, backlit from inside and glowing like some kind of ethereal being. It’s only a second, but it nearly knocks him off his feet.

He quickly marshalls himself as she steps down onto the grass, drawing toward him. She’s just a woman. A normal person. He can be one, too.

But his resolve weakens with every step she takes. He’s never seen her this close before, and while she may be a mere mortal, she still looks like something conjured from the depths of his wildest dreams.

She’s dressed comfortably, as usual, in a tan zip-up hoodie and matching drawstring bottoms. She holds a glass of red wine in one hand.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” he manages in return.

Her freckled cheeks pull up into a smile, and the warmth in her eyes feels like standing too close to a fire. He’s melting at the edges.

A tendril of smoke from his cigarette curls toward her face, and he quickly swipes his hand through it.

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s a filthy habit.”

She reaches over and plucks it from his fingers, bringing it up to her lips.

“Mm,” she hums around the filter. “What’s life without one or two of those?”

She holds out her glass to him, and Draco takes it gingerly, pulling a small sip into his mouth. He watches over the delicate rim as she blows smoke out between pursed lips.

The wine is rich with a nice oak spice. He swallows as his eyes dip to her chest. Deliciously full-bodied.

He hands back the glass, and she does the same with the cigarette. A pink stain of gloss is barely there on the paper, and he’s torn between letting her keep it and pressing his own lips to the place where hers have been. He compromises, taking it back, but producing a fresh one for her.

She accepts it with another smile, and her curls brush over the back of his hand as she leans in for him to light it.

The cat has endured all of this with increasingly impatient meows, bumping his head relentlessly against Draco’s arm. When the poor beast resorts to batting angrily at his sleeve, Draco can’t ignore him any longer. He strokes a hand down over his back despite the fact that the obvious familiarity has rather given up the jig.

“I kept expecting you to pop over and introduce yourself,” she says, watching the interaction. “If not for me, then at least to find out his name.”

Draco looks up at her, startled, and she shakes her head. She makes a show of gazing back over her shoulder and up to the room overlooking the garden.

“Windows work both ways, you know.”

Draco can feel the flush rising in his cheeks. “Yes. That, er, would have been the proper thing to do.”

She pulls her lip between her teeth, scrunching her nose. “Proper tends to be a bit boring. I found your method much more interesting.”

“That’s generous,” he mutters.

The cat flops down on top of the stone, pressing his feet against Draco’s side.

“It’s Crookshanks, by the way.” She nods down at the writhing ginger mass.

“That’s quite a name.”

“He’s quite a cat.”

“Indeed,” Draco agrees, retrieving a treat from his pocket. Crookshanks snaps it up at once, crunching loudly with his back teeth.

“I’m Draco.”

“Hermione.” She offers her hand over the wall, and Draco takes it. It feels small in his grip, her fingers long and narrow. Her skin is remarkably soft except for a row of slight calluses at the top of her palm. From the pole, he reasons.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says. “Properly.”

She pauses with her glass halfway to her lips to smile. “Likewise.”

He watches her take a sip, her head tilting as she considers him.

“So, what do you do, Draco?”

“I’m a writer.”

She gives an interested hum. “What do you write about?”

“Lately, you.”

Her lips part in an expression of naked surprise. But the look fades quickly, her mouth curving up into a delighted smile.

“I always wanted to be someone’s muse.”

Draco points to the practice room window with his cigarette clamped between two fingers. “If you do that in public, I guarantee you I’m not the first.”

She laughs, the sound tumbling out. “I’m afraid you’re vastly overestimating the artistic acumen of my typical clientele.”

“Perhaps you’re underestimating what you could inspire in someone.”

Her teeth flash in a grin, and she leans forward, propping her elbows on the wall. “Yeah? Stories?”

“Epics.”

“Poetry?”

“Odes.”

“Mm, what about songs?”

“Oh, heart-wrenching ballads. And potentially a Tony-nominated musical in the West End.”

“What, my show doesn’t win?”

He takes a pull from his cigarette, putting on a frown. “Let’s not be ridiculous.”

Her laughter is full and loud. It makes him feel slightly dizzy.

“And here I was thinking the most I’d inspired was loads of wet dreams.”

Draco clears his throat, looking down to run his nail over a crack in the stone. “I—wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Well, I was fairly certain, but now I know you’ve never been to a club.”

He glances back up. “Specifically a—” He falters for a second. “A gentleman’s club?”

“Yes.” Her smile turns indulgent and her tone drops, making a gentle mimic of his accent. “A gentleman’s club.”

“No,” he admits. Realising suddenly that might sound like he disapproves, he adds, “But I don’t get out much. At all, really.”

She brings her cigarette back to her lips. “Well, if you ever change your mind, you’d be very popular.”

That takes him aback. “What makes you say that?”

She squints at him through the smoke. “Really?”

He just shrugs.

Her brows sink low as she takes a moment to look him up and down. “Cute, sweet…” Her gaze snags on his watch before flicking back up to his face. “Deep pockets.”

The blush burns hot and fast in his cheeks—both from her frank appraisal and the memory of the money he’d given her. As she continues staring, he can actually feel the heat in his nose and forehead as well.

She shakes her head with a little chuckle. “Actually, don’t go. You’d get eaten alive.”

“I can think of worse fates,” he says, sounding half out of breath. “Depending on who’s at the table.”

She pulls her lip between her teeth again, and the warmth spreads south. Draco looks down to flick the ash from his cigarette, only to realise he’s smoked it to the filter.

Hermione watches him snub it out against the stone before swallowing the last sip in her glass. When she speaks, her voice is like velvet.

“Well, you’ve more than paid for a private dance if you were interested in something a little more interactive than watching.”

His mouth goes dry, and she takes a step back from the wall.

“Or, you know—” She gives a casual shrug, wiggling the empty glass by its stem. “Some wine.” She continues backing slowly away, and then quirks a brow. “Are you thirsty?”

Draco swallows, and his throat clicks. “Parched.”

***

She leads him in through the back door, Crookshanks winding precariously under his feet the whole way.

“Sorry about the mess,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m still getting organised.”

They’ve entered between the kitchen and sitting room, and there are a few things out of place—some large boxes overflowing with packing material, a lamp sitting on a plastic storage container instead of a side table—but on the whole, it’s very tidy for the short time she’s been there.

“It looks great,” Draco says.

She retrieves another glass from a cupboard, shooting him a quick smile. “Thank you.”

The living space is dominated by an oversized sectional sofa that looks like it could seat ten. The cushions are a plush white, clearly soft, and extremely inviting. A pillow is tucked in each corner, two separate throw blankets draped over the back.

He glances back over at the sound of the wine pouring, stepping quickly into the open kitchen to take the glass when she holds it out.

“Cheers,” he murmurs, taking a long and fortifying sip.

Hermione leans back against the counter, drawing one bare foot up to prop against her shin. Her toenails are painted white.

“How long have you lived here?”

Draco tears his gaze away, blushing again at her knowing smirk. “Erm, since just after I turned 18.”

“And how long is that?”

“I’m 23.”

She nods, but doesn’t offer her own age. He assumes it must be about the same.

“Where did you move from?” he asks.

“Not far from here. But I was sharing a house with three other girls. Other dancers.”

“Sounds like fun.”

She laughs into her glass. “They’re amazing, and I love them to death, but it was absolute chaos.” Her eyes travel slowly over the space and she takes a deep breath. “I’m very glad to have the quiet.”

He follows her gaze, leaning a bit around the corner. “I can relate.” His eyes catch on the wall across from the sofa, and when he glances back at her, she’s already smiling.

The entire surface is covered by a set of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and Draco crosses to them at once. Some of the shelves are full, but half a dozen boxes still sit on the floor, waiting to be placed.

“You’re a reader.”

“I am.”

He turns to see that she’s followed him, and she touches two fingers to her temple in a quick salute. “Thank you for your service.”

He laughs, looking back at the books. “I doubt you’ve read anything of mine.” Although… his fingers brush over the spine of one particularly obscure title. Maybe.

“I’d like to,” she says.

She’s closer now, and he has to swallow before saying, “All right.”

“Would you show me something you wrote about me?”

It’s not until she takes the glass from his hand that Draco realises she’s already abandoned hers somewhere along the way. It clinks quietly against the dark wood as she sets it on an empty shelf.

It feels like a Herculean feat to force air into his lungs. “If you like.”

She steps closer, right up to him, and places the fingertips of one hand on his chest. “Would it be something romantic?”

Her voice is barely a whisper, and it sends gooseflesh rippling down his arms.

“In a manner of speaking.”

She lifts her eyes to his, and they’re dark with anticipation. “But it would make me feel something?”

“Yes,” he says as his heart ricochets against his rips.

“What would it make me feel?”

Draco stares down at the lush swell of her bottom lip and her tongue comes out to wet it.

“Wanted.”

Her fingers tighten into a fist in his shirt, and he—Christ—he’s fucking hard again. Immediately. All at once.

“Badly?” she asks, and he can feel the air against his chin. Her other hand comes up to grip his collar, her nails scratching gently against the side of his neck. Heat surges through him, so strong he nearly reaches out to steady himself. He wraps his arms around her waist instead.

“Desperately.”

She pulls him down to her, meeting his lips in a searing kiss. Draco’s lungs empty in a long exhale against her cheek as he returns it. She shifts the fit of their mouths, her tongue sliding over his, and he clutches her hard into his chest.

A little gasp of pleasure slips out of her, and Draco feels seconds away from unravelling completely. He’s never experienced anything like it. Like he could drown in her.

She breaks the kiss suddenly, pushing him roughly away, and he panics for a second that he’s done something wrong. But she follows right up against his front as he steps away, and with one more shove, he falls backwards onto the sofa.

It’s just as comfortable as it looks. He sinks down into it as she climbs onto his lap.

Her hands go to his jaw, gripping tight and kissing him hard again.

“Fuck,” he grunts against her lips when her weight settles over him.

She makes a small pleased sound in her chest, pressing forward and grinding her center against him.

Draco fills his palms with the soft curve of her arse, and says a silent prayer of thanks that he never accidentally stumbled into her place of business. One taste of this and his inheritance would have vanished like magic.

“Is it usually like this?”

“What?” she murmurs distractedly.

He tries to remember what she’d called it.

“A private dance?”

Hermione freezes on top of him, and one look at her shocked expression is enough for him to immediately realise what an offensive question it was. Of course she wouldn’t act this way with just anyone who walked through the door.

He blames the lack of blood supply to his brain.

“I didn’t mean—”

She presses her index finger over his lips before he can make it worse. “I’m going to blame that on ignorance,” she says evenly.

“I’m also an idiot,” he offers. He decides not to mention the blood supply bit.

Her lips purse like the edge of a smile he can see is against her better judgment.

“No, that’s not what a private dance is like. But if you prefer a more authentic experience, I can certainly oblige.”

“Hermione—” He reaches for her, but she snatches him by the wrists, forcing both hands firmly down to his sides, palms pressed to the cushions.

“Rule number one,” she says pleasantly. “No touching.”

Chapter Text

“Rule number one,” she says pleasantly. “No touching.”

He twitches a bit under her grip, and she raises a brow. “I suggest you follow it, or my bouncer here will have to escort you out.”

She leans to the side to reveal Crookshanks sitting a few feet away on the rug. “And he bites.”

Draco fights to keep a straight face, nodding solemnly. “Understood.”

“Good.”

She reaches behind her and picks up her phone from the coffee table. “I think one song should do.” Her nails tap over the screen for a few seconds before a slow, seductive beat fills the room. 

He’s not sure where the speaker is, but he becomes abundantly uninterested in finding out when she drops the phone again and begins to move.

His fingers dig into the sofa as she links her hands behind his head and rolls her hips over his lap. The motion is mesmerizing, isolated completely to her lower half. He can see the flex of her abs in the thin strip of exposed skin below her top. Her body is incredible, but he’d already known that. What he hadn’t expected is the way it feels to be under her gaze while she dances. Her eyes are locked on his face, watching every reaction she elicits, and staring into his soul when he’s brave enough to let her. He’s entranced—completely under her spell.

Hermione leans forward against his chest, pressing her curls to his cheek, and he can’t contain a moan as he looks down over her back while she grinds on top of his dick. Her arse looks mercilessly good beneath the clingy fabric. The urge to touch her is so strong his fingers ache, but he can only watch helplessly as she rotates smoothly in a slow circle.

He’s tempted to be relieved when she sits back up, and then her hands go to the zip on her hoodie.

“F-Fuck,” he breathes, eyes wide as she slowly pulls it down. Her brows raise with amusement, and he remembers that stripping is kind of the whole point.

She lets the jacket slide down off her shoulders, gently tugging her arms from the sleeves. She’s wearing only a bra underneath, and his eyes rake eagerly over the delicate lace. It’s beautiful—a pale shade of cream—letting the warm bronze of her skin show through.

Before he’s had a chance to look his fill, she plants her hands on the back of the sofa and lifts onto high knees. He makes a highly embarrassing noise as she leans forward, pressing his face directly into her cleavage. His eyes fall closed, letting the supple softness fill his senses. She’s wearing a fragrance, something floral and sweet, but he can tell that most of it has faded. The warm scent of her skin eclipses it, and he draws in a deep breath of the intoxicating combination. Something tells him he’ll never be able to forget it.

She digs her hands into his hair, pulling him forward as she sits on his cock again, and Draco realises quite suddenly that he’s at real risk of coming in his fucking pants.

“How long is this song?” he mutters into her tits.

Hermione laughs. “Not bored already, are you?”

He groans in response.

She pushes him back against the cushions and shifts enough to trace a fingertip over the very obvious outline of his erection. “You don’t seem bored.”

“Shit,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“But I can speed it along if you like.”

Draco feels like weeping when she stands. She turns, pulling the drawstring tie at her waist, and slowly—so slowly—shimmying the tight fabric down her legs. She shifts her arse back and forth a centimeter from his face, and he wonders how hard he’d have to be to constitute a medical emergency.

Her knickers are flesh-toned, cut to show off the curves of her cheeks, and silky smooth like a second skin. For some reason, the fact that they’re mismatched with the bra—that this is just what she happened to be wearing today—is infinitely more sexy than a coordinated set.

She sits back down on his lap, pushing her arse hard into his crotch with every beat, and his head thunks loudly against the wall behind him.

She glances over her shoulder at the sound. “Are you all right?”

His eyes squeeze shut as she continues the maddening sway of her hips. “No, but not because of that.”

Her chuckle doesn’t help. “I’m so sorry to hear you aren’t enjoying yourself.”

She spreads her knees and leans forward, arching her back and giving him a perfect view of what it would look like to fuck her from behind. His hands come up off the sofa, and he fists them tightly behind his head.

“It is a dreadful disappointment,” he pants. “I plan to have a word with your supervisor.”

Hermione stands again, grinning as she turns to straddle him once more. “Be my guest,” she says. “Just don’t expect him to talk back.”

Draco glances over to where Crookshanks had been, but, thankfully, he seems to have excused himself. Only the very tip of a ginger tail protrudes from behind the wall leading into the kitchen. 

When Draco looks back to Hermione, she has her arms behind her back, unclasping the bra. A sound perilously close to a whimper slips from his lips as the cups fall away, revealing her perfect tits. He'd swear he can actually feel his pupils dilating. Her nipples are a deep dusky rose, and as he watches, they tighten visibly into taut peaks. Whether more from the sudden chill of exposure or the heat of his gaze, he can’t be sure. Either way, the sight makes his mouth water.

Hermione cups her hands over her chest, pressing so that the excess swells around her palms. The straps of the bra have left little red marks at the tops of her shoulders, and Draco itches with the urge to smooth his fingers over them, to kiss them away. 

But he follows the rules, sitting stock still as she leans up to hover over him. His eyes sink closed as she grazes one nipple slowly down along his cheek. The brush of her skin is an agonising tease against the side of his nose, his chin.

His mouth is open, but that’s out of necessity. He can’t seem to get enough air otherwise. Her breath hitches as her nipple bumps over his lips, dragging the bottom one down a bit, and he thinks he might pass out anyway. His cock twitches powerfully, leaking in his pants, and when her weight presses onto it again, he groans.

She shifts back and forth over his lap, gripping him tight around the waist, and he watches her eyelids flutter. Her own lips are parted, her back arching as she grinds her front against his stomach.

His hips jerk up of their own accord, forcing a breathless little moan out of her, and Draco is going to die.

He’s going to come and then die—leaving her with quite the logistical nightmare—but really, she’s no one to blame but herself.

Miraculously though, she slows. Her hips eventually still so that she’s simply sitting on him once more.

“That’s the song over.”

Draco blinks several times, glancing dazedly over her shoulder. He’d forgotten all about the music. They might have been at it for hours. Truthfully, the whole house could have burnt to cinders around them and he wouldn’t have smelled the smoke.

Hermione smirks at his dumbfounded expression, her brows flicking up. “And that’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

He gives a weak breath of a laugh, but it dies in his throat as clarity slams back into him. “Does that mean I can touch you now?”

Her smile widens. “Yes.”

The word is barely out of her mouth before his arms are back around her. He grips her tight, one hand sliding up into her hair as he kisses her hard. She gives a pleased hum against his lips, and he feels her hips shift over him again. He leans into it, pulling her close, but he can’t touch her enough. He has so much time to make up for. His hands are everywhere, but he still needs more. 

He shifts his grip to her thighs and stands from the cushions. She makes a little noise of surprise but doesn’t protest as he takes a few steps and lays her back onto the chaise portion of the ridiculous sofa. It’s practically the size of a single bed.

She moans again, louder this time, as his weight sinks onto her. Their kiss is beyond fevered, the slick heat of her tongue making him feel crazed. Her hands rake up under his shirt, and he leans back to tear it off at once. His mouth lands on her neck this time, making her arch beneath him. He grinds down against her, and her knees come up to squeeze at his ribs. The feel of her panting beneath his tongue makes him throb, and he moves lower, trailing sucking kisses down to her chest. Her nails dig almost painfully into his back at the first flick over her nipple.

“Oh fuck,” she moans, pressing up against him.

Draco circles it with the tip of his tongue before closing his mouth over her and sucking gently.

“Fuck that’s so good.”

He groans his agreement, cock aching as he licks over her again and again.

She cants her hips up into him, and her voice comes out on an uneven breath. “Oh my—god, I-I’m so wet.”

His brain short circuits at that, especially since she sounds so shocked about it. Her breast leaves his mouth with a pop.

“Can I taste you?”

She gives a short laugh, her hands coming up to her forehead. “How did I know you’d be a giver?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, fuck. It’s a yes, please.”

He smiles down at her as he gets to his knees, dragging the knickers off. A tiny strip of dark hair decorates her front, so narrow it might as well not be there at all. But he’s sincerely glad that it is. He lays back down and runs his nose over it before following with his tongue.

Her fingers dig roughly into his hair, and he moves lower, pressing between her outer lips on the next lick.

She makes a noise like a whine. “Oh fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”

Draco’s surprised to hear that already, but he can feel the firm nub of her clit, swollen with arousal. He layers stroke after stroke onto it while she tells him god yes and just like that. She doesn’t come immediately, but she does seem to be enjoying it. And she really is so very wet.

He groans into her cunt as he slips a finger inside, making her writhe.

“Shit—that feels so good.” Her voice sounds strained. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t, despite the fact that the feel of her slick heat gripping him so perfectly might actually be killing him.

His lips close over her clit again in a sloppy kiss, and she tightens her grip on his hair.

“Fuck,” she cries. “Like that—I’m—”

She breaks off on a long moan as the first pulse clenches around his finger. He continues the motion carefully, smoothing his free hand up over her stomach and feeling it tense and release. Her head is thrown back, her neck arched with pleasure, and every shudder sends a ripple of motion through her breasts. It is, without a doubt, the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

The tension in his groin is nearly unbearable, but at least it’s still there. He hasn’t embarrassed himself yet.

“Holy shit,” she breathes when the last wave has faded, and he gently slips his finger out.

Her hands slide down over his neck to tug at his shoulders. “Come here.”

He goes, laying down beside her, mindful of the rest of his clothing against her sensitive skin. She cups his jaw and draws him into a deep kiss, pressing herself against his chest.

“That was incredible,” she murmurs.

“Good,” he says, smoothing his palm down her arm. “Sorry if it took a little longer.”

Her eyes pop open. “Longer?”

He licks his lips. “Well, you said you were about to come right away. And then you didn’t. Which is fine, I just thought—”

“Oh,” she says suddenly. “I—I didn’t mean that I was about to right then, just that—” An unmistakable blush rises in her cheeks. “I could tell immediately that it was going to be good.”

“Oh.” Draco takes a moment for that to sink in. He’s never had such a rave review of his skills. “Well, that’s good.”

She gives a little laugh before kissing him again. “Yes, it was. If I could have held out any longer to enjoy it, I would have.”

The thought of drawing it out for her next time—teasing her for hours if he can—makes his cock jump.

She breaks the kiss with a little breathless noise. “The condoms are in the bedroom, just give me a second for my legs to start working again.”

Draco lets out a deep sigh of relief at the excuse for a reprieve. If she could somehow summon them directly to her by sheer force of will, he’d be in real trouble. “Please, take your time,” he insists.

Her lips close over his again, and his stomach flinches at the press of her palm as she slides a hand down into his trousers. Her fingers wrap around his length, and then she pauses with a little gasp. He clenches his eyes shut, knowing she must be able to feel the precome slicking his skin. 

She squeezes him in an experimental stroke, and he groans.

“God, that’s hot,” she breathes.

He stops her with a grip on her wrist before he loses it completely. “Really, I—I’m fine to wait until you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

She releases him, sliding off of the sofa and grabbing him by the hand.

“Fuck,” Draco mutters as he follows her into her room.

She pushes him down on top of the downy white duvet, and it puffs around him like a cloud.

“Really, there’s no rush,” he tries again as she rummages in a box next to the attached bathroom.

“Aha,” she says after a moment, ignoring him completely. She stands with the little foil packet and has it open before she reaches the bed again.

“Off, please,” she says, gesturing to his trousers. He grits his teeth as he shoves them and his underwear off in one.

She gives an appreciative sigh as she surveys him, but it’s only a second before she climbs up, sitting on his thighs and slowly rolling the rubber down over him. Her hand still feels impossibly good through the barrier, and he shoots a hopeless glance at the wrapper on the nightstand. The tagline taunts him in bright gold script: So thin it feels like skin!

He supposes it’s too much to hope that she has another option in something more like Kevlar.

She shifts forward, the wet heat of her cunt pressing onto him, and Draco grabs her quickly by the hips. “Wait, Hermione, first, you should know that it’s, erm, been a while. For me.”

She blinks down at him, one hand braced on his chest. “That’s fine.”

Her grip is still tight on his cock, and when she moves again, he feels himself notch at her entrance.

“I mean, it’s really been a while,” he bursts out. “And you’re—” He accidentally looks at her tits and feels himself throb in her fist. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen much less been with, and I—”

He chokes as she sinks down onto him, the head of his cock slipping just inside.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says with a smirk. “Were you saying something?”

“I—”

She slides even further down, and his eyes roll. She’s so fucking tight it feels like a punishment.

“You already got me off, Draco. Or did you forget?”

“No,” he gasps. “I just—in case it’s not good—”

Her arse meets his thighs as he bottoms out deep in her cunt, and her nails dig into his pec with a moan. “I’m not worried.”

The sight of her smug expression, eyes half-lidded with pleasure, snaps the last of his restraint. He’d always thought it was ridiculous when writers described an utterance as a growl, but clearly he’s going to have to start incorporating it more because there’s no other word for the sound that leaves his chest as he surges up and flips her underneath him.

She gives a little cry of surprise at the change, but her forehead creases in the next moment as he fucks deep into her. He stays there, grinding his hips against her, and her hand slaps down onto his back.

“Oh f—”

He cuts off the rest in a rough kiss, grunting against her lips with another hard thrust. She curls into it, her heels hitting his arse. He can feel her soaking the base of his cock as he drives in again and again. A high-pitched noise punches out of her on every stroke until he hits something that makes her jaw drop.

“Shit,” she gasps, clutching at him. “Right there.”

His forehead rocks against her temple as he presses forward, the grip of her cunt making his fingers fist the sheet.

“Fuck, Draco.”

He growls (again) because that’s just unfair, but it doesn’t matter. She starts to come with a cry on the very next thrust. He watches it on her face before the first wave hits him. But when it does—

“Ohh fuck,” he moans at the feel of it. Surprisingly, he hadn’t actually felt that close to the edge before, but she clenches so hard on his cock that his orgasm explodes through him with only a split-second’s notice.

The sound she makes, the fresh flood of wetness around him—all of it sends him into freefall.

The pleasure surges up, so intense that his vision goes wavy at the edges, and he pours into her with a low groan while she shatters beneath him. The intensity is mind-melting, and it seems to go on for far longer than usual. He wonders through the haze in his brain whether this girl has some sort of power to disrupt the fabric of time.

Eventually, the tide recedes, leaving his skin tingling with bone-deep satisfaction.

He smiles as his afterglow is clearly reflected on Hermione’s face. She’s flushed, her curls strewn across the pillow, eyes shining up at him beneath heavy lids.

“Have I mentioned how nice it was to meet you?”

She laughs, making her core tighten around him again. “Likewise,” she repeats, and kisses him.

They both sigh into it, but Draco becomes increasingly concerned he may be crushing her a bit. He reaches down between them to hold the condom in place when he pulls out, and Hermione gives a contended hum as he rolls off onto his back. She turns to face him after a moment, running a feather-light touch down his arm. When he only continues laying there, he sees her cast a glance at his softening cock.

“Did you want me to get you something?”

“No, no, I’ll take care of it,” he says. “Just waiting for my legs to start working again.”

She snorts, shoving against his shoulder, and he lets her push him off the bed with a grin.

When he returns from the bathroom, Hermione is under the covers. He hesitates halfway across the room, unsure how to proceed. He’d been entirely unprepared for the events of the evening, but he couldn’t be happier with how they’d turned out. Now that they’ve concluded though, he has no idea what she wants from him going forward.

Hermione watches him slowly cross the room, and when he reaches the side of the bed she props herself up on an elbow. “How are you in the kitchen?” she asks.

“The kitchen?”

“Mhmm.”

“Erm, most of my meals turn out very edible.”

She narrows her eyes, her mouth twisting to one side. “I’ll be honest, that’s not the ringing endorsement I was hoping for.”

“Sorry?” he says, entirely nonplussed.

She shrugs good-naturedly. “That’s quite all right, you’ll just have to take me out for brunch tomorrow instead.”

Panic lances through his chest.

“Oh, no. What’s that face?” she asks. “Don’t tell me you don’t like brunch.”

“N-No,” he stammers. “Of course I do.”

“I should think so. It’s practically part of the night owl code of conduct.”

He tries to offer her a smile, but from her reaction, he fears it comes out far more of a grimace. The mirth fades from her expression, leaving something fragile in its place.

“You—you don’t want to take me out?”

Draco squeezes his eyes shut as his gut churns at the thought. “No, I do, certainly.” He tries desperately to push away visions of a crowded dining room, countless overlapping voices. “I—That would be great.” She's clearly not convinced and his palms are starting to sweat. He feels so much more naked than just being undressed. He sits down on the edge of the bed.

Hermione draws the covers tight to her chest. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“What? No, Christ, it’s nothing like that.” He reaches for her hand but she pulls it away. Draco blanches. God, he’s fucking this up so badly, but it’s so hard to think with his pulse hammering in his ears.

“Then what is it like?” she says coldly. “Surely you could have found a less awkward option for a one-night stand than your next door neighbour.”

“Hermione, I swear that’s not what this is,” he says. “I want to see you as often as you’ll let me, I just—”

Fuck. He drops his forehead into his hands. He can’t believe it's come up already. He’d let himself think for one selfish second that this could be a perfect solution. She’s right next door, after all. But as he looks at Hermione again, he’s ashamed to have even considered it. She deserves so much more than to be his crutch.

He swallows heavily, plucking at the fabric of the blanket. “When I told you that I don’t get out much—I really don’t go out at all.”

Hermione’s brow creases with confusion. “You mean you don’t date?”

He nearly laughs. “No. I mean, I also don’t really date, but that’s more a symptom than a choice.” He forces himself to hold her gaze. “I haven’t been out—in public—in a long time.”

Her eyes flick over his face, and he can see the moment when she starts putting the pieces together. When she realises how odd it is that over the last two weeks she’s lived there, she’s never seen him leave the perimeter of his yard.

“But—you must have to go out sometimes?”

He shakes his head, feeling the bitterness harsh in his voice.  “The miracle of modern technology: anything I need, I can have brought to my door.”

“Groceries?” she asks.

He nods. “I use a service. I make sure to tip well, of course.”

She lets out a dry laugh. “Well, I believe that.”

He shifts on the covers as she continues looking at him.

“How long?”

His jaw clenches but he tells her the truth. “A few years.”

She can’t conceal her reaction, and he glances away, not wanting to see her pity.

“I’ve tried treatment,” he says in his defence. “CBT. Exposure therapy.” His chest feels tight even at the memory. “Nothing’s worked except medication, but the drugs—”

He cuts himself off, unsure he can really articulate how much he’d hated being on them. “They make me feel like a zombie. Or like I’m in a fog. I can’t feel anything. I—I can’t write.”

His voice breaks, and he swallows roughly. He can’t bring himself to look at Hermione.

She remains quiet next to him, and he steels himself to just leave. He doesn’t blame her at all for being uncomfortable. It’s a lot to take in. Most people wouldn’t be content with a world confined to four walls and a fence.

He goes to stand, but Hermione reaches forward, closing her hand over his. He glances back down at her, and she gives him a tentative smile.

“You know, I’ve just remembered, I know this great place that does delivery.” She squeezes his fingers lightly in her grip. “How about breakfast in bed instead?”

Chapter Text

Draco goes to stand, but Hermione reaches forward, closing her hand over his. He glances back down at her, and she gives him a tentative smile.

“You know, I’ve just remembered, I know this great place that does delivery.” She squeezes his fingers lightly in her grip. “How about breakfast in bed instead?”

It takes Draco several seconds to force words past the sudden lump in his throat. “That’s—so kind of you, Hermione, but I understand if this changes your impression of me.”

“No,” she says quickly. “It was just… unexpected. I’m sorry I immediately assumed the worst.”

“Please, don’t apologise,” he says. “I would like nothing more than to take you out. But as I’d be having a panic attack in the loo for the entire meal, it’s probably not a good idea.”

She shrugs like it’s perfectly understandable. “I spend almost every night being out. I don’t mind staying in.”

Draco can feel his head shaking with disbelief. “You’re rather incredible, do you know that?”

Her face splits in a grin, and she pulls him back down to lay. The press of her lips is gentle this time, tender in a way that makes his heart ache.

But the kiss is brief, and after a second she asks, “Would you be more comfortable in your own bed?”

“Oh.” His stomach sinks at the realisation that she doesn’t want him to stay. “Erm, yes, I suppose so.”

She looks suddenly uneasy. “I mean, not to just invite myself over. I just thought—” 

“Oh,” he says again, feeling whiplashed at the thrill of her potentially coming home with him.

“I just know I’m useless without my nighttime routine,” she explains.

“No, right,” Draco says. “That’s—very considerate. You’re welcome anytime, of course.”

She smiles again. “Okay, I’ll just be a minute.”

***

Draco dresses while Hermione makes her preparations. When she joins him back downstairs in yet another cosy ensemble, her face is bright and slightly shiny. 

She looks amused to see him in front of the bookshelves again, but gives an approving nod at the glass he’d retrieved.

“I suppose it is still early,” she says, snagging the bottle from the counter.

Draco chuckles as he checks the time. It’s half past one.

She tops up the food in Crookshanks’s bowl before they go, but as she closes the back door, a mournful cry comes from behind the glass.

“Oh stop,” she says. “You’ll be fine.”

The cat stares up at them, his forlorn expression rapidly devolving into a glare.

“You’d better sleep with one eye open,” Draco says.

Hermione rolls her eyes before kissing her fingertips and pressing them to the pane. They leave a little smudge directly over the cat’s nose.

“He already tries to suffocate me every night,” she says. “Not sure how much worse he can do.”

Crookshanks gives a surprisingly threatening meow that seems to imply he’ll come up with something.

Draco takes the bottle from Hermione’s hand and helps her over the garden wall before following. Light from inside still spills out into the yard, and he allows himself a quiet laugh at the fact that he’d thought he was simply stepping out for a smoke. 

He pulls the door open for Hermione and makes to follow her in. But she stops dead just inside, and he nearly bumps into her.

“Pardon—” he starts, but breaks off at her expression. He glances out at the space, surveying it from her perspective.

“Er, right,” he says with a slight wince. “I know it’s a bit…” His hand comes up to rub over the back of his neck.

Hermione takes a few stilted steps forward into the main room as though he hadn’t spoken. Her eyes are wide, unblinking like she’s in a daze. “Oh, my god,” she breathes.

Draco trails after her, and the click of his shoes seems much louder than usual on the polished marble.

He watches as she turns a slow circuit, taking in the large canvases on the walls, the recessed alcoves housing gently lit sculptures. Her head rocks back on her neck as her gaze lifts upward. 

Draco had an entire bedroom removed from the second floor to create the vaulted loft. Hermione’s lips part as she stares up at the baroque mural on the ceiling. Or perhaps, that’s in response to the chandelier.

Draco clears his throat. “Well, anyway. Erm, welcome.” He still has the wine bottle, and he gestures to the stemware hanging limply from her grip. “Can I pour you another glass?”

Hermione glances over, and then down at her hand like she’s never seen it before.

“Oh, uh, okay.”

She watches him approach, and he can feel her eyes on his face even as he pours. A drip of wine clings to the rim of the bottle, and Draco catches it with his tongue in a gesture that would send his mother into an early grave.

Hermione swallows audibly.

“I suddenly feel very underdressed,” she says in a near whisper.

“You look perfect,” Draco tells her.

“It’s like standing in the Louvre.”

“The Louvre has much better lighting.”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t actually know.”

His lips pull into a slight cringe, and he nods to concede the point. “It is a bit much.”

“No, it’s—unbelievably beautiful. It’s just…”

“Unexpected?” he says with a small smile.

“Well, especially since—” She cuts herself off abruptly, and her face falls into a distraught expression.

“Ah,” Draco says as he realises that at least part of her surprise is due to what he’d just confessed to her. He thinks of the stereotypical portrayal of someone with his condition. Cramped and cluttered rooms, rubbish piled to the rafters.

“I’m a hermit,” he says like it’s a point of pride. “Not a hoarder.”

She looks relieved that he’s teasing her, but she still casts a dubious glance back around the house.

“Well, perhaps technically I am,” he allows. “But it’s much more socially acceptable to hoard—”

“Fine art?” she says with a laugh.

Draco surreptitiously pulls his sleeve over his watch. “Among other things,” he mutters.

She shakes her head, but the motion stops abruptly as her gaze falls on one particular piece. Her eyes widen again, and Draco sighs as she charges over to it.

The scene depicts a castle set upon a seaside point, mountains rising in the distance. But Hermione bends, nearly touching her nose to the bottom right corner.

“Is that—does that say Monet?”

“If it makes you feel better, I did steal that one from my parents.”

She makes a sound like someone trod on her foot.

“They probably haven’t noticed it’s missing from the vault, to be honest,” he adds as an afterthought.

“All right,” she declares quite forcefully. “I haven’t had nearly enough wine to process this.”

“There’s nothing to process,” he insists. “I don’t get out much, so I like having beautiful things to look at.”

She glances back at him, and then does a double-take when she sees his eyes hot on her.

“I know you did not just compare me to a priceless painting.”

He smiles. “Would you prefer a summer’s day?”

Her cheeks scorch pink, and she actually presses a hand over her face. “Stop that.”

“No,” he says simply.

She lets out a little groan of frustration. “I take it back, I don’t want to read anything you wrote about me. I may not survive it.”

Draco thinks of the near-death experience he just endured on her sofa. “Now you know how it feels.”

“That’s different.”

“My heart rate begs to differ.”

She goes to put her hands on her hips before remembering she’s holding the wine glass. She takes a large sip from it instead, narrowing her eyes at him over the rim.

They stand like that for a few seconds before Draco speaks again. “Are you hungry?”

She blinks at the nonsequitur and then gives a small laugh. “Famished. Although you should know that I’m on a very strict diet of caviar and white truffles and—” She seems to cast about for another equally ostentatious item. “And foie gras.” Her nose wrinkles like she’s unhappy with her last selection, but she continues on, flapping a hand carelessly. “So don’t think you can just drag out whatever you have in the back of the fridge.”

Draco lets an obnoxiously smug expression occupy his features. “Duly noted.”

***

Hermione frowns down at the platter in front of her.

“Who just has caviar?”

Draco shrugs. “Probably people who like caviar.”

“Yeah, and have the last name Windsor.”

He looks quickly up at her. “How did you know?”

Her mouth drops open in the second before he fails to contain his laughter.

“Stop it!” She smacks the back of her hand against his arm. “It’s unseemly to mock the peasants.”

“Apologies,” he says. “That one was simply too good to miss.”

She gives a good-natured sigh before glancing back down at the serving tray.

“Have you ever had it?” he asks.

Her eyes flick up to look at him through her lashes, and she shakes her head. She seems shy about it, which is a very interesting look on her.

“Would you trust my recommendation?” he asks.

She considers him for a second before nodding.

Draco picks up the little mother-of-pearl spoon and dips it into the tin of dark, glistening beads. He passes over the buttered toast points, ignoring the rye crackers and creme fraiche as well. He gently mounds the small scoop directly onto the back of his hand, between his thumb and index finger. 

Hermione’s eyes are intent on him as he leans forward, offering it to her. She hesitates, but he doesn’t offer instruction. He just arches a brow.

A spark of determination smoulders in her gaze as she brings her own hand up to softly brace against the edge of his palm. She leans forward, and he’s pleased to see her chest rise in a deep inhale as she savours the complex aroma. Her tongue touches to his hand, and her lips close over the eggs, taking them gently into her mouth. The lightest bit of suction pulls at his skin before she draws back, capturing every morsel.

Draco watches her eyes sink close as the flavours begin to seep over her tongue. This particular variety has the typical fresh seawater brininess one might expect, but under that is a profile of lower, earthy—almost moss-like—notes that add a delectable balance to the salt. Of course, the buttery richness is the predominant feature in any selection, lending a luxurious mouthfeel to the otherwise delicate flavours.

Hermione lets out an indulgent moan, and he can see the slight movement of her jaw as she works the pearls with her tongue. Her eyes drift back open, meeting his gaze as she swallows.

“Thoughts?” he asks.

Her tongue rolls between her lips, and she shakes her head with a dreamy smile. “Not one.”

He gives a little laugh of surprise, and his cheeks are starting to feel fatigued. He wonders if he’s smiled more in the last few hours than the last year combined.

Hermione watches as he takes a serving for himself, licking it off the patch of skin already damp from her mouth.

“Is that a recognised technique?” she asks. “Because if you’re just trying to seduce me, I think you’ll find it’s unnecessary.”

“It is, actually,” Draco says. “As clean skin is the material least likely to impart any outside flavour, it’s preferred for the first taste at least. Getting to have your mouth on me is just an added benefit.”

He prepares a toast point for each of them, and she takes hers lightly from his fingers when he offers it to her.

“You didn’t want to have your mouth on me?” she asks.

He glances up as he takes a bite.

“I could offer you something more interesting than a hand,” she says, indicating her midriff with a brush of her fingers. “I’ve had lots of practice with coke.”

Draco sucks a crumb into the back of his throat and proceeds to choke spectacularly. He can just make out her teasing smirk through the tears springing into his eyes.

“Score one for the peasants,” she says glibly.

“Quite,” he rasps, wincing around a swallow of wine.

She munches on her toast, looking very pleased with herself.

“Are you really expected to do that sort of thing often?” he asks.

She shrugs a shoulder. “Not really, but it does happen occasionally. Of course, I never have to do anything I don’t want to.”

Draco hadn’t really considered it before, but he finds himself relieved to hear it. “Do you enjoy it?” He quickly clarifies, “Generally, I mean. Being a—” He falters, and Hermione looks amused.

“You can say stripper,” she says in a stage whisper. “It’s not an offensive term.”

He can feel his cheeks heating. “Right.”

“I like the money,” she answers. “The freedom. I don’t like the men.” She shoots him a glance laced with only the barest hint of apology, and he waves even that off.

“I can’t stand the lot of us.”

Hermione smiles and reaches for a cracker before settling back onto the sofa. “It makes the most sense for me right now, anyway,” she says between nibbles. “I won’t look like this forever; might as well capitalise on it while I can.”

“Seems smart.”

She gives a wry scoff. “That’s me.”

Her tone makes him pause. Like he’s offended her somehow.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “I—yes, it is the smart decision.”

Draco feels like he should be nodding in agreement, but he was the one who’d offered the original sentiment. He just waits instead.

Hermione heaves a sigh, and her fingers curl in the edge of her jumper. “Being smart used to be pretty much my entire identity. I loved school when I was younger, and I was very good at it. This certainly isn’t what that girl thought she’d be doing with her twenties.”

The way she keeps her eyes down as she speaks, her shoulders curling in on themselves, lodges behind Draco’s ribs like something sharp.

“What did she think she’d be doing?”

Hermione gives a humourless laugh. “She had no idea. Unfortunately, all the people lining up to tell me how gifted I was, how much potential I had, and how bright my future would be, failed to mention any specifics.”

She reaches for her wine glass, but she doesn’t drink. She just holds the bowl between her hands. “My parents are both dentists. They run their own practice together. I think they always assumed that I would become one too and take over someday. And since I was a bright student, it seemed feasible. But when I got to university—” Hermione’s chin drops, nearly tucking to her chest. She stares into the crimson depths of her glass as if she can see the story unfolding there.

“The prerequisite courses were difficult. But that was fine; I was smart, right?” She shakes her head. “Turns out wanting to be good at school wasn’t enough. The other students in my classes actually wanted to be dentists. And I didn’t.”

She looks up then, and Draco can see the weight in her eyes. “The first bad marks were like a domino toppling over. I was working so hard, revising in every spare moment, just like I’d always done, and it wasn’t good enough. I’d never been not good enough before, and it destroyed me. If I wasn’t smart, then who was I? What was I good for? The more I doubted myself, the worse my grades got.”

Her voice drops so low that Draco has to strain to hear. “My parents were understanding at first. They told me I didn’t need to follow in their footsteps, they just wanted me to be happy. But I just wanted them to be happy with me.

“They said I could change tracks, that they would support whatever degree I wanted to pursue, but I didn’t know what I wanted to do. And every day that went by, I was wasting their money floundering. I didn’t even tell them before I withdrew my enrollment.”

For the second time that night, Draco finds himself itching to reach out and touch her. Not for his own benefit this time, but to provide whatever little comfort he can offer. To acknowledge that he’s there, and he’s hearing her.

She’s pulled her knees up toward her chest as she leans back against the arm of the sofa, and the only thing he can really reach without making a fuss is her feet. He runs his thumb gently over the bump of her ankle bone.

Her eyes meet his again at the touch, and her lips pull into the flat line of a sad smile. “It was the worst time of my life,” she says. “My parents probably meant well, but they were relentless. They’d ask me twice a day whether I’d been thinking about what I was going to do. Like I ever thought about anything else. I used to take the train to a coffee shop across town and sit there all day pretending to be at my classes. Anything to get out of the house. To get out from under their eyes.”

Draco’s heart clenches for her. It’s a sentiment he’s all too familiar with, and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. He’s strongly considering telling her that when, to his surprise, her face suddenly lights in a bright smile. 

“I was having a very public and very embarrassing meltdown in a corner booth there one day when a girl sat down next to me. I remember thinking she looked like an actual angel. Even when I picture it now, I can still see the light coming through the front window of the shop. I can feel the warmth of her hugging me. She smelled like frankincense.”

Draco can’t help smiling himself at the affection on her face.

“I was a mess,” Hermione says with a laugh. “All I could get out was that I didn’t want to go home, and she said, okay, then you’ll come stay with me. Just like that. No questions asked. I remember she warned me that there wasn’t a lot of space. I told her I would sleep in a broom cupboard if I had to. And I moved in with her and her two friends the next day.”

“The dancers?” he asks.

Hermione nods. “She taught me everything I needed to know, just like she’d taught them. At first, I thought it would just be a few times, just until I got on my feet.” She shrugs. “But I was good at it. And it felt good to be good at something again.”

“I can understand that.”

She shifts a little, looking momentarily uncomfortable. “I also, erm, went through a fairly brutal awkward phase when I was younger. I hadn’t learned how to manage my curls yet, and my front teeth grew in too big for my face. Between that and being an insufferable know-it-all, I was bullied quite a bit.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco says quietly.

“It doesn’t bother me now,” she says, sounding like it’s true. “But receiving lots of validation on my looks was an unexpected byproduct of working at the club. The effect has long since worn off by now,” she adds with a laugh. “But I do think it was part of what kept me going back in the beginning.”

“I’m sure it was refreshing after you’d placed so much importance on your intellect.”

“Yeah,” she nods. “People would like my performance on stage before ever even speaking to me.”

Draco rubs a hand over his brow. “Well, I certainly can’t imagine that.”

She laughs, pressing her foot briefly against his knee.

“But I will say,” Draco adds. “While you are beautiful, of course, that’s only one aspect of your sex appeal. I could tell the entire time you were dancing for me that you were making very intentional and effective choices about the performance. And though I did find you captivating before, once we met, your charm and your wit were just as alluring as your appearance, if not more so.”

Hermione doesn’t react immediately, and Draco grows suddenly embarrassed for his monologuing.

“The point I’m making very inelegantly is that I don’t believe your intelligence to be incidental. I’m sure it’s been central in the success you’ve had.”

She still doesn’t speak, and he becomes worried that more words will continue spilling out if she doesn’t hurry up.

“Draco,” she says finally, her voice soft. “That’s—I—” She shifts the glass in her grip. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You’re welcome to tell me I’m full of shit,” he offers.

“No,” she says quickly. “No, I—I think you’re right. I’ve just never had it stated so plainly before.”

He smiles. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s clearly working.”

She gives a small laugh. “That it is. And I’ll have plenty of time for a boring and respectable job later. And it won’t even need to pay well.”

“I think what you do is respectable.”

Her voice shifts to imitate him again. “Let’s not be ridiculous.”

Draco supposes that even though she seems so normal, it is still rather taboo, societally speaking.

“So, I’m assuming your parents don’t know.”

Hermione winces. “Ah, no. I’ve told them that I work as a bartender in a nightclub. The hours are similar enough, and if I ever slip and mention tips or a customer, it’s not a dead giveaway.” Her mouth twists bitterly, and she finishes the rest of the wine in her glass. “Luckily, they find that to be nearly as disappointing, so I don’t have to field many questions about it.”

Draco can’t imagine how two people could raise such a lovely and vibrant person and not want to know everything about her. “It’s their loss,” he tells her.

She nods. “I’m happy and successful, which is what they always said they wanted. The fact that it doesn’t sound impressive over a dinner party really isn’t my problem.”

Emotion is slowly tightening Draco’s throat, but he manages to add. “You have to live your life for yourself.”

She hums in agreement. “And I quite like how my life has turned out.” She reaches to set her empty glass on the table, eyeing him. “Especially recently.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, and his voice comes out husky.

He can feel heat rising below his collar, and when she tilts her head to lean against the back of the sofa, Draco asks, “Are you tired?”

She smiles. “Not particularly.”

He finishes his own glass. “Would you like to see the bedroom anyway?”

***

Hermione lingers in the living room while Draco clears up. He watches her from the corner of his eye, and when he steps out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel, she’s inspecting a small marble statue of Aphrodite.

She glances over at the sound of his approach, but her eyes quickly dart back to the voluptuous goddess. She raises a finger to him in warning. “Not one word.”

Draco grins as he drops the towel onto the coffee table, and then mimes zipping his lips closed. 

He must not do a very good job of concealing the thought from his expression though, because Hermione’s face sinks into a smirk that looks equal parts exasperated and dangerous.

“This way,” he says, gesturing with his arm.

She follows him down the hall and into his room.

“Wow,” she says appreciatively, stepping past him and over to the large bed. “Very nice.”

“Thank you,” Draco says as she runs her fingers over the silver bedspread.

She turns to face him, knocking a knuckle against one of the heavy wood posts. “Mahogany?”

Draco opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, she grips the hem of her oversized jumper and pulls it off over her head. She’s not wearing a bra this time, and the air he’d intended for his reply flows out in an odd strangled sort of noise.

“P-Possibly,” he stammers as she slides off her leggings.

“Hm.” Her knickers fall silently onto the plush carpet.

Draco swallows heavily as she turns and crawls onto the bed, lingering just long enough on all fours to give him a clear view of her cunt. She sits when she reaches the center, reclining casually back on her elbows.

“And what sort of sheets will I be finding underneath?”

“Eg-gyptian cotton.”

“Oh!” Her hand smoothes over the covers like she can feel the fabric beneath. “How utilitarian.”

“I exchange them for silk in the summer,” Draco admits, stepping up to the foot of the bed.

Her chuckle could melt butter. “Of course you do.”

She draws one pointed foot up along her calf, and he watches helplessly. When she spreads her legs and arches her back, the alarm must show on his face.

“Something the matter?” she asks lightly.

“Yes, actually,” he says. “I had a dream just like this last night, and now I’m very concerned that I never actually woke up.”

She gives him a sinful smile, shifting around until she can rise on high knees in front of him. She slides her fingers gently along his face, cupping his jaw. Her nose brushes against his once, then twice, as she teases his parted lips with her mouth. His breaths are coming heavy by the time she slips her tongue over his, kissing him hard.

She draws back with his lower lip between her teeth, pinching until he hisses.

“Believe it now?” she asks.

His hands slide up over her back, pulling her in until the entire length of her bare body is pressed against him.

“Not even a little bit.”

***

When Draco wakes in the morning, he nearly panics that someone’s snuck in and strapped him in a straight jacket. 

A sleepy smile curves his lips when he realises that Hermione is stuck flush to his back like she’s been glued there, both arms wrapped tight around his chest. He’d be perfectly content to stay that way, but his right arm is asleep and seeing as hers is underneath that, it can’t be faring much better. He carefully loosens her hands and shifts his hips out from under her leg. When he finally manages to roll over, he’s startled to see that her pillow is completely covering her face, her head flat on the mattress. He reaches to remove it, but pauses as he watches her chest rise and fall in a slow rhythm. Heavy drapes block out most of the late morning light, but he wonders if it’s a habit borne out of her nocturnal routine. Or from living for years with three housemates. He remembers suddenly what she’d said about Crookshanks trying to suffocate her, and he can just picture the fluffy beast curled contentedly on top while she smothers beneath.

He leans down to check that there’s enough room for air to get in around her chin and leaves it for now.

They’re both still naked from the night before, and her chest is flushed from the heat of his back. He trails a fingertip over the tops of her breasts, watching the way they swell with her next inhale. He leans down to press a gentle kiss to her shoulder, and she gives a soft hum as she rolls onto her back. Draco repeats the gesture, pressing kisses along her collarbone, across her chest, and up the other side. Her legs shift beneath the blankets, and she lets out a sound high in her throat.

It sounds ridiculous coming from under the pillow, and Draco smiles as his fingers trace the curve of one breast. Something definitely approaching the territory of a moan escapes her as he slides the pad of his thumb over her nipple. It pebbles immediately at his touch, and he rubs it gently in a circle, feeling the press of her thigh against his as her legs spread. She arches up as he tastes the tender skin with his tongue, pressing against his mouth. He can’t contain his own moan at her reaction, and his eyes slip closed as blood surges down the length of his morning erection.

The sound she makes as he sucks her nipple with his lips spurs him forward. He slides a hand down over her stomach and between her legs.

“Fuck,” he breathes over her chest as her hips tilt at once into his palm. She’s so warm, her lips already puffy with arousal, and so fucking wet. His fingertips glide along her slit, slipping inside with the barest pressure. She rocks against his hand, seeking a rhythm, and he pulls away at the first hint of a flutter in her inner walls.

If she makes a noise to protest the change, he doesn’t hear it. His head is already under the thick duvet. He moves carefully down her body, between her legs, letting her thighs rest over his shoulders. She jolts at the first touch of his tongue, but the movement rapidly shifts into an indulgent thrust against his face. He moves with her, licking over the plush swell of her outer lips first. He uses two fingers to spread them, and the sound of her wetness has him grinding against the mattress.

She lets out a long moan as his tongue delves into her, and he repeats it again and again until she’s shaking. He moves his hand to reach around her leg, pressing his thumb onto the skin above her pubic bone. He puts the slightest upward pressure on it, and she gives a soft cry at the pull of tension across her clit.

He flicks over it with a teasing lick, and then grins as her muffled fuck reaches him through the covers. He presses the flat of his tongue onto her, swirling it in a circle and listening to the pitch of her moans climb. 

When he leaves her teetering on the edge the first time, she whines, and he feels her hands drop heavily onto the mattress. He watches her hips twitch in desperation as he rubs over her clit with a spit-slicked fingertip. The second time he puts his mouth on her, the intensity escalates much more quickly. He pulls away when she’s quivering against his tongue, and her hands shoot under the blanket, abandoning all pretence of continued sleep. He laughs as she digs her fingers into his hair, pushing him back to her cunt. 

It doesn’t matter how slowly he teases her, he can feel her orgasm building almost immediately this time. He relents, sucking her clit between his lips and rolling his tongue until she breaks beautifully. He feels it wash over her in powerful waves, her legs tensing on his back and a moan vibrating through her very core. He moves his mouth back to her entrance to feel the aftershocks on his tongue. 

He’s still tracing over her skin with long, slow licks when the covers are thrown back. He lifts his eyes to see her peering down at him with the pillow still perched on top of her head. Her eyes are bright and glassy, her cheeks splotched with pink. She’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

“Well,” she breathes, swiping a stray curl out of her face. “That was a nice surprise.”

He smirks as he presses a kiss to her thigh. “Shouldn’t have been.” He can feel his face slick with her from nose to chin. “I distinctly remember you promising me breakfast in bed.”

Chapter Text

Draco’s brow furrows as he scrolls through a list of synonyms for happiness. 

He’ll know the word he’s looking for as soon as he sees it, but—

A sudden flash of light from beyond the window draws his gaze. He looks up as the curtains in Hermione’s bedroom shift rapidly between dark and lit. A smile curves his lips as he imagines her standing at the wall flicking the switch.

He pushes his chair back and grabs his phone from the bed where he’d dropped it hours ago. A stack of notifications crowds the screen when he flips it over, and he taps one of the missed calls without even reading the texts.

“Thank god,” Hermione says as soon as the line connects. “I thought you were dead over there.” The tile of her bathroom gives a distinct echo to the speakerphone.

“So you decided to use the Bat signal?”

“Hey,” she shoots back. “If it’s stupid and it works, then it’s not stupid.”

“Touché,” he says with a grin.

“Well.” She heaves a dramatic sigh. “If you’re not dead, then I suppose you must be busy.”

He gives a noncommittal hum. “Why? Did you need something?”

Teasing Hermione is truly one of life’s greatest pleasures; he can practically hear her lip dragging between her teeth.

“Company?” she suggests.

“Oh,” he says as though it never occurred to him. “Sure, I could use a break.” That part’s sincere at least. It’s after three in the morning.

“Great! Door’s open,” she says like it’s not part of their standard routine.

“See you soon,” he says around a smile.

***

Crookshanks is waiting for him, pacing back and forth behind the glass. After that first night, Draco always goes in through the back.

“Good evening, sir,” Draco greets as he bends to scoop the cat up.

Crooks gives a loud meow in greeting, but only allows himself to be carried as far as Hermione’s bedroom. When Draco steps over the threshold, Crookshanks twists in his grip, landing lightly and jumping up on top of the bedspread.

Draco lets him go, turning to follow the telltale billow of steam coming from the open bathroom door.

“Knock, knock,” he says in the direction of the shower, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.

Hermione must have her head under the stream, because he can see that she doesn’t react. He takes a second to appreciate the foggy outline of her naked body before reaching for the light switch.

She gives a yelp of surprise as the room plunges into darkness and quickly back again.

“I heard someone here was in need of rescuing from boredom.”

Her laugh is barely audible over the water as she turns to face him. “My hero,” she says and presses a kiss to the glass, leaving a clear spot in the shape of her lips.

“I’ll be out here,” he says. “Unless you needed a hand…?”

She splashes water against the door, revealing even more of herself and doing nothing to deter him. “I’m almost done.”

“Very well,” he sighs and goes to join Crookshanks on the bed.

Draco finds the room in much the same condition as it was yesterday. And the day before that. It’s always tidy, save for a few stray garments tossed over the back of a chair. And the explosion of makeup on top of the vanity, of course, but he’s been told that doesn’t count. 

He kicks off his shoes and leans back against the pillows. Crooks nuzzles under his hand, and Draco scratches him automatically. Somehow, Draco has grown to be nearly as comfortable here as he is in his own home.

His eyes shift to the pile of books on the nightstand, and his throat fills with the same familiar tightness as always when he sees his name there. He was right in assuming that Hermione hadn’t read him before they met, but nothing could have prepared him for the ferocity with which she would remedy that. He picks one up from the top of the stack and brings it to his nose.

She wouldn’t even accept borrowing one of his many extra copies, insisting on buying new ones for herself. When he’d told her that he didn’t need her to spend her money on his books, she’d said simply that wasn’t the point. He couldn’t argue with that.

Especially not when she’d sent him a picture of herself posing next to one of his titles in a bookshop. Even now, he’s not sure she realises how poignant that moment was, given that it’s a sight he’s never seen for himself.

His fingers run gently over the multitude of coloured flags protruding from between the pages in his hand. Then again, maybe she does. 

The water shuts off, and Draco sets the book aside, smiling when Hermione appears wrapped in a towel only moments later.

“Hi,” she says, hurrying across the room on tiptoes.

“Hi,” he says and squints as her curls drip onto his face when she leans over to kiss him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he feels compelled to point out. “You could have taken two minutes to dry off.”

“I know,” she says and kisses him again.

Draco smiles against her lips, reaching up to cup her face. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since she last saw him, and her eagerness sends a distinct fluttering lightness through his chest.

A droplet of water must land on Crookshanks, because he gives a yowl and nearly eviscerates Draco as he scrambles off his stomach.

“All right, all right,” Hermione relents, leaning back. She uses a corner of the towel to dab at Draco’s damp cheeks before returning to the bathroom.

Draco spends her absence attempting to coax Crooks back up the bed, but the wronged creature simply sits facing away in the furthest corner with his tail twitching angrily.

Hermione comes out in a dressing gown this time, with a smaller towel coiled on top of her head.

“How was your night?” he asks as she sits at the vanity and gets to work on the smears of black where her eyes should be.

“Oh, my god,” she gasps from behind a cotton pad. “You know the guy with the budgie I told you about?”

Draco nods, remembering how confused he’d been before he realised that the man in question was not actually bringing his pet bird into the club but rather just talking about it.

“Well…” 

Hermione launches into her story, pausing the skincare routine to deliver certain lines with appropriate emphasis.

Draco props his head on his elbow and listens. She encounters all manner of characters in her line of work, and by the time she’s dripping something that looks horribly like it could have come from a snail over her face, she’s already onto the next one.

If the customers aren’t up to their usual antics, then it seems the other girls tend to pick up the slack. He hears about a fight that very nearly came to blows in the dressing room as Hermione stands from the vanity and drops her robe. Draco follows her with his eyes as she pads over to the bureau and retrieves a set of silky pyjamas. She forgoes knickers, and he has to conceal a smirk at the thought that she could really forgo the pyjamas, too. But the fact that she insists on keeping up a pretence is actually quite endearing. 

She continues on, talking a mile a minute, as she goes to her work bag and retrieves a pouch from inside. The stack of notes she removes from it falls onto the carpet at her feet with a thick slap. Draco watches as she sits and carefully separates the denominations, turning each to face the same way and smoothing any crumpled corners as she speaks. No matter how many times they repeat this post-work debrief, she never runs out of content. Some of the anecdotes are amusing, many clearly annoy her, but all of them are colorful. Draco absorbs every detail like a sponge. 

Hermione’s energy fades visibly as she comes down from a night of performing. By the time she’s settled in to the mechanical task of counting, her voice comes out softer and less frequently. Draco has no idea how she keeps track of what she’s doing while talking to him, but he supposes some of it must be muscle memory. He’s never paid much attention to the way she organises the money, nor to what the totals might be. Instead, he watches the precise movement of her hands, the shape of silent numbers on her lips.

That’s why he notices at once when a wide smile spreads across her face in the middle of one row. She finishes counting out the rest, and then looks up at him. It takes him a second to recognise her expression.

“What?” he asks.

She bites her bottom lip, looking back down at the spread of money.

“Luna has this ritual,” Hermione explains. “She says that if you make £1,000 in one night, then you should show your gratitude by counting it twice.”

Draco, who is well-versed in the cast of characters in Hermione’s life by now, knows that Luna is lovingly referred to as the fairy godmother of the group. Her wisdom is not to be questioned. But Hermione’s still just sitting there.

“All right,” Draco says. He’s just watched her count it the first time, he can’t imagine why she seems embarrassed to do it again.

Unless there’s more to this ritual.

“I think you’ll laugh at me,” Hermione admits.

“No, you don’t.”

She sucks her teeth. “No,” she concedes. “I don’t.”

Draco just raises his brows.

Hermione takes a deep breath before sweeping her hands over the carpet, gathering the money into a messy pile between her hands, and throwing the whole thing into the air over her head.

A grin splits Draco’s face as he watches the notes flutter down around her. But he never thinks to laugh.

“I do the same thing every time one of my manuscripts gets published.”

Hermione’s eyes go impossibly soft as she looks at him.

“You do?”

He nods.

Hermione stands from the floor and crosses to the bed, practically falling onto his chest. He does laugh then as she peppers his face with kisses.

When she’s satisfied with her attack, she rolls off next to him, turning him on his side to face her. She keeps one arm pinned under his body, wrapping her other arm and both legs around and between his own. He finds himself marvelling yet again at the impressive display of entanglement from someone so small. A contented sigh tickles his neck as she burrows closer, squeezing tight.

“How was your day?” she asks quietly.

“Good,” he says, stroking what he can of her back with the stranglehold she has him in. “I’m thinking of doing a story about an octopus.”

“Oh!” she says with interest, snuggling deeper. “They’re so fascinating. You know I’ve read they can be as smart as a cat. What made you—”

The shaking of his suppressed laughter gives him away, and she unfurls her tentacles at once. “You are so mean to me!”

Draco grabs her around the middle before she can retreat too far, pulling her back tight against his chest. She writhes in his hold, pretending to struggle.

“I thought you wanted to be a muse.”

“Ugh,” she groans. “You would use that against me.”

“I promise to keep the dedication vague. No one need know your darkest secret.”

“Cuddling has scientifically proven benefits, you know.”

He leans forward to fit his face to the curve of her neck. “I never said I was complaining.”

He presses a kiss to the slope of her shoulder, then another to the hinge of her jaw. He covers the expanse in between, until, gradually, she loosens in his grip.

“Would it be an octopus romance?” she murmurs.

“Absolutely.”

“But octopus die after they mate.”

“A tragedy, then.”

“Better than dying alone, I suppose.”

“I’ve already resigned myself to that.”

She swats the back of his hand where it’s wrapped at her waist. “Don’t joke about that.” 

“Who’s joking?” he says against her cheek, but only because she’s pulling his arm tighter around her.

She gives a grumble in response. “Well, you may have been resigned to it, but I won’t allow it.” She snakes her leg back between his, wrapping her calf over his shin and curling her foot around his for good measure. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Very well, then,” Draco says and kisses her temple.

Hermione stays quiet for a while, and if Draco didn’t know better, he might think she’d drifted off to sleep. But she’s awake. And slightly tense in his arms.

“What is it?” he asks quietly.

She shifts a little against him, wrapping her fingers at his wrist. “I have something I want to ask you,” she says. “But I don’t want to upset you.”

Draco swallows against a sudden lurch of dread, but his voice comes out impressively steady. “Just ask me.”

Her fingers move over the back of his hand, lacing between his before sliding to his wrist again. “It’s Pansy’s birthday this weekend, and the girls are having a party at the house. Normally, I would invite you—shit, I mean—I-I didn’t mean to say normally—”

“Hermione,” he interrupts gently. “It’s all right. I know what you mean.”

“I just meant that I’d like to invite you, of course. I mean, you are invited. I’m inviting you.”

He gives a dry laugh. “Thank you. I feel very welcome.”

She groans a little. “I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t be.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to just not mention it, or lie about what I was doing. But I also don’t want you to feel bad for not being able to go, or like I’m rubbing it in by asking you when I already know the answer.”

“Hermione.”

She sucks in a shaky breath before going quiet again.

“I have been missing out on things for a very long time,” he tells her. “And I don’t want you to feel like you have to protect me from that. You can’t.”

“Okay," she says in a small voice.

“I like knowing that you thought of me. That you would want me to be there.”

“Of course,” she says, tightening her grip again.

“If you’d like to come over after the party, I’d love to hear all about it.”

Hermione shuffles around until she can turn to face him. “It’s a date,” she says and kisses him.

He returns it for a moment, but when she moves to deepen the kiss, he draws back.

“I’m afraid I need to ask you something, as well.”

“Oh.” She blinks. “What is it?”

“Did you forget to put on lotion?”

A comical series of expressions flickers over her face as she attempts to process the abrupt change in subject and then realises, with horror, that he’s right.

“Noo,” she moans, burying her face in his chest. “I’m too tired now.”

“You’ll be itchy,” he says from experience.

“I knooow.” She flails limply against the covers as she whines.

Draco rolls his eyes at the display before sliding off the bed and crossing to her vanity. He plucks the bottle from one of the many shelves, and she pauses her tantrum as the cap creaks open.

His head shakes at the pitiful expression she bestows upon him, but he squirts a generous measure into his hand. Hermione extends a leg out to him as he kneels back on the bed, warming the lotion between his palms.

“Mm,” she hums as he smoothes his hands over her. “You’re so good to me.”

“I thought I was mean.”

Her eyes sink closed into a mask of placid innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not.”

He takes another dollop from the bottle before moving onto her other leg, and she gives a little moan at the gentle kneading of his thumbs on her calf. Draco moves his hands upward, paying considerable attention to the inside of her upper thigh. Her eyes are still closed, but her sleepy smile stretches into a grin at his teasing.

“I do so appreciate your thoroughness,” she says as though she’s completely unaware of the way the loose cut of the shorts leaves her exposed.

His fingers slip higher and her breath catches. “I know you do.”

Her eyes pop open when he moves again, and she keeps watching this time as he takes her hand and smoothes over the skin of her arm. She holds his gaze as his fingers brush over her shoulder, under the flimsy strap of her top. He can feel her next inhale under his palm. She licks her lips when he picks up her other hand, and by the time he reaches her shoulder again, he can see what’s coming before she even moves.

Draco still chuckles as she sits up and pulls her top off over her head. He obliges in spreading lotion over her chest, down past her sternum. Her eyes are hot on him as he lingers over the smooth skin of her stomach, but he can’t resist smirking at the flash of indignance when he tells her, “Over.”

She goes, grumbling, and Draco lets her pretend that he doesn’t see her peeking over her arm as he stands from the bed again and takes off his shirt and trousers. When he returns this time, he straddles her legs, seating himself comfortably on her bum. She groans a bit at his weight, but it transforms rapidly into a moan as his palms slide over the warm skin of her back. Draco takes his time, thumbs pressing along her spine and squeezing at her shoulders. Hermione makes her pleasure well-known. Some of the noises border on excessive for this sort of touching, clearly meant to encourage more intimate activities. Draco can only shake his head. As if having his hands all over her half-naked body isn't encouragement enough.

His fingers skim along her side, over the swell of her breast, and he knows that sound is genuine. Her hips shift beneath him, seeking purchase on the bed. He repeats the stroke, smiling as she clearly attempts to turn her shoulders to give him better access. She lets out an annoyed huff when he ignores it, teasing the other side instead.

“Draco,” she whines into the pillow.

“Yes?” he says calmly, unwrapping the towel from her head. He takes advantage of it to remove the excess lotion from his hands before dropping it onto the floor.

“I want—ohh,” Hermione cuts herself off on another moan as his fingers slide up her neck and into her hair. “Oh god.”

He curls his fist slowly, pulling against her scalp as he stretches her neck. Hermione arches in response, and he leans forward to take advantage of the opening. Her next moan vibrates under his tongue. 

“Please…”

“What do you want?” he asks against her ear, watching her hand twist the sheets.

“You,” she says.

“You have me.” He tilts his hips against her arse so she can feel exactly how much she has him.

“Fuck,” she mutters, pressing back into him. “Please, I want you inside.”

He groans with his face in her hair as those words shoot straight to his cock. It’s his own damn fault for making her beg for it, but he can never resist. 

He moves lower, letting his lips trace the path his hands took earlier. He kisses her shoulders, along her spine. The tip of his tongue traces the curve of her breast, and she writhes under him. His teeth take over when he reaches the waistband of her shorts, drawing them slowly down and leaving red marks over the swell of each cheek.

When he sits back on his heels, Hermione makes a stilted attempt at getting to her knees. She’s impeded by the shorts cinching her thighs together, and for some reason, the sight of that overwhelms Draco with the absolute need to be inside her immediately. He leans quickly to the side of the bed, rummaging through the nightstand drawer for a condom. He puts it on without even removing his boxers, just shoving them out of the way.

The air leaves Hermione in a rush when he lays on top of her, his chest flush to her back, but she sucks it in again as he uses one hand to angle his cock between her thighs. It’s tight—so fucking tight like this, squeezing between her closed legs. His eyes are already rolling when he feels the slick heat of her cunt on his head.

“Fuck,” Hermione moans, and his hand is back in her hair, angling her lips to his. The kiss is messy and desperate and he gets lost in the puff of breath on his lips as he presses deeper into her. Every inch is like molten silk, so warm and wet. For him. 

“More,” she gasps. “More, more.”

His other hand is already working beneath her body, but she pleads until his palm is covering her breast. The time for soft touches is long past, and he’s rewarded with a delicious whine when he squeezes her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Yes, i-it’s so good,” she stammers, and Draco grinds down with his hips. He gives her a pinch on every thrust, feeling the echoing pulse of pleasure on his cock. The feel of her, the sound—the smell of her shampoo and 17 creams and serums; Draco kisses her cheek and fucks her harder. 

Hermione matches him thrust for thrust, reaching back and pulling his mouth down to hers until she can’t take it anymore.

“Please, Draco,” she says, fingers tight in his hair. “I’m—I want to come.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yes, yes.”

Draco grunts as she presses her arse back into him, desperate to make room for his hand. He shifts his weight enough to slip it down under her hips, and she cries out as he brushes her clit. Draco has to grit his teeth against the way it makes her clench around him. 

“There,” she moans uselessly. She’s rolled her full weight back onto his hand, pinning it between her body and the mattress so that he couldn’t move it if he wanted to. The angle is wrong and he has no leverage, but he can feel her rubbing against the pads of his fingers on every thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Her pitch climbs with the intensity until her spine is curling beneath him. It creates just enough space for him to move his fingers in a rough circle over her clit.

She comes with a sharp cry, and the surge of wetness around him sends Draco following right after. His hips move almost of their own accord, prolonging the pleasure until it’s nearly unbearable. He has the strength to pull his hand out from under them, but not to move away. He’s aware that he’s panting a bit, a stray curl tickling his lower lip on every inhale, but he can’t seem to care. Hermione makes a faint chuckling noise from under him and he drops his chin to her shoulder with a smile.

“I scratched you,” she says.

Draco pulls his hand from under the pillow to see four red crescent-moon indents in the meat of his forearm. He studies them for a moment before murmuring, “Good.”

She laughs again, but the sound is constrained enough to get Draco moving. He rolls off of her and onto his back.

Hermione gives a soul-deep sigh and kicks her sleep shorts the rest of the way off with seemingly great effort. He smiles as she scoots a little closer before her eyes fall shut.

“Thanks for the company,” she says.

Draco breathes a laugh. “Anytime.”

She slips into sleep at once. He can see it drop over her like a blanket. He’s tempted to let it take him, too, but he still has the condom to deal with. He makes to sit up, but at the first sign of movement, Hermione reacts.

Her hand moves slowly, almost liquid-like as it curls over his bicep. It continues down, until her arm is wrapped fully around his. Her wrist turns once more at the end to lace their fingers together, something Draco wouldn’t have even thought possible.

He looks back to her sleeping face and realises, quite suddenly, that he’s in love with her. Rather a lot, actually.

***

Being in love with Hermione Granger presents several problems. Mainly, that it makes him vulnerable to suggestion.

“Please, Draco.”

“No.”

She shifts next to him in the doorway. “Will you at least try?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

She puts an encouraging hand on his arm. “But I know you’re strong. I promise nothing bad will happen.”

“I’m nearly certain that it will.”

“That’s just your fear talking.”

“Yes. Astute.”

“I’m asking you to do this for me, Draco.”

“But I don’t want to, Hermione.”

She gives up and shoves him. “Oh, quit being such a baby.”

Draco stumbles forward a step, but he takes the next one on his own. And the one after that. He steels himself with a breath before reaching up to grip the pole.

He pulls with his arms, lifting his feet and aiming to wrap his legs the way she’d shown him, but it spins much faster than he’s expecting and he smashes his shin instead.

“Ow! Bloody fuck.”

“Use your thighs,” Hermione calls helpfully through her laughter.

Draco grunts, but he manages to get a leg on either side. He lets some of his weight shift onto his legs, and a horrible screeching sound fills the room as the tender skin just below his boxers is flayed from the bone.

“Fucking Christ!”

“You have to squeeze tighter!”

He does, and he’s able to sit, but it still fucking burns. And he’s still fucking spinning.

“I’m about to be sick on your carpet.”

“Straighten your legs. It will slow you.”

He does, and it helps a bit.

“Point those toes!”

He narrows his eyes, but it’s hardly effective as she’s only flashing through his vision on each rotation. “Come closer so I can kick you.”

“You look great. See, I told you—”

The pole gives a shudder, and then the world is not only spinning, it’s tilting as well.

Draco falls in slow motion, landing flat on his back with an almighty crash, the pole still clamped between his legs. 

“Oh, my god!” Hermione’s shocked face appears above him after a second. “Are you okay?”

A puff of plaster dust is drifting down from the mangled holes in the ceiling where the anchors used to be, and Draco tilts his head back against the carpet to look behind him.

The top two feet of the pole is sticking through the remains of Hermione’s practice room window. Morning birdsong and the sound of passing cars drifts in with the feebly flapping curtain.

Draco fixes his gaze back on Hermione. “You deserved that.”

Her hands clamp over her mouth, but a laugh still squeezes out. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, you sound it.”

“No, really, I—” She stifles another giggle. “You must be too big.”

“If you’re aiming to console a bloke, I’d try that in a different context.”

She snorts, but her gaze shifts back to the shattered window. “I don’t suppose you know somewhere I could stay while that gets fixed.”

Draco just sighs.

Chapter Text

Draco has a personal gripe with the efficiency of house builders these days. 

It only took three days to get the window sorted, but that was enough for him to become awfully used to the idea of having Hermione as a permanent fixture in his home. Crookshanks had nearly done in one of the priceless amphorae, but what’s a couple thousand years of history compared to having them there? Not much, to be honest.

Draco picks up the silk scrunchie laying on his desk and spins it around his index finger. He’d retrieved it a few days ago from where Crooks had likely stashed it under the bed. It’s not the only evidence of Hermione’s frequent presence in the house, but it is his favourite. 

He’s taken to stretching the elastic between his fingers while he writes. It helps him think. He brings it idly up to his face and breathes in the subtle scent. Whether it helps him focus… perhaps still up for debate.

His phone lights up at his elbow, and he’s surprised to see Hermione’s photo. It’s earlier than usual.

“Hello, there.”

“Hey.”

Draco feels his brow furrow at once at the sound of her voice, and he looks instinctively over to her window. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah,” she says, sounding uncharacteristically small. “I just—um. Are you busy?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay, um. Can you come over?”

He’s already down the stairs. “I’m on my way.”

She’s waiting for him inside the back door, and that’s when Draco knows something is really wrong. The hood of her grey hoodie is up, making a giant puff of curls at either side of her chin. When he steps inside, she just holds out her arms, raising up on her toes to wrap them around his neck. 

He hugs her tight to him and feels her shake with a sob almost immediately.

“Hey, hey,” he says gently, rubbing over her back. “What is it?”

She gives a frustrated groan into his shoulder. “Ugh, I was fine until I saw you.”

He believes it when she leans back; there are tear tracks in her makeup that weren’t there before.

“It’s all right,” he says, wiping a thumb over her cheekbone and smearing the rouge there.

“No, it’s not,” she argues. She squeezes her eyes shut tight, making her lashes clump. “Normally, I’m so good at not letting them get to me.”

Draco’s hand twitches where it’s smoothing over her arm. “A customer?” he asks.

She nods. “He was just a little rough with me.”

Draco must do an extremely poor job of concealing the murderous rage that flashes through him because she quickly clarifies, “Not physically. He just—he said some pretty awful things. He’s a regular, and I just wasn’t expecting it.”

In Draco’s mind, that’s hardly better, but he marshals himself. “Do you want to tell me what he said?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not worth the oxygen to repeat it.”

Draco’s certain of that, but he had to ask. “All right. What do you want, then?”

Hermione gives a humourless chuckle. “Honestly, I really want a cigarette.”

His lips pull into a sympathetic smile. “Sorry.”

Confusion flits over her features. “You—you won’t give me one?”

Now he’s confused, too. “I don’t have any.”

“What?”

His head tilts as he looks down at her. “I smoked my last pack weeks ago.” At her continued bewildered expression, he asks, “Did you not notice that I never smelled like smoke anymore?”

“I just thought you were really good at keeping it away from me.”

Draco laughs. “No one’s that good.”

Hermione mouths soundlessly for a few seconds. “So you—you just quit? For me?”

“Of course,” he says like it’s obvious. It is.

Her face crumples, and fresh tears spill out onto her cheeks. “That’s so nice.”

“Hermione,” he says, feeling helpless. He hugs her tight again and she sobs some more.

“Th-thank y-you.”

“You’re welcome,” he tells her, laughing a bit at how ridiculous it feels to say when she’s in this state. 

When she’s quieter, Draco leans back to cup her face in his hands. “Have you eaten?”

She shakes her head as much as she can with him holding her. “Wasn’t hungry.”

“Well,” he says, already reaching for his phone, “I’m starved. If I get a pizza, will you have a slice?”

Hermione shrugs. “Okay.”

“Good girl,” he says and kisses her forehead.

They get to work on her face while they wait for the delivery.

Despite his best efforts to be open-minded, Draco’s skin crawls at the feel of the snail slime on his fingers.

“I guess this answers the age-old question of whether I’d still love you if you were a slug,” he says with a grimace.

Hermione’s eyes pop open, and the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it,” he says quickly, thankful for an excuse to wipe the goo from his hands.

When he returns with the pizza, Hermione eats two slices. And a square of cheesy bread.

“What do we think about a shower?” he asks when they’ve finished.

Hermione sighs. “We think it sounds like a lot of work.”

“I’m not bothered if you don’t want to,” he tells her. “But, will you feel better if you take one?”

She nods, looking sullen.

Draco waits a beat, but when she doesn’t move from the chair, he asks, “Do you want me to come with you?”

She meets his eye, and her chin wobbles a bit as she nods again.

“Right, then.” Draco stands and holds out his hand.

Hermione takes it, holding tight as he leads her to the bathroom. They undress while the water heats, and Hermione piles her hair into a thick plastic shower cap printed with flowers. She gives him a wide smile when he insists on wearing one as well. She produces one for him covered with yellow rubber ducks, and he pretends to be annoyed when Hermione sneaks a photo of him in it. It can’t possibly be less flattering than the one of Crooks sleeping on his face that currently occupies her phone background.

It's not until Draco's naked that he realises he has the silk scrunchie around his wrist. He tucks it surreptitiously under his trousers lest Hermione attempt to reclaim it.

Steam pours out when Hermione opens the glass door, and Draco follows her into the spray. Hermione’s showers could boil potatoes, but for once, he doesn’t say a word. She sighs as she leans back against his chest, and they stand like that, letting the hot water do the heavy lifting for a while.

Eventually, Hermione takes a scratchy natural sponge down from where it’s hanging on the wall and covers it with lavender-scented suds. She works it slowly over her limbs, and Draco takes it when she holds it out to scrub her back. 

She turns to rinse, and he uses the sponge to clean away a stubborn patch of glitter above her collarbone. He cups his hand under the stream, directing the water over her chest and watching the specks sluice down the drain.

When he looks back to her face, Hermione is already watching him. Her eyes shift back and forth between his for a moment while the spray pelts her shoulders red. She raises onto her toes, her arms wrapping around his neck, and Draco’s hands get her back soapy again. 

She kisses him deep but slow, and they both smile into it when their shower caps crinkle together.

“Ready?” he asks, and she nods once more.

They dry off with her excessively fluffy towels, and Hermione gives him a coy smile as she slips beneath the covers in a pair of knickers and the t-shirt Draco had taken off.

He lays down beside her, and as soon as she settles with her head on his chest, Crookshanks squeezes himself in as well. He bumps Draco hard under the chin on his way to curling up with his forehead pressed to Hermione’s. Their hands brush occasionally as they pet the cat from either side.

Draco’s other arm is tucked beneath Hermione’s shoulders, and he brings his hand up to brush over her hair too. Crookshanks’s rumbling purr covers the sound of her sigh, but Draco can feel the exhale across his skin. She still seems miles away.

“What can I do?” he asks.

Hermione is quiet for a long time before she says, “Will you tell me a story?”

Draco breathes a laugh against the top of her head and presses a kiss to her curls.

“Of course.”

He takes a minute to gather his thoughts, and after a brief moment of debate, begins, “Once upon a time, there lived a dragon.”

Hermione’s smile presses her cheek against his chest, and that spurs him on. He closes his eyes and lets the fantasy world unspool behind them.

“He was a spoiled little thing, doted on by his parents and waited on hand and foot—or rather, forelimb and hindlimb—by the many servants in his castle. He spent his days parading importantly through the village, greedily admiring his many treasures, or, most likely, terrorising his subordinates for his own amusement. It was such a charmed life, that the little dragon never even thought to consider himself lonely as he soared over the vast and verdant kingdom that would one day be his.

“The illusion held strong for many years, and the dragon was nearly grown before he began to see how flimsy it truly was. A dark sorcerer came to the castle, and he met with the king and queen in their finest hall. The young dragon listened as the sorcerer promised them power and fortune beyond their wildest dreams. And the dragon was confused. They already ruled the kingdom. Their chambers glittered with gems and jewels. What more could the sorcerer give? And at what cost?

“The dragon pleaded with his mother and father not to give in, not to believe the lies, but it was as if they were bewitched. As if only the young dragon could see the glint of red in the sorcerer’s eyes, the way the light seemed to shrink away from his pallid skin. They couldn’t be reasoned with, and they signed their deal in blood.

“When the dragon took to the skies then, it was to see the swath of darkness creeping over his lands. When he walked through the village, it was to hear the cries of the people in hunger and fear. Word spread of the way death followed the sorcerer wherever he went. Forests sat empty and silent, and rivers ran red in his path. The dragon could hardly bear to set foot in the castle for the thrum of dark magic that suffused it now. The king and queen became unrecognisable, endlessly feasting while their subjects starved in the streets. When the dragon looked out from his tower window, horrible visions began to fill his mind: he would succumb to the pull, too. The people would cry out in terror of him. Of his wrath, his teeth. It would be his fire that burned their crops in the fields, their homes crushed beneath the ruthless weight of his claws. 

“He didn’t have the power to challenge his parents for the throne, and so, he made the only choice he could to save himself from that fate. He left. He took what riches he could and flew away with them in the dead of night. His wings carried him for many leagues, but as dawn grew over the horizon, he had to hide. He found a cave in the side of a mountain and barricaded himself within it.

“The king and queen sent riders after him, as he’d known they would. But they couldn’t penetrate the wall of boulders he’d piled over the entrance. They sent emissaries next, children of the other noble families with whom the dragon had been friendly. But he sent them all away. None of their entreaties could persuade him to return, and he added another stone to the wall for their every attempt. Eventually, they no longer came.

“The dragon sighed with relief, and began to settle in to his new home. He spent his days tidying the cave and arranging his treasures just so. It didn’t matter that it was dark, that there was no sunlight to glint silver off his scales. He basked in his safety, his seclusion. One day he would take down the wall and venture out again.

“He thought of it often, sitting there in the damp. He wondered what the surrounding lands would be like. He’d only seen them briefly from the air, after all. He wondered at the creatures he might see, the people he might meet. He told himself: tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would be ready. But tomorrow came, and the one after that. And every time he reached to remove the first stone, a paralysing fear gripped his heart. His senses screamed with danger, though he couldn’t imagine why. Except that… he could. His imagination swarmed with all manner of horrible things. Untold torment. Unspeakable evil. All of it was waiting for him just outside. Poised to pounce. The dragon tried to be reasonable. He knew it was improbable that any of the fates he feared would come to pass, but it didn’t matter. Even the thought of leaving the cave was enough to make him sick with dread.

“So, he stopped trying. He retreated, and sought to comfort himself the only way he knew how. He used his fire to form words, smoke signals sent through a tiny crack in the stone ceiling. A message to the world that he was still there.

“He wove stories in the soot—exorcising the demons in his head—and sent them out. He hoped that maybe they could reach someone somewhere who needed them. The dragon convinced himself that that could be enough.

“Until one day, when he was woken from his slumber by an unfamiliar noise. The dragon opened his eyes to find himself faced with a most strange creature, indeed. Bandy-legged, with a bottle-brush tail and a face so flat it seemed impossible the thing could breathe. The dragon had never seen anything like it, alien as it was.”

Draco hadn’t noticed that Hermione had left off petting Crooks to grip his arm until she lets go with a soft clucking noise and presses her hand protectively over the cat’s ears. Draco continues on with a smile.

“The dragon didn’t know how the beast had squirmed its way into the cave, but now that it had seen him, he felt sure that it would become frightened and flee. But it didn’t. The creature approached him without caution, repeating its now unmistakably friendly noise. Still unsure how the little thing might react, the dragon kept still, letting it sniff about his sharp claws. 

“Eventually, the creature became bored with the immobile dragon, and he watched, feeling irrationally bereft, as it slunk back behind the stones. He feared that it would not return, and that he’d wasted his last chance to connect with another living being.”

Hermione’s hand tightens a bit in Crookshanks’s fur, and Draco lets the suspense build for a beat.

“But it did return.”

Hermione lets out a breath, stroking down over Crooks’s back again, and Draco can feel her head shaking minutely. He resists the urge to remind her that she knows this part of the story already.

“When the little beast appeared back in the cave, the dragon was careful not to miss his opportunity. He conjured smoke rings for it to chase. Let it climb along the arch of his wings. Cuddled it close as it warmed itself by the fire in his belly.

“Day after day, he eagerly anticipated its arrival, waiting patiently in the dark. It always left again at nightfall, and it wasn’t until nearly a fortnight after meeting his furred friend that the dragon learned why. 

“They were lounging together one day when a rock came tumbling down the face of the wall. The clatter echoed clamorously throughout the cave until the stone came to rest just in front of the dragon’s nose. His sharp eyes shot to the top of the stack, but all seemed quiet. Just gravity, then. A slip. 

“Until… Another stone fell. And another. A larger one, then two more. They slid down the pile of boulders and onto the floor, leaving a spot of white daylight in their place. The dragon squinted against the brightness, scrambling back into the shadows. He watched, hidden, as a figure appeared at the opening and climbed through.

“She made her way down the wall in a shower of pebbles, and the dragon held his breath. He had seen princesses before, but this fair maiden—her beauty was beyond compare. The sunshine seemed to cling to her, a golden glow lingering on her face and hair. She bent and called to his friend, scooping it up in an armful of orange when it went to her at once. For, of course, this was not a wild beast, but her familiar. The dragon felt shame at coveting its company. The little creature turned in her arms, looking back over her shoulder and into the gloom with its lamplike eyes. But the dragon stayed hidden, watching as they went.

“That night, he counted the stars in the hole she had left."

Hermione makes a small, pained sound and hitches her leg higher over his.

“To his surprise,” Draco continues, toying with a strand of her hair, “the familiar continued to return each day. But now, its owner always followed. The dragon would be woken each morning by loud meows and batting paws, just in time to retreat to the recesses of the cave before the maiden came climbing down. Instead of leaving immediately with her charge, as she had done the first day, she began to linger, began to explore. Delicate fingers traced the precious gems and plated coins cached in nooks along the walls. Soft skirts became soiled as she sat to page through endless ancient tomes. 

“The dragon watched all of it voraciously, for she was the most fascinating thing he had seen in years. At times, he would swear that her eyes strayed to his corner of darkness, but he never moved. Never dared to. And she always turned her attention away after a moment, a soft smile on her lips.

“Her pet would roam, as usual, chasing the things that lived in the parts of the cavern too small for a dragon to fit. It seemed content to ignore him in his statuesque state… for a time. Eventually though, it grew weary of his cowardice.

“The dragon winced at the first loud meow, turning his head just enough to see the little beast pounce on the tip of his tail. The dragon tried to flick it out of the menace’s reach, but it merely leapt after it, scattering the small stones that now littered the cave’s floor.

“A sound like tinkling bells drew the dragon’s focus back to the cave’s entrance. The maiden was looking directly at him, and she was laughing.

“‘I think he would like for you to come out,’ she told him, and the dragon’s heart nearly stopped as she closed the book in her lap and stood. ‘It’s all right,’ she coaxed, taking a step toward him. ‘I won’t bite.’

Hermione gives a little giggle of apparent approval at that level of sass when speaking to a dragon.

“Carefully, the dragon got to his feet, keeping his movements slow so as not to startle her. But she watched without a hint of hesitation as he stalked forward and out into the open. She greeted him with a kind smile and an outstretched hand, and he could smell the outside—fresh air and green grass—on her fingertips as she placed them gently onto the scales between his eyes.

“After that day, the dragon was not shy. He eagerly showed her his treasures. He told her of the history contained in the books he had taken. The distinct branch of magic unique only to dragons. And in return, she told him of the surrounding world. She brought basketfuls of her foraging—berries and toadstools and a bouquet of flowers that made him sneeze sparks, singeing the sleeve of her blouse. She fed him tart green apples, each one placed precisely between rows of razor teeth.

“She was free and fearless and so full of life that it spilled out around her. Sometimes, she would arrive at the cave breathless and pink-cheeked—triggering small landslides as she skidded down the stones—having run all the way from her village just to tell him the latest news. 

“Once, she turned up drenched to the bone, telling him of a waterfall she’d found nearby. Her teeth chattered in the chill of the cave, and the dragon offered to warm the space with his breath. She simply shot him a smile as she stripped off her wet clothes and came to lay with her back pressed against the heat of his chest. The dragon tried to control his excitement at her nearness, but his fire burned so hot that steam rose in thick clouds from her hair.

“He distracted himself by telling her of the lakes he’d swam in when he was younger. How he would fly all the way to the coast just to dive a hundred meters deep. At the note of melancholy in his voice, she placed a tender touch along the web of his wing and told him one of the lovely things about the sea is that it will always be there.

“The dragon dreamed of it that night when he was alone. He watched the shoreline disappear out from under him, and he was not afraid. He welcomed the warmth of the daylight on his face. 

“The next morning, the dragon opened his eyes at the sound of the maiden entering the cave, and he was shocked to find that she was not climbing down the pile of boulders. Nor was she even stepping over a low stone wall. She was simply winding her way between the few largest rocks that remained at the bottom. Gradually, day by day, she’d brought the entire barrier down, and he had been too blinded by her radiance to notice the sunlight streaming in. He looked down at himself and saw that while most of his scales were covered in a fine layer of rock dust, he gleamed iridescent in the places she had touched him.

“She stood framed in the opening, an endless expanse of bluebird sky behind her. And… he could walk right out. She could climb onto his back and they could fly away. He could show her the farthest lands—the tallest mountains, the lushest jungles. Anywhere she dreamed; nothing was beyond him. She deserved all of it and so much more.

“But as he made to unfurl his wings, a new fear gripped his heart. He hadn’t flown in many years. He could feel the muscles beneath his wings, weak and tired with disuse. What if they could no longer carry him? Or her? An image flashed through his mind of his maiden in freefall. The wind whipped her hair around her terrified face as she plummeted toward the earth. He recoiled from the vision, taking a step back toward the wall of the cave.

“If she noticed a difference in him, she didn’t show it. She brushed her hand over his cheek in greeting and lifted her basket to show him what she’d brought. He listened and looked with interest, smelling the dew-heavy air still clinging to her hair.

“And he told himself: tomorrow…

“Maybe she would return tomorrow, and that could be enough.”

When Draco remains silent for several seconds, Hermione lifts her head to look at him. It’s not until she moves that he notices the dampness on her cheeks.

“What comes next?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

Her brow creases, and she sits up, making Crookshanks whine with displeasure. She takes the cat off his chest and sits across his lap.

“Yes, you do,” she argues. “Say it.”

Draco just looks up at her. He shakes his head after a moment, at a loss.

She lets out a short breath of disbelief. “And they lived happily ever after.”

Her voice breaks a bit, and Draco’s heart squeezes in his chest.

“Don’t they?” 

He can see the tears shining in her eyes, so he reaches for her. “Hermione—”

She pulls away from his touch. “You’re not happy?”

“Of course, I am,” he says. “This is the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.”

Her chin trembles. “Well, I’m happy, too.”

His lips purse, and she frowns.

“What?”

“I think… happiness is relative,” he says.

“You mean you think I could be happier,” she returns sharply. “With someone who could go out.”

“Yes.”

Her head shakes in frustration. “You don’t get to tell me I’m not happy enough, Draco. You're probably the best person I’ve ever met, and I love you no matter what you can or can’t do.”

Draco feels his lips part in surprise. Hermione looks a little surprised, too, but mostly in the sense that she probably didn’t intend to say it while she was kind of yelling at him. Not as though she didn’t mean it.

For his part, Draco has absolutely nothing left to say in argument. He sits up and takes her face in his hands, kissing her hard.

Hermione returns it, nearly biting in her intensity. He savours the certainty he tastes on her lips. Even if it’s selfish of him.

She breaks the kiss after a minute, leaning back to look at him. Her eyes flick over his face, searching. She licks her lips. After another second, unease creeps across her brow.

“Um,” she starts, tucking a curl behind her ear. “You don’t have to say it back if—”

“Oh,” Draco says with sudden understanding. “I love you.”

Hermione lets out a startled little laugh. Then, she beams.

“Apologies,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over her cheek. “I was certain you knew.”

Hermione leans in again, and he wraps his arms around her back, pulling her down on top of him. She goes willingly, snuggling against his chest and seemingly content to spend the rest of the night with their lips pressed together.

Draco certainly won’t be complaining.

She does eventually take a breath, speaking her words against his cheek. “For the record,” she tells him. “Your house is much nicer than any cave I’ve ever seen.”

Draco smiles. “I took some artistic liberties.”

“And yet somehow I still ended up stripping.”

“Well, I can’t disregard canon completely.”

She sinks her teeth into the swell of his lip before tucking her head beneath his chin. Draco’s hands smooth up over her back.

“I think he practises his flying alone for a bit,” Hermione says, tracing a finger down over his stomach. “And then, once he’s more confident, she can go with him and they fly wherever they want.”

“I think that sounds right,” Draco says, and then sucks in a breath as Hermione slips her hand beneath his waistband.

“And they work out any potential interspecies anatomical complications.”

“Of course,” Draco agrees. “True love’s kiss turns him into a human prince.”

Hermione’s hand freezes on him. “No, not that. He stays a dragon.”

“Right, no. A miraculously compatibly endowed dragon.”

“And they live happily ever after.”

“Yes,” Draco grunts as she squeezes him in a tight fist. “Exceedingly happy. Forever.”

Crookshanks jumps down off the bed.

***

Three days later, Draco sits in front of his laptop, fingers drumming nervously over the surface of his desk.

The empty square on the screen flickers for a second, and then the image resolves. He smiles at the familiar face.

“Hello, Draco,” comes through the speakers.

“Hello, Dr. Pomfrey.”

The connection is a little laggy, but he still catches the tilt of her head. “Draco,” she says patiently. “I know it’s been a while, but I don’t think we need to start at square one.”

“Right.” He clears his throat. “Sorry. Poppy.”

Her smile is warm, even through pixels. “I was very glad to receive your email.”

He nods, still feeling a little out of practice.

“How have you been?”

“Good,” he says readily. “I’ve been working on a new book.”

“And your last one was quite successful,” she supplies.

“Yes, erm. It has done quite well.”

“It was incredible, Draco.  So…” Her head shakes slowly while she searches for the right word. “Piercing. I felt bruised afterward.”

“Thank you.” Draco’s cheeks are warm. “This new one will be… quite different.”

“I look forward to it.” She adjusts the wire-framed glasses on her nose. “What about aside from work?”

“Also good,” he says. “I’ve been, erm, seeing someone. I stay at her house a few nights every week.”

A rapid succession of blinks is the only indication of Poppy’s surprise. “That’s great. How did you meet?”

Draco smiles to himself, knowing she’s likely already made an assumption. Blaise had been the one to suggest he try a dating app. Daphne had been the one to point out that someone who would agree to go to his house without meeting in public first could potentially be as dangerous to him as he theoretically would be to them. Draco had risked it a few times anyway before deciding it wasn’t for him.

“She moved into the house next door.”

Poppy smiles. “Well, that sounds convenient.”

“Very.”

“What’s she like?”

Draco takes a breath, trying to think where to begin. “She’s amazing. Her name is Hermione. She’s kind and generous. Brilliant, funny. She has this incredible energy about her. Like she’s truly fascinated by everything. She’s ambitious, even though she wouldn’t say that. She—well, she’s also very beautiful.”

“She sounds wonderful.”

“She is.” Draco resists the urge to say you would like her. Poppy is his therapist, not his mother; he doesn’t need her approval. He doesn’t need his mother’s approval either, though that training is still ongoing.

“What about family?” Poppy asks as though she’s followed the same thread. He’s no longer unnerved by her ability to do that.

“I still haven’t spoken to them. Mother writes on my birthday, at Christmas, but…” He shrugs.

Poppy nods. “And your friends?”

“Just the same small group. I keep up with them online, and they call every once in a while.”

“And let me guess,” Poppy says, looking over her glasses at him. “Now you call them back?”

“Yes,” Draco admits, feeling hot again.

“It’s a lot more fun to catch up when you have something exciting to say.”

“Yes.” The first time he posted a picture with Hermione, he didn’t even have a chance to put his phone down before it was ringing in his hand. 

“Have you gone to visit any of them?”

“No.”

“Anywhere else since we last met? Other than Hermione’s house?”

“No.”

Poppy nods in her neutral way. Neither approving of nor judging his answers, just gathering the facts.

“I’d like to know how much you think your new relationship played a part in you reaching back out.”

“I’m not doing it for her,” Draco says firmly. He’d expected this question.

“But are you doing it because of her?”

He opens his mouth, but the denial doesn’t come as easily. “She’s been extremely accommodating. She doesn’t even know I’m meeting with you today.”

“I’m glad you don’t feel pressured,” Poppy says. “Having a loved one on board for motivation and support can be very helpful. But at the end of the day, the will has to come from you.”

Draco takes a moment to digest that. When he speaks, the words come slowly as he puts them together. “Last time—when we were meeting before—I put so much emphasis on feeling trapped in the house. We focused on getting out. Just out. Anywhere that wasn’t here. But my life outside was a mess. I didn’t have anywhere I really wanted to go.”

“And now you do?”

Draco licks his lips. “I, actually, erm, made a list.”

“That sounds promising. Would you like to share it?”

He takes out the crinkled paper, and his hands are trembling slightly. “Some of them are—I mean, I know I need to be realistic.”

Poppy shakes her head. “I love a lofty goal. We’ll work on the logistics together.”

“All right.” He looks down at the list. “I’d like to go for a walk around the neighbourhood.”

When he glances back up at the screen, she nods encouragingly. “Sounds lovely.”

He swallows and carries on. “There’s a quiz night at the pub Blaise and Theo go to, and they’re absolute rubbish. Their team always finishes last, and honestly, it’s embarrassing to Eton. I’d like to go and help.”

She gives a little chuckle.

“The aquarium in London has an octopus called Inkling. I’d really love to see it.”

Poppy looks pleasantly puzzled by that one, but she still nods.

“I want to swim the English Channel.”

Her brows shoot up behind her glasses, and Draco snorts. “Just kidding. But I would like to go to the beach.”

Poppy rolls her eyes dramatically.

“Brunch,” Draco says next. It speaks for itself.

“Also, there’s a bookshop in town that invited me to do a signing for my last release. Obviously it’s too late now, but I thought, maybe, for the next one. If they asked again. That, could be nice.” He tries not to picture it too vividly.

“That sounds like a wonderful opportunity.”

Draco nods, looking down at the last item on the list. His palms are starting to sweat, and he thinks all the recent talk of flying has made him slightly insane.

“I’d like to take Hermione to the Louvre.”

He spends an extra second tracing the letters on the page before glancing up again. When he does, it seems Poppy is still debating on what to say. Her voice comes out a little thick when she settles on, “I’m sure she’d love that.”

“She would,” he says quietly. It’s a drop in the bucket compared to all of the things he’d love to do for her, but it’s a start.

“I think this is a great first step, Draco.”

“It does feel like progress, but I’m not sure where to go from here.”

“Which is why you have me,” Poppy says primly. Her eyes shift to another screen, and she taps her chin with her index finger. “I don’t know when you planned to begin your sessions, but I’ve had a cancellation for later today if you’re available.”

Draco’s heart gives a painful thump, and he swallows against the sudden tightness in his throat. 

Today? He’d thought tomorrow at the soonest…

He forces himself to take a breath.

“Today’s perfect,” he says. “I’m ready.”