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Chapter Text

Hogwarts bore many secrets. If the walls of the castle could speak – apart from the nosy portraits hanging on them – they would tell tales of mischief, sin, and depravity.

One of those secrets belonged to Hermione Granger. The ‘Brightest Witch of Her Age’ had returned to school after the war, as many of the other students in her year had done, when everything had gone back to (more or less) normal.

Nothing would actually be normal again. Hermione knew that. She just didn’t know how abnormal it would get.

The first time it happened, she didn’t seek it out. It came to her. 

Her secret. 

It was during the first week of school when Hermione’s class was sent outside to scavenge for fresh ingredients. Apparently, it had been added to the Potion’s curriculum after realising how important it was to actually know where to get them and what to look out for. In real life, ingredients wouldn’t just appear in a stocked pantry, and the war had proven that.

Hermione looked at the parchment in her hand.

- Peppermint
- Rose Petal
- Rose Thorn

An easy list. Hermione was paired up with Neville Longbottom, who had bloomed into a confident young wizard after the battle. She secretly envied this about him, because she felt like she had shrivelled and dried out like a deserted flower.

“Let’s go down to the lake,” Neville suggested.

Hermione nodded and they set off. 

After a few quiet minutes of walking down the stony path to the lake, hugging their robes closer to their bodies as the early autumn wind sent shivers down their spines, Neville nudged Hermione with his elbow.

“So… how are you?” Neville asked with a cautious glance at Hermione.

Hermione shrugged. She was not doing great. Her parents had been stationed permanently in St Mungo’s mind healing department, but the Healers who were trying to retrieve their memories had warned Hermione not to get her hopes up. Ever since the war ended, everyone else found a way to move forward, grieve their losses, and continue with their lives. Hermione was stuck. Stuck in the consequences of war. 

Stuck. Stuck. Stuck.

The more she tried to move, the more she’d get paralysed.

The new school year had only just begun, but Hermione was already having difficulties following classes, and it weighed heavily on her. Struggling to learn wasn’t something she’d ever seen herself identifying with.

She also didn’t identify with the withered looking face that stared back at her when she looked into a mirror. Her hair lacked the shine it had before and looked even frizzier than it usually did. Her eyes were dark, the shadows beneath them made her appear tired and weak. She was tired and weak. In the past months, she had lost much of her appetite, leaving her face gaunt. Grey. Lifeless.

Hermione had turned into a hollow shell of herself.

“Yeah, I’m okay. You?” she asked back, staring into the distance. 

“I’m okay, too. Thanks,” Neville replied. He knew not to push her. Neville had been accompanying her to St Mungo’s to visit his parents in the permanent residency ward in the weeks leading up to the start of Eighth Year. First, they hadn’t talked much, but when you see each other five times a week, things quickly change. Hermione was thankful for his sensitivity to not probe further.

When they arrived, Neville trotted off to a bush of peppermint, while Hermione decided to look for the reds of a rose bush.

Hermione found it between various trees and shrubs. It was a small one, hidden like a treasure. After picking her third petal, she got pricked by a thorn that was in the way.

Hermione yelped, letting go of the petals.

“Are you okay?” Neville asked behind her.

“I’m fine,” Hermione murmured, picking up the petals she’d dropped.

“Sometimes the most beautiful things are the ones that hurt us,” Neville said.

Hermione hummed, then stood up and turned to Neville. “Ready to go back?” she asked.

Neville pressed his lips into a thin smile and nodded.

After the first Quidditch match of the season – Gryffindor versus Slytherin – Hermione found herself frozen from the signs of the season’s ending and winter approaching. Her warming charm had only been able to hold up for a while, as the frigid Scottish temperatures still slithered through the shield against it. Magic could only do so much against the force that was nature. She decided to warm herself in a relaxing bath, so she wandered through the halls of the castle until she reached the fourth floor lavatory. A lavatory tucked away far from the library or any classrooms. Hermione had only found it a week prior, when she took a wrong turn while finishing a book before returning it. Or maybe, it had found her. You could never know in this castle.

It was dark and gloomy as always when Hermione entered. With a flick of her wrist, the candles on the walls illuminated the space. Their shadows flickered and danced across the windows, mirrors, and walls. 

The tub was more like a pool at the very back of the hidden room, situated right beneath the biggest window looking out into the darkness of the hills. She turned the taps on and the water came crashing down, filling the space rapidly. Hermione uncorked the vial that she had taken with her before the match, tipped it over and into the water, turning it into a frothy and bubbly heaven.

She shrugged out of her robes, letting them fall and bunch around her feet. With icy fingers, she peeled herself out of her clothes.

The pool was pentagon-shaped, and each side had a built-in bench to sit on. Hermione immersed herself in the hot water and waded across to the bench right beneath the window, creating rippling waves. The bench was at the perfect height for her, the water would still come up to her shoulders. She closed her eyes and exhaled.

Eighth school year was very different from the ones before. War had ripped through the castle, and even though one couldn’t see the cracks in the stone and blood on the ground any more, it could still be felt. It lingered in the air, it stuck on your skin, it manifested in trembles.

It had been hard.

Coming back and pretending to be happy. Happy the war was over, happy Voldemort was dead, happy that light won over dark, ignoring all their dead friends and family, ignoring the tightening in one’s chest, ignoring how one’s fingers would start to twitch when walking into the Great Hall, where just a few months prior, bodies had been plastering the ground.

But one needed to be happy about it.

One could not complain.

So Hermione would peel her clothes off – the ones soaking up the stale air of the castle – and she would slither into the tub, basking in the artificial warmth that had left her body since stealing her parent’s memories, and then she would close her eyes…

And scream.

A guttural, earth-shattering scream. A scream that sliced through the silence of the hidden fourth floor lavatory and left Hermione’s ears ringing.

Only this time, she heard a shuffling underneath the familiar ringing. Hermione’s eyes shot open and darted to the source of the sound. A tall figure stood across the bathroom, broom in hand and silver hair reflecting in the dark like the moon in the night sky.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione asked, quietly.

“I heard you scream,” Malfoy answered. He hesitated before asking, “Are you hurt?”

Hermione sank further down into the water, the bubbles reaching her chin now.

“Yes,” she answered. Hermione didn’t know why she didn’t lie like she usually did. Maybe Malfoy had caught her off guard, or maybe she didn’t feel the need to lie when it was someone that didn’t care about her.

Malfoy set his broom aside, tipping it against the wall, then stepped closer slowly as if not to startle her. As if she was some sort of wild animal that had been injured and was incapable of escaping. 

“What’s wrong?” Malfoy asked, now standing at the stairs of the pool.

Hermione could see his face better now. She hadn’t bothered to look at him in court while testifying for him and his mother. He had still been Malfoy, after all. When school started, she was shocked to see him there, being a former Death Eater and all, so she equally ignored him and pretended he didn’t exist. It was the first time his sneering had stopped, and she enjoyed the non-existence of her former bully.

But now Draco stood there, a few metres away from her, and he had this desperate look on his face that had grown quite sharp and – pointy. Handsome, even. And she couldn’t help but to stare back at those cold eyes.

“Why do you care?” Hermione finally asked back.

“I don’t,” Malfoy replied, his expression turning hard and distant.

“Of course, you don’t,” Hermione said. She pushed herself off the bench, then glided through the water until reaching the stairs of the pool. She ascended, dripping and naked, as Malfoy watched her, his carefully crafted mask not slipping for one second. She came to a halt before him. She had never been so close to Malfoy. He still had his Quidditch uniform on and his hair was sweaty and salty with strands stuck to his face.

Hermione took her time in taking Malfoy in, eyes wandering in curiosity. He waited quietly and patiently as his eyes followed hers, his head mimicking the slight movement of her head. 

“Be a good boy and fuck off,” Hermione said at last.

She smiled up at him, and he – smiled back.

“Whatever you say, Granger,” Malfoy replied, slightly leaning down toward her face.

She nodded toward the door and Draco turned, grabbed his broom and left without another word.

The dragon had been tamed, at last.

The night had advanced, and the clear sky and moon were the only witnesses of Hermione’s incompetence at finding sleep.

Her friends were buried beneath their blankets, long-gone and dreaming of things Hermione couldn’t care much about. Because the only thing, the only someone, who was on her mind, had been a certain Slytherin. 

Malfoy’s gaze on her bare body.

Hermione turned and turned, but sleep wasn’t merciful with her that night.

“Morning, ‘Mione,” Ron greeted when she descended the stairs to the common room.

“Good morning, Ron,” Hermione replied, giving him a tired smile.

She walked toward the sofa in front of the fireplace, but didn’t join Ron. Instead, she fetched a cushion and dropped it in front of the crackling flames, sinking down on it. Ever since waking up from the shallow slumber, she had felt terribly cold, shivering uncontrollably. She wondered if she was getting sick or if the lack of sleep was the trigger.

The heat of the fire licked against her skin, seeping into her bones and sending shivers down her spine.

Ron eyed her from the sofa, before saying, “You look different.”

“Different?” Hermione asked, furrowing her brow.

“I dunno, just different,” Ron replied. “Where were you after the game?”

Hermione’s eyes darted back to the fire. It wouldn’t betray her thoughts to her friend. Because she needed to hide them from him, as they immediately went to Malfoy.

“I was freezing, so I had a bath. I think I’m getting sick.”

“Do you need something? I can make you some tea.”

“Tea sounds good. Thanks, Ron,” Hermione said, wrapping her arms around her legs and leaning her head against her knees.

Ron stood, grabbed the quilt on the sofa, and gently placed it around Hermione’s shoulders. His hand lingered on one of them.

“You need to look after yourself, ‘Mione. I’m worried,” Ron said.

Hermione’s only response was a hum. Ron let go and left, returning shortly after with a steaming cup of tea. 

“One sugar cube and a lot of milk, just how you like it,” Ron said as he sat down beside her.

“Thank you,” Hermione replied with a smile.

Ron scooted closer and put an arm around her shoulders. After the Battle of Hogwarts, she and Ron had never talked about that one kiss they shared. It just always hung between them, another secret well kept. Ron had to grieve Fred, Hermione had to grieve her parents – romance had been the last thing on their minds. So, little things like an arm around a shoulder, fingers brushing against each other and stolen looks were the only thing that reminded them of that moment.

“Anything for you, you know that, right?” Ron asked, as he glanced down at her.

Hermione nodded and took a careful sip of her tea. The hot liquid hit her teeth, then her tongue, then travelled down her throat, leaving a burning trail behind.

It felt good.

She took a bigger sip, gulping down half of her cup.

“Slow down. You’ll burn yourself,” Ron muttered.

She set the cup back on the saucer, nodding again. “I think I need to stay in bed today.”

“Yeah, I think so, too.”

Ron gave her a worried look.

“Yeah.” Hermione nodded, her thoughts still clinging to grey eyes.

The second Quidditch match of the season – Slytherin versus Hufflepuff – took place on a rainy and dreary Thursday. Hermione couldn't help but follow Malfoy's every move, desperately trying to tear her eyes away from him, only to catch herself searching for his silver hair in the clouds again and again. The golden shimmer of the snitch hovered just a few metres away from where she sat in the high stands, and when he charged his broom at it, she held her breath in anticipation of him flying closer. It was quite bizarre, Hermione was annoyed at herself and concluded it was all because of their strange interaction a few days prior. Nothing more, nothing less.

The snitch disappeared, and Malfoy was left hanging in the air. His gaze met hers. He ran a hand through his hair and before he took off, there was the slightest hint of a smile on his face.

Just a few minutes later, the announcement of Malfoy catching the snitch boomed through the stadium and applause followed.

“He's gotten even better, that wanker,” Harry cursed.

“Bloody Malfoy,” Ron followed.

Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled her coat tighter around her chest. Her body was trembling from the cold, leaving her wishing for one hot bath.

“Are you alright?” Ron asked, grasping her shoulders from behind as she walked back to the castle.

“Yeah,” Hermione said, putting on a smile. “I just need to warm up.”

Her friends talked about the match, how Malfoy surely didn't have any time to practice during summer as his court case had still been open, they mused about how his father wasn't able to pay for new brooms for the entire team now because Mr Malfoy was now in Azkaban, which seemed entirely hilarious to the group of Gryffindors.

Hermione muttered some excuse to get ahead of them and climb the stairs to the fourth floor, glad to escape the cheerful cajoling. A sigh escaped her when the large wooden door to the hidden lavatory emerged.

When she entered the room, the candles were already lit and the tub filled. Steam hung in the air lazily, and before she could excuse herself and leave, someone closed the door behind her.

“Stay,” a low voice said.

A wave of electricity rippled through her body and her breath stilled for a moment.

“Why should I?” Hermione asked.

“I want you to stay,” Malfoy replied, coming up to Hermione’s back. She could feel his warmth radiating through her clothes.

“Wasn’t I clear enough last time?”

“I’ll make you stop hurting,” Malfoy whispered into her ear.

Hermione shuddered at the vibration of his voice, his breath crashing against her skin, and the sheer fact that Draco Malfoy was inviting her to stay.

Malfoy’s arms came around her, gently, and his fingers clasped the top button of her coat. Hermione didn’t move. He opened one by one, then slipped her out of it. He paused, and when Hermione didn’t say anything, his fingers ghosted across the hem of her shirt, carefully hooking them beneath the fabric. The slight touch of them against her skin sent another wave of prickling goosebumps all over her body and her chest contracted rapidly.

Malfoy seemed to catch on, waiting for a second before pulling her shirt up and over her head as she raised her arms.

His fingers came back as a soft touch on the nape of her neck that was exposed to him due to her curls being pinned up with a clasp. Hermione held her breath in anticipation. Malfoy drew a line down her spine slowly, humming in what seemed to be approval.

When Malfoy’s fingers came to the clasp of her bra, he waited again for her objection. It didn’t come, so he unhooked the lacy black thing and pulled down the straps, not without caressing her arms in the process of doing so.

The bra fell to the ground with a soft thud, leaving Hermione bare. Malfoy reached around once more so he could unbutton her jeans. His thumbs wandered between fabric and skin, slowly easing the denim off of Hermione’s hips, kneeling down as he went further down until he could free her feet from them. He pushed them to the side, took her socks off and stayed kneeling, his hands wandering from her calves up to the back of her thighs, over her bum and then stopped at the hem of her matching black knickers.

Hermione squirmed from Malfoy’s fleeting touch. Her blood was rushing to a singular point in her body and she started to crave any friction for some sort of release. When he pulled her knickers down and she stepped out of them, she could hear a deep inhale.

“Fuck, Granger,” Malfoy murmured.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder just as Malfoy got up again. He buried his face in the crook of her neck. “I’ve always wondered what you smelled like,” he murmured.

“You have?” Hermione asked, not covering the surprise about his statement in her voice.

“For far too long,” Malfoy replied, his hands on her waist. He pushed her forward ever so slightly so she’d move toward the pool.

Hermione's thoughts spun at the confession, she hummed in response, but could only concentrate on the burning heat of his hands on her skin.

They reached the stairs and Hermione dipped her feet into the water, feeling for the first step of the pool. When she took her second step, Malfoy let go of her, the missing contact between them haunting her already. And she hated herself for it.

When she was encased in water, she headed to her spot beneath the window and turned to sit down as always.

Malfoy had vanished.

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” Ron asked.

Hermione and Ron had gathered in the common room after classes and sat on the worn out sofa. Snow floated past the darkened windows, the fire was crackling and pinging in the hearth, and other students were chatting, playing wizard chess or studying.

“What?” Hermione asked, snapping out of her train of thought.

“You were staring into nothing for a good minute and didn’t answer me,” Ron explained. “Are you feeling okay?”

Hermione looked at her best friend and smiled softly, then nodded reassuringly. “I’m fine, just tired. Thanks for asking, though.”

Ron wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer. Hermione leaned in and let her head rest on his shoulder. “You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Hermione whispered, closing her eyes.

“Talk to me then,” Ron insisted, squeezing her arm.

“I’m just really exhausted from everything,” Hermione said. 

Hermione was exhausted. But her thoughts hung on silver-blonde hair, stormy eyes and burning hands. Weeks had passed since the last incident with Malfoy and every second of it had etched itself into her memory. It consumed her. Slowly, but steadily. She had wanted more of it – him – and had waited for his appearance many times between then and now. But he never came back. Of course, he didn’t.

“I get it,” Ron murmured, his thumb brushing up and down over the knitted wool of her jumper.

“I know you do,” Hermione said, thinking back to how Malfoy’s fingers brushed against her skin. “I’ll go take a bath before dinner. Should I bring you something later?”

“Seamus is bringing food today, thanks,” Ron answered.

Ron had trouble being in the Great Hall ever since Fred’s body laid there. Sometimes, he was able to join them, but some days were harder than others. On these days, Hermione and their other friends would take turns and prepare a plate and bring it to him instead.

Hermione smiled at Ron before getting up and grabbing towels and fresh clothes from her dormitory, then made her way to the girl’s bathroom on their floor. She hadn’t been to her secret spot for over two weeks now so she'd stop daring to wish for Malfoy to emerge from its shadows.

As she left the common room and scurried down the hall toward the girl’s lavatory, she could see a group of third year students huddling before it, laughing and giggling, hushed words being exchanged. Hermione really couldn’t be bothered today. She wanted to be alone.

In the blink of an eye, Hermione decided to descend to the fourth floor instead. It was eerily quiet at that time of the day. No one seemed to be in class anymore, nor looking for books or studying in the library. As she passed the last classroom before reaching the bathroom, steps behind her made her listen carefully. She thought that it might just be someone heading for dinner, but the steps followed her.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder.

As she looked straight ahead again, a smile spread across her face. She didn’t steal another look, instead she continued with excitement in her stride until she reached the door and was harshly pushed against it. Warmth spread over her, ghosting across the side of her face and the scent of peppermint snaked its way into her nose.

“Where were you?” Malfoy growled.

“Where were you?” Hermione questioned indignantly.

“Go,” he ordered as he released her.

She quickly slipped through the crack of the door, Malfoy staying close behind and as soon as it closed behind them he stormed toward her and grabbed her face, crashing into her lips with wild desperation. Devotion. Desire.

“All these weeks,” he sneered between kisses and bites and tongues teasing each other. “You didn’t even spare me one look.”

“You left me,” Hermione replied as he kissed her jaw, down the side of her throat and her collar bones, holding her tightly at the small of her back. Her eyes rolled back at the sensation of his lips upon herself. 

They burned, burned, burned.

“You didn’t want me,” Malfoy purred. “Have you changed your mind?”

“Look at you,” Hermione hissed, while his hands roamed under her shirt and toward her breasts. “So–” A stifled moan escaped her throat when Malfoy took her nipple between his fingers and pinched it. 

“Pathetic?” Malfoy murmured as he found her lips again. “I agree.”

Hermione turned her head slightly to break free from him. “Take your clothes off,” she ordered.

Malfoy stepped back, his chest moving up and down rapidly, his fingers unbuttoning his shirt hastily, and his erection twitching visibly beneath the fabric of his trousers.

“So eager to be with a Mudblood,” Hermione said, undressing at the same time. “Who would have thought?”

Malfoy’s eyes darted from his buttons to her face, silver strands of hair falling into his eyes as his hands halted. He moved closer again, a hand reaching up to her cheek to caress it.

“Mudblood,” Malfoy repeated, as if tasting the word on his tongue for the first time, his face contorting in disgust.

Malfoy leaned his forehead against hers and inhaled. “You have no idea how good you smell,” he murmured, then buried his face in the crook of her neck. Hermione felt his tongue dart out, as he licked her slowly.

“No… someone who tastes like this cannot have anything dirty in their blood,” Malfoy whispered against her skin.

Hermione shuddered.

She should have been repulsed, she should have pushed him away, should have ran, should have never looked back, should have, should have… 

Should, should… should look into the endless grey of his eyes – grey like the mist in a forest – should stay, should pull him closer, should intertwine herself with him.

Connection.

It was dittany to a wound that had been festering for way too long.

“Get in the bath,” Hermione said, her voice buttery and soft.

“Anything you say, Granger,” Malfoy replied. He let his opened shirt glide off his shoulders, then reached for the buckle of his belt, never breaking eye-contact with Hermione, who let her skirt drop to the ground.

Hermione stood before him in just her tights. She vanished them with a quick spell.

“Anything,” Malfoy repeated while stepping out of his trousers, his gaze turning dark, hungry — no, starved.

His eyes were feasting on her.

And Hermione could feel it, too. It roamed within her, an itch that she felt ever since the war had ended, an itch that she couldn’t quite reach, even though she had tried. Prickling, stinging, digging its nails into her bones, and everlasting ticking. She had tried to relieve it many times, but no one could offer relief, not Ron, not her friends, not anyone.

Malfoy, on the other hand…

His touch calmed the stinging and his kisses suffocated the ticking.

She could breathe for the first time since forever.

When Hermione reached for her knickers, Malfoy reached for his pants. They pulled down and stepped out of the fabrics at the same time, then let their eyes graze over the opposite body for a moment. She faltered when landing on his lower half. He was hard.

Malfoy’s canines flashed in the low light of the bathroom as he watched her take him in.

She had never wondered about Malfoy in any regard, now she was sure she'd never stop thinking about him forever.

Hermione took a shaky breath, turned and walked into the depths of the pool first. With four strokes, she felt the bench beneath the window stick out of the wall. When she turned to sit, Malfoy was already close, letting his hips sink between her legs and placing his hands on the ledge on each side of Hermione.

“Ever since seeing you here the first time, I haven’t been able to stop,” Malfoy murmured, his eyes flitting between hers. The black of his pupils were blown wide.

“To stop what?” Hermione asked, inhaling his breath. It was fresh and cool and made the clouds in her brain vanish. Her fingertips stroked against his abdomen beneath the water and the touch made Malfoy close his eyes and press against her more.

“To stop thinking about you,” Malfoy said, his lips now hovering over hers and touching them slightly with every word.

“Why is that?” Hermione asked.

Malfoy closed the infinitesimal distance between them with a soft kiss before retreating again.

“Ask me something I know, Granger. Because this is driving me insane. You are driving me insane.”

“You sound like you’re in love with me, Malfoy,” Hermione assessed.

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth turned downward ever so slightly.

“Love?” Malfoy breathed. “No… this is an obsession.”

Even though Hermione was submerged by hot water and Malfoy’s heat encased her body, her body tingled from his words. 

This should feel wrong. This was wrong.

But it also… wasn't.

She deserved to feel good, for once.

Malfoy rubbed against Hermione’s core, which made her dig her nails into his shoulders.

“Do you want me now, little selkie?”

“Selkie?” Hermione giggled, a sound she hadn’t heard in a long time.

“It appears the only way I can find you is when you’re around water,” Malfoy said, taking a hand of hers and placing it on his erection.

Hermione’s eyes grew big at the sensation of him beneath her hand, the way the skin was softer than the rest of him, how beneath it his flesh was hard, and she suddenly realised what they were doing.

“Malfoy,” she whispered, sounding like a pleading prayer.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Tell me to stop,” Malfoy said, as he started to move her hand along his shaft. “Tell me you don’t want to feel me inside of you.”

“I–” Hermione started. She wanted to say no because she knew it was expected of her to not want Malfoy, because Malfoy was bad, because he had tormented her for years, because he thought less of her.

But everything inside of her screamed yes.

Her thoughts weren’t racing. Her heart wasn’t skipping beats and her breath didn’t falter.

Because she knew it with every fibre of her being that she wanted Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy let go of her hand and she continued the movements on her own. He dipped down and kissed her breast, before his teeth scraped along her areola, and her nipple was encased by his warm mouth. He sucked, he swirled his tongue around it, he let go.

The absence of Malfoy was almost aching, Hermione immediately mourned the loss of his lips on her. It didn’t last long, though, as he started his ministrations on her other breast, caressing it, kissing it, whispering things in between, things that could only be spoken in the shadows beneath the burning candles.

“You’re everything.”

“I need you.”

“Finally.”

Malfoy worshipped her, like a lost soul at an altar exalting the Gods above. Her body was his altar.

“I need to taste you,” he said with a sudden clarity.

Hermione looked at him half-lidded in a daze of vibrating desire, when his wand floated into his hand and a quiet incantation was spoken, making a bubble appear around his nose, mouth, and down his throat. He set his wand on the ledge behind Hermione.

“Malfoy?” Hermione asked, but was only met by a smirk before he descended entirely into the water.

Hermione’s question lingered in the air and was answered when something soft grazed against her core. She gasped, her hands darting toward the sensation instinctively and being met with Malfoy’s hair. His tongue dragged through her folds, landing on the soft bundle of nerves, then went around it and around it and around it.

Malfoy’s hands gripped her waist, his fingers pushing into her flesh, making sure there was no room between them.

Hermione relaxed as more passes of his tongue went over herself, letting her head fall back, her eyes closed and her lips parted, soft whimpers escaping between sharp intakes of air.

Malfoy knew what he was doing.

But it was not enough.

That nerve-racking ticking came back. Slowly and quietly, but growing faster and louder as seconds passed, and Hermione knew.

She knew she had to have all of him. She grabbed his shoulders and urged him to come back up, and he emerged from beneath, dripping. The bubble around his face vanished and their eyes locked.

He knew, too. She knew that he knew.

“Are you sure, Granger?” Malfoy asked, voice raspy and low.

“Yes,” Hermione said.

“You know there’s no turning back after this,” he murmured as his hands snaked around her waist, pulling her closer, rubbing himself against her.

“Yes.” 

She wrapped her legs and arms around his body, closing in on him, pressing her mouth on his so he’d finally shut up and just fuck her.

Malfoy let go of one side of her waist to place himself at her entrance. He pushed into her with one strong thrust and both moaned in unison, staring into each other’s eyes, lips apart, lost in the strangest turn of events.

What once were two complete opposites, became one.

Their minds collided, just as their bodies did.

And Hermione wasn’t cold anymore.

Chapter Text

Noise. 

So much noise. 

The Great Hall was always so loud. Silver cutlery scraped on porcelain, feet shuffled beneath tables, voices mixed into a monotonous whirring.

Hermione used to mind it. She used to whisper charms so her ears would be protected against the sound – a silly attempt to stifle the echoes around her. Even if she had been able to make them go away entirely, her mind would have stayed just as busy. 

Today was different.

Today, Hermione didn’t seem to hear any of it. Not even the thoughts that were usually pounding against her skull bothered her.

Because she could only hear him. Feel him.

Without looking, she knew he sat facing toward her, the tables from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff between them, at the same altitude as her. His eyes burned holes into her back and they demanded for her to turn – she wondered if he had put a binding spell on her or if she was only imagining all of it.

“I told her not to risk it.” Harry’s voice finally carried to Hermione as he took a bite of sausage and chewed on it a bit too aggressively. 

“Ginny never listens,” Ron replied. He sat next to Hermione, his arm brushing against hers when he reached for his cup of tea. Hermione’s chest tightened.

“Well, maybe she’ll listen now. Are you coming to the Hospital Wing after classes?” Harry asked. He looked exhausted. Surely, school was treating him better than being on the run and trying to defeat the most powerful wizard of all time, but there was a slight difference in Harry now. His mission – one he was quite literally born into – was completed, and now he tried to find himself and his role in this world without an enemy just like everyone else.

“Yeah,” Ron said. “What about you, ‘Mione?” He nudged her side.

Hermione flinched ever so slightly, earning her a confused look from Ron.

“I’ll go after lunch,” Hermione said.

“Fine,” Ron said as he got up. “Need to go, see you in Potions.”

Hermione knew Ron caught on to her behaviour; knew that something was off because things had changed ever since that night with Malfoy.

Ever since they–

“Bye,” Hermione said, staring at her empty plate. She had eaten the entirety of it without a problem, something she hadn't been able to do in all the months leading up to school.

When she looked up, she caught Harry staring at her. His gaze didn’t waver.

“Did you do something with your hair?” he asked.

“No…”

“You look different.” Harry gave her a smile. “Are you ready for History?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.

“Yes,” Hermione replied with a sigh, relieved that Harry didn’t ask more questions. Because she knew she looked different. But also, she didn’t know why she looked different.

Hermione swung her legs over the bench and got up, Harry doing the same on the other side of the table. As they walked down the Hall the distance to the Slytherin table grew larger, the feeling of Malfoy’s eyes upon her didn’t get weaker.

“Harry’s angry at you,” Hermione said as she pushed a chair closer to Ginny’s hospital bed.

“He can suck it,” Ginny said, voice hoarse and raspy.

“I have to agree with him, that maneuver you did was stupid,” Hermione said. She sat down, exhaling loudly when her bottom connected with the hard surface of the chair.

“What fun would it be to always play by the rules?”

“Your broom was smashed in its entirety, same with your ribs and your sternum. It’s a wonder you’re not screaming in agony right now.”

“It’ll work next time,” Ginny said, giving Hermione a crooked grin while holding her side.

“Insane. You’re insane,” Hermione huffed.

Ginny chuckled before breaking out in a coughing fit. Only after taking a sip of water from the glass Hermione held to Ginny's lips, she was able to speak again.

“So, tell me, Hermione.” Ginny cleared her throat again. “Why are you visiting me alone?”

Hermione shuffled in her seat, looking around nervously before concluding that the wing was safe to speak.

“I…” Hermione began, but grew unsure. She wanted nothing more than to talk about everything that had happened in that damned lavatory, but something about it felt wrong. It wasn't meant to be shared.

“Spit it out,” Ginny said. “Did you and Ron finally get together?”

“No!” Hermione said. Her vehement reaction surprised herself. Ginny’s eyes narrowed.

“You guys are literally always together and cuddling, that’s not what friends do,” Ginny said. “You should tell him your feelings. He deserves to know.”

“Well–” Hermione wanted to retort, but decided against it. Ginny had closed her eyes in pain, pressing a hand onto her ribs. “Do you need something? Should I call for someone?”

“No–” Ginny replied between gritted teeth. “Just– the bones are fusing.”

“Let me know if you need something.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Ginny said, slurring her words and drifting off. “Madam Pomfrey gave me a potion before you came…”

“Don’t worry,” Hermione said, but Ginny had already fallen asleep.

It was dark outside when classes finished. Harry, Ron, and Hermione parted ways as the boys went to visit Ginny and Hermione headed to the library to return some books.

Even though it had been a busy day, Hermione felt light and springy as she walked down the halls past other students and friends – looking positively exhausted, a crass contrast to her.

When she rounded a corner before reaching the library’s doors, the atmosphere changed. Something hung heavily in the air. Hermione’s skin pricked like ants crawling beneath it, her heart jumped and she instinctively started to walk faster. Before her inner eye, an image was cast – one of Malfoy sitting in the back of the library beneath one of the arched windows at the desk where someone had carved a “D” into the ancient wood.

 Hermione let her legs carry her to him. Past rows and rows of books and empty desks. No one was there apart from him.

When she finally reached the aisle that led to Malfoy, she slowed down.

Malfoy hovered above some literature, his back turned toward her. His left hand held a quill, gliding over parchment next to an open book, his right hand tangled in strands of white-blonde hair. Hermione walked towards him, stepping one foot in front of the other as quietly as she could until the distance between them was merely inches.

His movements stilled, and before she knew it, he let his head fall back, leaning it gently against her abdomen and looking up at her. 

All those years of going to school together, of having him hover around, of Harry being obsessed with him – she had never seen his eyes without a mean glint in them, never seen him without a sneer on his lips. Now, it was all different. He was different. He looked at her with such relief, she could barely remember what he used to look like before.

And she could feel it, too. Relief. Her body had ached and she hadn’t even noticed it, she had still felt better than she had in months, but now, having him looking at her like she was a sanctuary, she could feel how tense she had been before.

“Finally,” Malfoy said, inhaling deeply and eyelids falling shut.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Like clock-work, that strange aching came back, reminding her that only one remedy was available for her – and it sat right in front of her. She reached out to him and her fingertips grazed the skin of his throat before she wrapped her hand around it entirely. A feeling of utter greed, of pure want, overcame her as soon as their skin connected. She lowered her head so their lips would meet – upside down, yin and yang. Her curls fell around them like a curtain, closing them in.

Malfoy’s lips curled into a smile when Hermione drew back. She placed her books on the table, the ones she had completely forgotten to return, then dropped her bag to the ground. Malfoy pushed the chair back and patted his lap, looking at her expectantly.

“Sit, Granger,” Malfoy said.

The string between them seemed to tighten, pulling her to him with force. She followed suit and draped her arms around his neck.

They had already gotten so familiar. 

Their eyes settled upon each other. Malfoy placed one hand on her back while the other burned on Hermione’s thigh.

“Why do you let Weasley touch you?” Malfoy asked.

“What?” Hermione asked back, confused.

“At lunch. He’s touchy,” Malfoy stated.

“Why do you care?”

“Because he’s not good for you.”

“What?”

“Granger, don’t play stupid. It doesn’t suit you.” Malfoy’s grip on her thigh tightened.

“Fuck you,” Hermione whispered.

“I’d much rather fuck you,” he drawled.

“You’re stepping way out of line. Don’t talk about Ron again.”

“Understood,” Malfoy said.

“Now–” Hermione said, pulling on his tie to bring his lips to hers, placing a gentle kiss on them before leaning back. “You need to be properly put in your place.”

“Oh,” Malfoy murmured. “Are you going to punish me for misbehaving?”

“Only figuring it out now, Malfoy?” Hermione taunted, standing up from her warm seat that was his lap. She took a step back. “You’re too spoiled.”

Even though her body ached at the retreating closeness to him, Hermione enjoyed their little spar far too much to give in so soon. It stirred something within her, a sense of control for the first time since… meeting Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. She hated herself for thinking like this, for resenting her friend for the years of fear and pain and losses that he had brought with him, even though she knew exactly that he wasn’t at fault, but at the same time she had been so very angry. Angry that, no matter what she had done, how much knowledge she had crammed into her brain, how well she had prepared for everything, she had lost all control.

Whatever Hermione and Malfoy had going on and how fucking obscene it was, she felt like she had the reins over it.

She took another step back.

“I want you to beg for it,” Hermione ordered, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Beg?” Malfoy echoed.

“Get on your knees. Crawl to me.”

“Remember, Granger,” Malfoy stood up from his chair. “I’ll do anything for you. I fucking mean it.”

“Then crawl, if you mean it,” Hermione said, drily, making even more room between them.

Malfoy tsked, shaking his head as he sank to his knees. “Do you get off on this?”

His palms connected with the floor. “Humiliating me because I used to humiliate you?”

“You deserve this,” Hermione said and shrugged.

Malfoy put a hand forward and drew a knee behind. He repeated the motions slowly. His tie dragged across the floor, his shoulder blades rolled beneath his shirt and his eyes were transfixed on her, looking at her like prey, moving like a tiger.

“You’re right, I do,” Malfoy said.

“Lower your head,” Hermione instructed.

Malfoy inhaled deeply before averting his gaze to the ground. He crawled the rest of the way like this before Hermione stopped him by holding out her foot to the top of his head.

She waited a few seconds before removing her foot. She crouched down to him and took his jaw into a tight grip, forcing him to look at her again. His lips parted slightly, a growl escaping before Hermione pressed herself against his mouth, not able to withhold any longer. Malfoy took this as approval to move out of his position by pushing her back, overpowering her by taking both her wrists into a tight hold and pressing them down to the ground. Their mouths immediately found their way back together.

Every kiss was timber, every sweep of their tongues was fuel, every nip at their flesh was a match igniting the fire.

“I fucking hate this,” Malfoy muttered in between kisses while his hands scavenged beneath her shirt for the touch of her bare skin.

“I fucking hate you,” Hermione replied before thinking. It was so easy to just tell him what she was feeling. Really feeling.

“Likewise, Granger,” Malfoy sneered, before pushing her shirt up and dragging his teeth on her stomach. “I hate that you’re the only one that I want.”

“I hate that I feel better when I’m with you,” Hermione panted.

She weaved her fingers into his hair as he whispered a protection charm from anyone who might find their way to this aisle.

“Let me be the only one who touches you, Granger,” Malfoy said as he bunched her skirt up around her hips. “I can feel it.”

He sunk his teeth into her thigh, making her yelp in pain.

“I can feel your repulsion when someone else's hands find you.”

He licked where he had bitten her.

“It’s wrong and you know,” Malfoy growled.

Before Hermione could realise the extent of his words, he pulled her knickers to the side, circled her entrance with two fingers, once, twice, three times, before pushing them into her, curling them upward and dragging them out again, then repeating the vicious cycle.

“Malfoy,” she whimpered.

Was it a prayer or a curse that dripped from her lips as she said his name? She wasn’t sure anymore.

Everything was burning and glowing and hot and ticking, ticking, ticking inside of her and the insatiable hunger scratched against her bones and flesh, against her nerves and her skin. She needed him – she would always need him – she didn’t know how she had survived without this antidote to her poisoning grief.

Malfoy groaned against her and when Hermione looked down again, she saw how he lapped against her, tongue flattened, his eyes closed and a hand gripping his bulge through the tightened trousers.

“Don’t,” Hermione hissed.

Malfoy paused and his sharp eyes hit hers when he opened them. He raised an eyebrow, questioning what she meant by that order.

“Don’t touch yourself,” Hermione said. “You’re not allowed to.”

“Yes, Granger,” Malfoy said, voice pathetically apologetic.

He continued to suck and circle, to tease and taste. Hermione pushed his head closer, deeper, needing him to melt into her, to feel only him.

“She’s being weird,” a voice nearby carried itself to Hermione’s ears.

Malfoy also seemed to have heard the voice as he stopped his ministrations, looking up at Hermione from between her legs. Hermione stared back with widened eyes, horror written across her features as she realised that her friend wasn’t where she thought he would be at this very moment.

“She’s having a hard time, Ron,” another voice responded.

“Fuck,” Hermione cursed, silently.

The voices grew louder, accompanied by footsteps.

“She was having a hard time, now she’s all – bloody normal – fuck, I don’t know! I have a bad feeling,” Ron replied.

Hermione could hear the desperation in every word.

“You’re worried because she’s getting better?” Harry asked, confused.

“They won’t see us,” Malfoy whispered, gently placing her knickers to their rightful place and covering Hermione with her skirt. “Just stay still.”

Hermione nodded.

Harry and Ron’s footsteps came even closer as Hermione and Draco laid on the old wooden floor. Hermione knew they’d be safe, but still, she held her breath as the shadows of her friends fell upon them when they walked past the aisle.

She stared at Malfoy, who was grinning like an idiot as he placed a kiss on her inner thigh.

Gods.

Hermione exhaled, thinking it would be safe to, but when one of the pair of feet stopped abruptly and the other followed suit, she froze again.

“That’s weird,” Ron said behind the wall of books. They stood on the opposite of the shelf next to Hermione and Malfoy.

“What is?” Harry asked.

“Don’t you think it smells like Hermione’s perfume?” Ron asked back.

Silence.

Malfoy’s brow furrowed.

“Never mind,” Ron said under his breath.

Chairs moved, books were set down on wood, quills started to fly over parchment.

Hermione let her head fall back on the floor in relief. Fingers ghosted across the sensitive skin of her thigh, making her gasp audibly.

She swatted at Malfoy’s hand out of reflex, which was met by him grasping her fingers tightly. She stared back at him, mouthing no and shaking her head.

Malfoy let his face sink between her legs defeatedly. He inhaled and as his breath exited hot and heavy, Hermione arched, pressing herself harder against him.

“Just be very quiet and I can give you what you deserve,” Malfoy whispered.

Hermione’s thoughts circled. They went from disgusted to euphoric –back and forth, back and forth – but her body ached for Malfoy. Ever since letting him in, a deep, animalistic longing for him had nested itself deep within her.

She nodded, a faint ‘yes’ dropped from her lips and when Malfoy slipped under her skirt, pulled her knickers to the side and swirled his tongue in menacing circles once more, she let her head fall back onto the floor.

When Malfoy added two fingers to the play, Hermione whined in response, clapping a hand over her mouth in shock.

“Did you hear that?” Ron’s voice came from the other aisle.

Malfoy paused and Hermione thought her heart was about to burst out of her chest.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Harry replied.

Malfoy’s fingers drove into Hermione, he curled them upwards and dragged them back out again. Hermione bit her arm, a weak attempt at stifling her moans.

“I keep hearing noises,” Ron said.

In a frenzy, Hermione hushed a silencing charm.

A chair scratched along floor boards and a pair of feet came closer causing Hermione to curse Malfoy’s entire entire ancestral lineage.

Ron rounded the corner and stood between the two rows of books right in front of them. His blue eyes scanned the area as Hermione held her breath and Draco, that devious little prat, continued his worship of her body.

“Weird,” Ron murmured before heading back to his study spot on the other side.

“Malfoy,” Hermione hissed under her breath. He didn’t react. “Malfoy!”

When he still didn’t bother to turn his gaze upward, Hermione grabbed a fistful of blonde hair and pulled him away from herself.

“Stop.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a second Hermione thought he’d ignore her again, but then he got on his knees, sat on his heels and held his hands up.

“Whatever you want, Granger,” Malfoy said, quietly and Hermione could see a strange glint in his eyes, something like – was it hurt? Anger? Disappointment?

He held out his hands and Hermione took them. He pulled her up and as they stood there, their hands clasped, he looked at her. He looked at her hair, twisted some curls into place, he looked at her lips and wiped away some lip gloss residue, he looked at her tie and tightened it.

“There,” Malfoy said, then stepped away to grab his belongings, tucking them away into his bag. When he walked past Hermione, he simply didn’t acknowledge her anymore.

Hermione, distraught and unsure of what exactly had happened, stumbled out the aisle and toward the exit. She faintly noticed steps echoing through the giant space. When she put a hand on the door, someone placed theirs on her shoulder.

“‘Mione,” Ron said. Concern wasn’t normally the first thing she’d see in his face, but as he looked down at her with his brow furrowed, she could tell he was worried.

“Ron,” Hermione said, giving him a smile.

“Is everything alright?” Ron asked, his hand moving down to her arm and squeezing it lightly.

Hermione looked at his hand for a second too long. He had large hands, slender fingers, and well-groomed nails. It fit the rest of his body. He was quite beautiful with those locks of ginger hair and freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheekbones. Cheekbones that had turned sharp and prominent throughout the years. Something twisted in her abdomen. Realisation burned like bile in her throat.

“Yes,” Hermione replied when she looked into his blue eyes. Eyes that she had known for years, eyes she had loved and felt safe with.

Hermione hesitated.

Slowly, she moved her hand to his and pulled it off her arm. Ron looked at her with confusion written across his face, but when Hermione intertwined her fingers with his, a grin overtook it instead.

“Care to walk me back to the common room?” Hermione asked.

“Need to let Harry know that I’m leaving – and grab my stuff. I’ll be right back,” Ron said.

He lifted her hand up and gently placed a kiss on the back of it before letting go of it and turning around.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Hermione scratched the back of her head, a sore attempt at stopping that ill feeling creeping up within.

Ron came back, ever so happy. Hermione offered her hand once more. His palm slid into hers and as they walked through the halls of Hogwarts, students shot them nosy looks and portraits whispered curiously about the two thirds of the Golden Trio walking hand in hand.

A dark alcove emerged as they rounded a corner.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“And Ginny didn’t even listen to what Harry had to say, I don’t know if they’ll last much longer if they don’t talk about what’s really going on–” Ron recounted their shortened visit in the hospital wing.

“Oh,” Hermione murmured.

The alcove was empty.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Yeah, I really thought they could work things out–”

It was pure instinct when Hermione pulled Ron into the alcove and pushed him against the study desk. He sat down on the surface, surprised at the ambush. As Hermione nudged herself between his legs, he put his hands on her hips.

He laughed softly. “Hermione? What is going on?”

Her eyes flitted between his. She didn’t know the answer to his question, she didn’t know what was wrong with her, she only knew that she needed to stop this burning itch in the back of her skull.

“Can we – not talk?” Hermione asked.

“Okay,” Ron said. “Fine. No talking.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around Ron’s neck and crossed her wrists behind it. He smiled gently, a shaky breath escaped him. When Hermione moved in on him and brought her lips to his, he tightened his grip on her hips. They were slow and careful with each other at first, but something switched when Hermione deepened their kiss. Ron reacted by pushing her back to stand up, slightly panting with an unfamiliar look on his face.

“Hermione–” Ron stammered. “Are you… are you sure you want this?”

Hermione’s blood rushed in her ears. She blinked at Ron, not sure what he wanted to hear.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It clawed at her, that strange thing that seemed to be hungry for something – or someone.

Hermione pulled on Ron’s tie, willing him into giving her another kiss. She could feel him against her, and then his hands were on her bottom, lifting her up and turning her around so she’d be the one pressed against the desk. Ron was strong, and had been getting stronger since Sixth Year as Quidditch had done him well. He wasn’t the lanky Weasley boy anymore. As he placed her on the desk to sit, he pulled away from her lips. He took her face into his palms, firm but with care. A soft flush had turned his cheeks rosy, his eyes glistened in the low light of the alcove.

“I thought we were just friends,” Ron said. There was no joke on the tip of his tongue, no grin on his face.

“We are friends,” Hermione said. She reached out to his tie again, this time loosening it.

“Friends don’t snog,” Ron said. He, in return, did the same to her tie.

“Most friends don’t cuddle on a regular basis, but we have been doing that for the entire last year,” Hermione said. The first button of his shirt opened with a flick.

Ron hummed, his gaze entirely fixed on her eyes. He leaned over her, reaching out for the desk and placed his palms on either side of Hermione.

When his shirt was entirely unbuttoned, Hermione explored his chest, the width of it, the ups and downs of his muscular abdomen, the curve of his collar bone.

Ron watched her with a smile, he tucked a curl behind her ear and caressed her cheek.

“You’re so beautiful,” Ron murmured, a thought said out loud. A sharp inhale followed when Hermione’s hand wandered to the waistband of his trousers, her fingertips drawing a line on his bare skin.

“Fuck,” Ron drawled. He leaned his forehead against hers. “You have no idea how much I want this – how much I want you.”

Hermione’s breath faltered at the sound of his voice, he spoke low and there was something primal in it. In all these years she had known him, she had never heard him like this.

She closed her eyes as she whispered in his ear.

“Then take it.”

Chapter Text

The air around them turned syrupy – heavy and sticky with Hermione and Ron’s quickened breathing. 

He pushed her down gently, her hair splayed across the desk while his fingers made her ready for him by circling in and out of her. It hadn’t taken much, Hermione had still been wet from Malfoy, and Ron had been eager to finally sink into her.

He hooked his arms under her legs, pulling her closer to the edge of the table and then–

“Fuck,” Ron hissed, her warmth gripping at him.

He closed his eyes, his face turned to the ceiling, his hips pumping.

Hermione watched.

She watched as she stood next to them, something she had never experienced before. She saw herself being fucked by her best friend, how he was losing himself, how she just – laid there. Like a fish. A dead fish. Gods, she hated fish. Why were they so slippery and slimy?

She remembered standing in front of glass, behind it was the artificially created reef of the aquarium. Her mother had asked her if she’d seen the turtles, but her eyes had been glued on the yellow scales with black and white stripes floating beneath the surface of the tank. The fish had died and no one had even noticed it.

Ron looked down and with a sharp inhale, Hermione was back in her body and stared up at him. His rhythm faltered as his eyes narrowed.

“Fuck,” Ron finally muttered, slipping out of her entirely. “Fuck, ‘Mione. What the fuck are we doing?”

Ron let go of her legs, stuffed his bits back into his pants and zipped his trousers. He buried both his hands in his hair, looking at Hermione like a sickly Victorian child, all pale and sweat glistening on his forehead.

He reached out to her skirt in a hectic frenzy and pulled it down to cover her up. Hermione propped herself up on her elbows. She watched him pace back and forth.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Hermione asked.

An ache in the back of her head pounded against her skull angrily. She rolled her neck in an attempt to ease the pain.

“Not like–” Ron said, waving his hand back and forth. “Not like this!”

Hermione looked away, because how could she possibly watch her best friend fall apart right in front of her? “Did I do something wrong?” she muttered.

“Of course not, ‘Mione!” Ron quickly crossed the space between them and took her face into his palms once more. Their eyes met again. “No, never. I just–” His eyes softened, calmness returning to his state of mind. “I like you. I like you more than a quick fuck in an alcove. This isn’t how I wanted us to be together.”

Hermione’s eyes welled up and she felt defeated and weak, because even though Ron should have felt right and he was the one she should be with, she had a lump in her throat and her mind on someone else.

“Okay,” Hermione whispered. “Let’s go back to our common room.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, his shoulders slumping.

They left the alcove, their secret tucked away within, and when Ron held out his hand to her, Hermione linked her arm with his, instead.

The pain inside her head was almost unbearable when she reached her bed, and when she slid under her sheets, coldness wrapped its tendrils around her body. She shivered and her teeth chattered as tears stung in the corner of her eyes. With a sudden clarity, she knew she could never have someone else.

Winter had always been Hermione’s favourite season ever since she was a little girl. Her parents used to take her to the frozen lake where they taught her how to ice skate. When the hills were covered with enough snow, they’d dust off the wooden sled that was kept in the garage the rest of the year, and go barrelling down the steep declines until Hermione’s hands were frozen and her socks drenched in melted snow. Christmas lights would light up their house, the warm and cosy bulbs blinking throughout the night, and she’d sneak down the stairs and lay on the sofa to watch them change colours until her eyelids were too heavy to keep open anymore. The next day, she’d always wake up in her bed, as if an elf had magically brought her back.

Yes, winter had always been her favourite season… until it wasn’t anymore. Because what was Christmas without her parents? Just a reminder of her failure.

It was the last match before the students returned home for two weeks to celebrate Jesus’ birth. Or whatever they believed in. Hermione didn’t believe in anything, anymore. There was only pain in believing, in hoping, in remembering.

“Come on, mate! We got to move!” Harry called through the common room.

Ron trotted over to him and Hermione waiting at the entry hole. Ever since their little escapade, he hadn’t exactly been the same. He seemed off, always late for everything, hanging in some thoughts above his head.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go,” Ron said.

“Don’t ‘yeah, yeah’ me, we need to warm up before the match or else Slytherin will fuck us in the arse,” Harry said.

“Whatever,” Ron mumbled.

“Is everything okay?” Hermione asked as they climbed through the portrait hole and out into the hall.

“Yup, all is perfectly okay,” Ron said, getting ahead of her and Harry.

Harry shot her a confused look, but remained quiet. He didn’t have the time to worry about Ron, who wasn’t unknown for being a little dramatic before matches.

“Wish us luck, Hermione,” Harry said when they reached the changing rooms near the stands. “We’re going to need it.” He side-eyed Ron, who marched into the room without another word.

“Good luck, Harry,” Hermione said, giving him one last hug before he vanished behind the door, too.

Hermione stood there for a moment, looking at it and wondering if Ron would ever return to his normal self. Maybe she needed to apologise? She huffed in frustration.

“Trouble in paradise?” A voice asked next to her.

She closed her eyes at the sound of it. It was warm, it was fire, it was life. It seeped into her skin, into her flesh and bones, it made her whole again. She wanted to reach out and touch the source of her remedy. She wanted to melt into him so she’d never have to feel like she did ever since he left her in the library.

“What do you want?” Hermione asked. Hurt swung in her voice, even though she didn’t want it to.

Malfoy moved closer. His scent reached her before he did, and when he stopped just inches away from her, her fingers twitched in desperation for her to finally touch him once more. He leaned in.

“You shouldn’t have let him fuck you,” Malfoy whispered.

Hermione froze. “What?” She asked, not daring to look up at him.

Malfoy tutted in disapproval. “I told you I can feel you, do you think you can hide from me?”

“What are you talking about?”

Malfoy closed the distance between them and took her cheek into his palm, then lowered his head to bury his face in the crook of her neck. Something he’d done before, something Hermione secretly yearned for all those nights since the library. 

Too many nights.

A sigh escaped her. A door opened. Blue eyes fell upon brown.

“What are you bloody doing, Malfoy?” Ron asked.

“Nothing that concerns you, Weasley,” Malfoy replied, coolly, looking up from Hermione’s neck. He didn’t let go of her cheek.

“‘Mione?” Ron asked, confused.

“Uhm,” Hermione stuttered. “It’s...” 

Hermione peeled Malfoy’s hand off of her, stumbling back a few steps, her eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them.

“I–err, need to–” Hermione tried to come up with an excuse. “The match– need to go–”

Ron huffed an even more confused ‘what?’, while Draco grinned at her. She turned and hurriedly walked away from the scene, too overwhelmed by it all. She didn’t dare to look back and just walked. The distance between the changing rooms and her grew, the biting wind cooled her hot face. She almost ran up the stairs to the stands until gasping for air, her heart pumping blood through her body furiously.

“Godric, Hermione,” Neville said when she sat next to him. “You look terrible.”

The blonde wizard sized her up and down. Hermione appreciated his honesty in most instances, but right now, she didn’t. She knew she had been looking even worse than when she started school, knew she had lost all she had gained after sleeping with Malfoy, but hearing it was… different.

“Thanks,” Hermione said

“Take this,” Neville said as he reached for his pocket. He held out some dark green leaves.

Hermione eyed the dried greenery with a sceptical look. “You walk around with dittany in your pockets?”

“It helps to chew it raw,” Neville said. “Trust me.”

Hermione opened her mouth and looked at him expectantly and when Neville hesitated, she raised her eyebrows. He put a leaf on her tongue and she chewed, then said, “My hands are freezing, I don’t want to take them out of my pockets.”

“You should really get that checked out,” Neville said.

The players started to take off the ground and fly some rounds to get warmed up. Hermione could make out Ron and Harry, deep in conversation as Ron gripped his broom tightly in one hand and waved around with his other hand.

“Get what checked out, Neville?” Hermione asked.

“Well, you haven’t been feeling well the last couple of weeks and you constantly say you’re cold,” Neville said, “You should go to Madam Pomfrey about it, just to be safe.”

Hermione chewed on the bitter leaf, moving it to the side of her mouth and swallowed her infused saliva. “You’re right. I’ll go see her.”

All players landed on the ground again, the captains of each team stepping forward to meet each other in the middle to shake hands.

Malfoy and Harry barely let their hands be intertwined before letting go of another as if they were both at risk of catching a disease otherwise.

Madam Hooch brought the silver whistle to her lips and with a shrill blast, the players took off. The match was on. Both Malfoy and Harry immediately rocketed upward, flying so high she could barely see them anymore.

The stadium roared – it had been the most anticipated match of the season – Gryffindor and Slytherin fighting for the leading spot on the board.

Hermione’s classmates cheered their team on with a chant. Their voices came together in vibration, they howled and they clapped in rhythm. Hermione’s face was turned to the heavens above, a trail of phthalo green catching her eye. Malfoy moved through the air at a neck-breaking speed, hunting the golden orb across the entire pitch, getting lower and lower until–

Malfoy hit Ron’s shoulder as he raced past him and charged to the ground.

Ron grasped his shoulder, contorting his face in pain. Part of the audience booed in disapproval. At the same time, Slytherin’s chasers got dangerously close to the rings, passing the Quaffle to one another and then, with a loud thud, sent it toward the goal farthest away from Ron. Hermione held her breath, the dittany still lingering on her tongue.

To her surprise, Ron moved as fast as lightning and hit the Quaffle with the tip of his broom, barely inches away from the goal’s metal ring. The Quaffle changed direction, Hermione’s eyes stuck on it, it spun and split the air as it flew and then–

“Malfoy!” Hermione yelled, but her voice drowned in the tumult of the stadium.

Malfoy hovered close to the ground – to his luck – when the Quaffle grazed his leg. The audience screamed and gasped at the close call. With the force of the ball almost hitting him, he was thrown off his broom and landed on the ground with a thud. Hermione was astonished when he picked himself up right away and stormed toward Gryffindor’s goals. Ron, on the other hand, angled his broom to the ground – no, at Malfoy.

“What are they doing?” Neville asked. He gripped the railing and leaned over it to get a better look.

Hermione swallowed the dittany, the clump clawing at her throat as it travelled down, her mouth now left dry. She had an idea what they were doing, of course she did, she wasn’t oblivious enough to not put one and one together.

“I have no idea,” she replied – because how could she explain it all to Neville? – her eyes glued on the scene that unfolded before the entire school.

Ron hurled his broom to the side after he stepped off of it, his leather boots imprinting the soft grass as he marched towards his target. Malfoy followed suit, taking long strides. He wasn’t intimidated, he was… eager. When they met in the middle, they exchanged heated words, Ron waved his hands around, pointing to his shoulder, to the chasers who attempted to score, then poked a finger into Malfoy’s chest.

Malfoy looked down, then up. Not at Ron – far worse – he looked at Hermione, pointed at Ron and grimaced as if he said ‘can you believe this guy?’.

All heads turned to Hermione, but before she could get really embarrassed about her new-found attention, they snapped back to the pitch.

Ron shoved Malfoy with both hands to the chest and Malfoy – laughed. He laughed in Ron’s face until he didn’t any more, swinging his left fist and connecting it with Ron’s jaw. A simultaneous gasp went through the audience, Hermione clapped both her hands over her mouth. Ron staggered back, holding his face in obvious pain and just as he shook the initial shock off and wanted to return the favour, Madam Hooch whistled the game off.

“It seems like the altercation on the pitch is leading to an abandonment of today’s match,” Zacharias Smith’s voice boomed, the commentator of the game not entirely sure about the situation either.

Madam Hooch’s face turned cherry-red as she scolded the boys, then gave another sharp whistle to signal the end of the match.

“It’s over, thanks to Slytherin’s team captain and seeker Draco Malfoy and Gryffindor’s keeper Ronald Weasley, who couldn’t help but behave like wild chimpanzees,” Zacharias commented. “It makes one wonder, what happened between the rivals? Was it really the game or was it something off the pitch? We may never know!”

The audience booed vehemently, but it was of no use, Madam Hooch wasn’t going to change her mind. The boys were escorted out, their teams following, both huddled together like swarms of bees, buzzing with anger, confusion and disappointment.

“That was wild,” Neville said, finally letting go of the railing and turning to Hermione, who sat there stock still. “Hermione?”

Hermione shook the disbelief off and sucked the chilly air into her lungs, her fingers twitched. A seething convulsion bloomed beneath her ribs. 

Anger.

Player after player left the changing room of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Hermione stood a few metres away from the door with her arms crossed, the temperatures sinking rapidly as the sun began to set. Her thoughts circled, memories of the altercation replayed again and again.

When Zabini came through the door his eyes landed upon her, a mischievous glint in them. He stepped closer, leisurely swaying as he set a foot in front of the other. Zabini was a gorgeous man, undoubtedly – slender but strong frame, sharp facial features but with plush, soft-looking lips, and dark skin that glistened beautifully as he moved.

Hermione straightened her shoulders and raised her chin.

Zabini’s teeth flashed bright as he shot her a keen smile. “Quite the show, wasn’t it?” he asked as he stood before her.

Zabini, in all six and a half years of school they had together, had never – not once – talked to Hermione. She raised her brows in surprise.

“Must be a disappointment for you guys,” Hermione said, more blurting out the first thing that came to mind than trying to spark up a conversation.

Zabini shrugged. “Wasn’t a surprise, really. Draco was – let’s say – a bit agitated before the game. That’s never a good sign. Speaking of, he’s still in the showers, last one of us.”

“Uh–” Hermione muttered, a burning sensation creeping up her chest and throat, reaching the apples of her cheeks until she knew for certain that she was flushed with crimson.

“Bye, Granger,” Zabini said and gave her a cheeky wink before sauntering his way back to the castle.

Hermione waited until he disappeared in the distance, then waited some more just for good measure. Zabini was right, after him, the door stayed shut and apart from Draco, all of the players had left. She walked over to the door and as her palm connected with the old wood, it opened quietly. She quickly slipped between the crack and was hit by a wall of hot steam, the water from the showers hung in the air heavily and instantly made her feel uncomfortable in her thick clothes and coat. The room was a square with a passage on the opposite wall of the door. Both to the left and right, benches and clothing hooks lined the walls so the players could get out of their robes and into their Quidditch uniform. Hermione had never been in these rooms, it was an alien territory, one she didn’t feel right to intrude. Still, she found herself giddy from excitement – a sensation she only experienced when faced with a certain Slytherin.

The sound of water hitting the tile floor came from the back. Sweat clung to her skin, her hair was heavy and Hermione couldn’t bear to stand in there like that for one second longer. Hastily, she shed her coat.

Still, it was too hot.

She got rid of her pullover.

Hermione stood before the mountain of fabric on the bench before her. Shoes and socks followed next and her trousers last, she didn't want to get them wet, after all.

Finally free, she traipsed her way through the passage and into the showers, where dark tiles lined the entirety of the space, with walls building shower stalls. The noise came from the one on the far left. She moved quickly now, her breath coming in short pants, her heart jumping behind her rib cage and making her awfully aware of the fact that Malfoy had this certain effect on her. Why, was still a big question mark in her mind. Did it matter, though, when he made her feel good, for once?

Malfoy’s back was turned to Hermione as he stood under the head of the shower. Water cascaded over his hair, already soaked and laying pushed back and flat on his head. His muscles tensed under his skin as he moved, his hands going over his face and hair again and again – slowly. He was enjoying it.

Then, he turned.

Hermione bit her cheek as she watched him stand there, naked and wet, vulnerable even because he didn't know she was watching him.

His eyes were shut. He let his hands run down from his chest and down over his abs. The knuckles of his left hand were already bruised red, a consequence of his outburst on the field – which reminded her of why she was actually here. Even though a welcoming (and big) distraction had presented itself to her.

“Malfoy,” Hermione said, holding her elbows in an awkward attempt to not appear so lost.

Malfoy didn't open his eyes.

“What is it now, Granger?” he said after a moment, running his hands over his wet hair again.

Hermione scoffed. “What is it now? Seriously? You punched Ron!”

“Sorry for hurting your boyfriend,” Malfoy said, then turned around again.

“He's not my boyfriend,” Hermione said, but Malfoy only replied, “Granger, if you want to hold a conversation in the shower, you have to get in the shower. I can't hear you.”

Again, Hermione scoffed. “Fine! Have it your way.”

She pulled on her top and tossed it to the ground, then unclasped her bra and stepped out of her knickers. Her nipples hardened from the gust of fresh air, the hair on her skin raised as she stepped closer to him and the droplets of water started to cling onto her. Malfoy stepped forward to make room, and once she stood under the shower head, he turned to her again. Hermione was met by his hands first, they tugged on her hips to get closer. His lips followed, Hermione could barely keep her eyes open from the stream of water pouring down, but when he kissed her, they instantly closed and a sigh vibrated through her. She wrapped her hands around his neck as they kissed. He was soft with her, but there was an immediacy in the way he pressed against her before they pulled apart again. Malfoy shielded her from the jet of water with his back as he looked down at her.

“My way, Granger? If I could have it my way, I'd call you mine,” Malfoy said, one hand behind her back pulling her close, the other curling around her throat just beneath her jaw. “Did it feel good when Weasley fucked you on the table?”

Hermione shook her head. “How do you know?”

“Why did you do it?” Malfoy asked. His erection pressed against her stomach, an awfully distracting feeling that made it difficult for Hermione to concentrate.

The ravenous scratch in the back of her neck seethed inside of her, burning her every atom, demanding to be satisfied.

Her hands moved down from his neck to his chest. He was breathing heavily.

“I thought it would help,” Hermione said, crossing her legs to ease the growing tenseness between them.

Malfoy's eyes followed the movement, a sparkle in them betrayed his hunger for her and his smirk confirmed it even more.

“Help with what?” he asked.

“I don't know why, but I need you.” Hermione moved her hands from his chest to his abs. “I feel starved without you.”

A triumphant smile crossed Malfoy's face, then he nodded understandingly. When Hermione wandered from his abs to the tip of his erection, he cocked his head to the side.

“Are you hungry, little Selkie?” he asked. “Do you need to be fed?”

Hermione looked up from Malfoy's hardness and nodded, her cheeks burning.

“On your knees then,” Malfoy ordered. “Open that impudent mouth for me.”

“Okay,” Hermione whispered, her voice drowning in the crash of the water.

She carefully got on her knees, the slippery tile pressing hard against her bones. Even though she hadn't been standing under the water for a while now, she wasn't cold. Quite the opposite, her bones and flesh burned, every touch of Malfoy was like a firework.

When she looked up, Malfoy was already pleasing himself with slow strokes. Hermione could have sworn that her mouth watered just from the picture that presented itself to her.

Malfoy tsked disapprovingly. “Didn't I tell you to open your mouth?”

Hermione obeyed. She parted her lips and stuck out her tongue to welcome him. Malfoy wrapped her hair around his free hand, then placed himself on her. She wrapped her lips around him and he pushed himself deeper with a groan.

“That's right,” Malfoy hissed. “Take all of me.”

He pushed further and just as Hermione's eyes began to water from the urge to gasp for air, he pulled himself out, just to plunge in again. His grip on her hair tightened, and as Hermione watched him close his eyes and lose himself, splashes of water rained down on her like holy water.

Only, it didn't make her holy. 

At all.

Chapter Text

The halls of the castle were silent. Only the crackling and snapping of burning wood sounded through the common room. Most students had returned to their homes for the holiday. Hermione hadn’t because she didn’t have a home anymore. She didn’t consider the Burrow her home, even though she had spent many of her summers there. Of course, Molly had invited her, but things with Ron were complicated, to say the least. She’d feel like an intruder. 

Grimmauld Place was also not her home, but she did have a room there – Harry had insisted on it. It was practical, located in London and close to St Mungo’s. But it wasn’t really a place to stay for two weeks during the most wonderful time of the year. 

“Hi, Hermione,” Neville greeted as he joined her on one of the armchairs facing the fireplace.

Neville had had the same train of thought, apparently, as he was the only other Gryffindor who stayed at Hogwarts.

Hermione looked up from her book and gave him a small smile. “Good morning. Did you sleep alright?”

Neville fluffed up a pillow with a sigh. “Yes, it’s just strange without Dean’s steady snoring.”

Hermione nodded. “It is… We could go to Grimmauld for a few days and visit our parents?”

Neville stared into the dancing flames, evaluating Hermione’s proposal until he said, “Yeah, we should, actually. I mean, they’re still our parents and it’s Christmas…” 

He got quiet again.

“Monday, okay? Let’s go on Monday and come back whenever we feel like it – even if it’s just for one day,” Hermione suggested.

“Monday,” Neville echoed. “Monday is alright.” 

The both of them stayed silent, listening to the breathing of the castle’s walls as snow floated outside the windows and reminded them of memories long lost.

On Monday, they made their way back to London. Neville had asked for Hermione to store his few belongings in her purse, the only luggage she liked to travel with since the war. Minerva sent them on their way via Floo, a privilege bestowed upon only the two of them. They landed in Grimmauld Place where two people were already waiting for them – unexpectedly so. Hermione had only told Harry that they were coming, and she thought he had joined Ron to go to the Burrow, anyway. 

But no, Harry was there in the sitting room. So was Ron, leaning on a windowsill. 

“Surprise!” Harry said in an unsure tone as he watched Hermione’s expression falter, climbing out the fireplace. “We thought you two might enjoy the company.”

Hermione smiled at him and gave him a hug. “That’s very thoughtful of you, but you shouldn’t have – it’s the holidays and Neville and I will be at St Mungo’s most of the time.”

Ron scoffed. Hermione turned to him. “What, Ronald?”

Ever since Ron had seen her and Malfoy share an intimate moment and their subsequent fight on the pitch, he hadn’t spoken to Hermione.

“Ron,” Hermione said as she walked over to him. He sat in the far corner of their usual spot on the sofa, but he seemed to be turning away from her the closer she got.

He didn’t meet her gaze when she halted beside him, so Hermione walked around and sat on the free spot next to him. Purple and green had bloomed on the right side of his face. Malfoy’s fist had caused enough damage to make the bruise cover Ron’s whole cheek and eye. Hermione cringed when she saw the popped blood vessels in his sclera.

Hermione couldn’t help but reach out to him with trembling fingers. Ron stopped her mid-air and hissed, “Don’t.”

“Let me help you,” Hermione whispered. “Please.”

Ron’s eyes flicked to her, anger burning in them. “Help me? Hermione… What did Malfoy do to you?”

Hermione’s heart jumped at the mention of the name. At the same time, she froze, her thoughts circling around Ron’s question and underlying accusation. Was she supposed to tell him the truth? Was it any of his concern? Somehow, it was. She had involved him the moment she pulled him into that alcove. They had had a silent understanding to remain friends, and she had broken it – indirectly because of Malfoy.

“He didn’t do anything to me, Ron–” she tried to explain.

“Are you sure? Because the Hermione that I knew wouldn’t have let herself be touched by–” Ron’s voice broke. He looked down and Hermione followed his line of sight. His hands were shaking. “Whatever is going on between the two of you… it’s… it’s not you.”

Ron stood and quietly walked away without looking back. Without giving Hermione another crumb of his presence.

It hurt.

Ron looked at Hermione from the windowsill, his arms crossed before his chest. “I told Harry you wouldn’t want us here, but he wouldn’t listen. Sorry for ruining your plans.”

Before Hermione could say something, Ron kicked off the windowsill and walked past them and out of the sitting room. His steps echoed through the empty hall as he went upstairs.

“What’s up with him?” Neville asked. His head snapped back and forth between Hermione and Harry. She stared at the spot where Ron had stood, Harry shrugged. “Err – okay. I need a nap. Hermione, call me when you’re ready to leave for St Mungo’s, okay?”

Hermione nodded. She walked over to the worn out sofa and let herself fall on it with an exhausted exhale. She closed her eyes. The cushions of the sofa sank some more when Harry joined her.

“Ron told me,” Harry said quietly. “About Malfoy.”

A hot flash went through Hermione’s body.

“Okay,” Hermione breathed. It was all she could say.

“I told him that it’s none of our business unless you come to us,” Harry said. Hermione’s eyes flew open when she felt his hand on her thigh, squeezing softly before he let go and stood up again. “He just needs some time.”

Harry smiled down at her. “See you tonight for dinner?”

Hermione gave him a cheeky smile back. “We’re bringing back takeout. No burnt chicken tonight, please.”

Harry held up his hands and laughed. “Fine by me!”

St Mungo’s hadn’t changed in the few months since Hermione had last been there. It was still the same old sterile hospital, with the same old Healers and her same old parents, who still couldn’t remember much. Her mother sat at the window when Hermione entered their room. Two separate beds with a shared bathroom was all they had to their name now. Her father dozed in his bed, covered by the quilt Hermione had made during the many days she had spent here with them.

Her mother’s gaze lingered on Hermione for a second when she entered the room before returning to the large oak tree outside of the window.

“Hello, Mrs. Wilkins,” Hermione greeted with a soft voice. Hermione’s heart shattered every time she had to use the made up last name she had given them during war. The Healers had strongly recommended doing so. Her parents hadn’t reacted well when she tried to call them by their real names. It wouldn’t help with the recovery, the Healers had said.

Sometimes she wondered if the Healers were doing the same with her. Not telling her the truth so they could ease her into the inevitable truth of their helpless situation.

“Hermione, how are you?” her mother asked, absentmindedly. “You haven’t come to visit for a while.”

“School started. I go to boarding school in Scotland, that’s why I wasn’t able to come,” Hermione explained.

The daylight seeped through the large window and illuminated her mother’s pale face. Her hazel eyes sparkled as they fell upon Hermione once more. She sat down opposite her mother on the chair that was usually occupied by her father. She neatly folded her hands in her lap.

“Oh, I remember. You’ve told me, haven’t you?” her mother asked.

Hermione smiled gently and nodded.

“It’s almost Christmas,” Hermione said and her voice started to tremble. “Are you going to celebrate?”

Her mother’s eyes lit up for a fraction of a second. Hermione – as always – hoped that some sort of memory came back to her. Maybe a memory of her little baby crawling on the carpet between presents, or of her husband kissing the tip of their noses before going to bed, or of the snow painting everything white and making her daughter squeal in delight when she made snow angels in their garden.

“Yes! It’s bingo night on Christmas Eve,” her mother said instead.

Hermione’s hope died as quickly as it had bloomed. She pressed her lips together in a thin smile. “That’s nice.”

Hermione sat at the window with Mrs. Wilkins until the sun sank to the horizon and the night announced its stay. She met up with Neville outside St Mungo’s, who looked equally as drained as her, but when he saw her, he beamed. They exchanged their encounters with their parents, nodding and listening and understanding each other like no other. Even a few laughs escaped them as Neville recounted the way his father danced his way out of the room when Neville wanted to say goodbye. Apparently, something about saying goodbye didn’t sit well with Mr. Longbottom, leading him to find a new way to avoid it every time his son came around.

As had become habit during their summer break, they stopped by at a small restaurant. Waiting for their food, they fell quiet, each swimming in memories and emotions of their own.

It wasn’t until they reached the steps to the door of Grimmauld Place when a familiar ticking made itself noticeable in the back of Hermione’s head.

That night, sleep was not a friend of Hermione’s. She tossed and turned, she counted from a thousand backwards, she meditated. The unease within her only grew stronger. She had become familiar with the feeling, knowing exactly that the only way she could make it go away was through him. With him.

Malfoy.

Her nails dragged through the hair at the nape of her neck as she scratched at the irritating ticking. Every time she had been with Malfoy, it had vanished. First, for a few weeks. Then, for a few days. Now, it had only lasted for mere hours and had begun to come back with a vengeance. Her body was punishing her for putting distance between them. But Malfoy wasn’t here. She huffed in frustration as she got up and tip-toed her way down to the kitchen, illuminating it with a silent spell.

Tea would have to suffice. Maybe it would calm her nerves. As the kettle boiled and Hermione waited, a shuffle at her back made her startle.

“It’s only me,” Harry said as he entered the kitchen. “Sorry, I didn’t want to scare you.”

Hermione exhaled in relief. “Sorry, I – I feel a bit off, I guess.”

Harry stepped closer and leaned against the table just across from her. He cocked his head to the side, his gaze firmly set on her.

“Why do you feel off?” he asked.

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again and looked away. She thought about lying for a second, but something moved her to say, “The… thing with Malfoy. I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel drawn to him and when he’s not around, I feel… off.”

A heavy weight lifted from her chest as soon as she finally said the words that had been haunting her for months now. She looked up at Harry, who – to her surprise – didn’t look offended, disgusted, or whatever Hermione thought he’d look like when she would finally confess her feelings. Instead, he gave her an understanding smile.

“You don’t have to explain anything, Hermione. Not to me, not to Ron – not even to yourself. Feelings are feelings. Sometimes, they can’t be explained.”

Hermione hummed just as the kettle started to whistle, the water ready to be poured into her cup. She offered to make Harry some tea, which he thankfully accepted.

“What’s going on with you and Ginny?” Hermione asked as she prepared his cup.

The shuffling of Harry’s slippered feet indicated that he crossed the short distance to the counter. He emerged next to her.

“I think we want different things from our relationship,” Harry said, quietly.

He ran a hand through his unruly hair, making it even messier. He sighed.

“What does she want?” Hermione asked. She handed him his tea and their fingers brushed for a brief second. 

Harry and Hermione exchanged gentle smiles and quick gazes before Harry continued, “She wants to explore, I guess. See the world, play Quidditch. That kind of stuff. Which is fair, but I can’t be with someone who's not around. I mean, we go to the same school, but I rarely see her. I’m the only one who initiates dates…” Harry looked at the brown liquid in his cup, getting lost in thoughts that seemed to have been plaguing him for a while now.

Hermione’s heart squeezed. For Harry’s situation, but also for not having been there for him during all of it. She had been so consumed by her own problems that she lost sight of her best friend.

“And what do you want, Harry?” Hermione asked. She placed her tea back on the countertop and Harry copied the movement.

“I want to spend time with her and feel like she wants to spend time with me. I–” Harry paused. “I want to feel loved.”

The kitchen turned blurry as Hermione’s eyes stung from incoming tears. She quickly looked away and cleared her throat.

A warm palm settled on her cheek, a thumb swiping away a stray tear she hadn’t even noticed rolling down her face. Her eyes flicked up at Harry, who held her face for a moment longer. 

“It’s okay, Hermione. The things we want will find us, someday.”

In the morning, Neville and Hermione agreed on staying at Grimmauld one more night. They would visit the hospital in the morning and explore Diagon Alley with Ron and Harry in the afternoon. The next day, they would leave for Hogwarts to spend Christmas together at the castle.

The mind healing department at St Mungo’s was especially silent during the holiday. Hermione’s steps echoed through the empty halls as she made her way to her parents’ room. She knocked on the door three times, as usual, before entering.

“Oh, Hermione!” her father greeted her, this time awake and sitting at the edge of his bed. “Monica – I mean, Elisabeth, told me you came to visit yesterday. Shame I wasn’t awake, but today’s my lucky day; you came back!”

Her father had regained some memories during their stay at St Mungo's. Minor details, really, which made it even more confusing to piece their previous life together. As far as they knew, they had a tragic car accident and upon waking from an induced coma, they suffered from memory loss.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilkins,” Hermione said and placed a brown bag on his side table. “Fresh croissants – the ones you like from the bakery down the street.”

Her father gave her a big grin. “Oh, thank you, Rose. I should really watch what I’m eating, but I can’t resist a good French patisserie.”

Hermione’s chest tightened at the pet name that sometimes slipped out of him. Her father didn’t even notice it when it happened. Rose didn’t come from the flower, but rather from the Cadbury classic chocolate box Roses. As a dentist, he had been very strict when it came to chocolates, but he absolutely loved to have a box of Roses around for the casual sweet treat. Hermione, as an innocent five-year-old, didn’t understand the concept of “casual” and had stuffed her face with the entirety of the contents of the box. When he discovered her – covered in chocolate from head to toe – her father had broken out in a fit of laughter, lovingly calling her Rose ever since.

Trying to distract herself from the painful memory, Hermione looked around the room, but her mother was missing.

“Where’s Mrs. Wilkins?” she asked and sat down on one of the chairs by the window.

The brown bag crinkled as her father’s hand vanished inside to retrieve a croissant.

“The doctors came to do a scan,” he explained. “They think they might have found a way to restore parts of her damaged memory.”

Hermione clawed at the armrest, her fingers wrapping around the wood tightly. Her breath came in and out in staccato, leaving her light-headed.

“That’s great news,” Hermione uttered.

She didn’t like to get her hopes up as disappointment had followed too many times, but still, she couldn’t ignore hope bubbling up like a potion in a cauldron.

“Quite, quite,” her father said between bites. His eyes lit up and he pointed a finger at her. “I had a memory come to me in my dream!”

“Oh?” Hermione asked, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

Most of the time when her father said something along those lines, it was out of a commercial, from his former work as a dentist, or bits and pieces from his own childhood – but never from their lives before the war.

“Yes! A man, funky clothes, a minister of some sorts,” her father started to describe. “He said something about an act, I think…” He closed his eyes and furrowed his brows as if in deep thought. “An anti-purity-act…”

He laughed out loud. “I think it’s from a movie, never mind, love.”

Hermione forced a smile against the heavy weight of disappointment. Yet again, her longing had been in vain, leaving her with yet another wound to her heart.

Hope was a dangerous thing, after all.

Harry and Hermione entered Diagon Alley first with Ron and Neville trailing behind them. Noise exploded as soon as the passage opened. Witches and wizards crowded the alley from one side of the shops to the other. Most of the people were on the hunt for last minute presents, as it appeared from the many bags with wrapped boxes they were carrying.

“Where do you want to go first?” Harry asked and held out his elbow for her to hold on to. Hermione linked her arm with his.

“I need something from Flourish, you don’t have to come, though. I know you guys get bored there, so let’s meet up at Wheezes.”

The boys escorted Hermione to the bookstore and said their temporary goodbyes, apart from Ron, who kept his eyes strictly anywhere else but on her.

She had hoped he would warm up to her again, but as Harry said, he needed time. She shrugged to herself when entering the store, which was probably the most quiet one in the entirety of the alley. She inhaled the familiar smell of ink and paper, and dust settling upon the highest points of the shelves. This was, in some sad way, a kind of home to her.

Hermione didn’t actually need any books, she needed to stifle the noise inside her head. Browsing the aisles stacked with knowledge and stories was one way to relax and it always worked instantly. Gliding her fingers over the backs of velvety binds, reading the summaries and flicking through pages – all effective parts of calming her nerves.

While browsing the titles of the books in the British Magical History section, her hand wandered onto the nape of her neck. The draught from the shop door opening must have made her shiver, its cold air licking at the exposed skin. A sense of familiarity overcame her, a hint of peppermint encasing her before she turned around and was met by blackness – a silhouette clad in black shirt and matching jacket to be precise. Her eyes travelled up and up, before they met the grey gaze of Malfoy.

Hermione stumbled back and into the shelf, making the books rattle on impact.

“Careful,” Malfoy cautioned, steadying her. “Are you alright?”

Hermione blinked at him a few times, uttering, “You scared me.”

Malfoy’s hands lingered on her shoulders.

“I didn’t want to scare you, excuse me,” he purred.

They stood there for a moment, looking at each other as if they’d never seen one another, a new shyness overcoming the both of them. But then, just as quickly as it came, it made way for a whole other feeling.

Malfoy pulled her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. Hermione felt his strong back under her palms as she reciprocated the hug, taking a deep breath.

Everything fell from her – the entire weight of the past few days. Peace spread inside of her, warm and sweet like a promise.

“I’ve missed you,” Malfoy mumbled into her hair as he buried his face into the crook of her neck and inhaled her scent.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Hermione said. Telling Malfoy the truth was easy, even if it meant to be vulnerable.

“What were you up to? You were so sad,” Malfoy asked. “I almost went back to Hogwarts to check on you.”

“I visited my parents at St Mungo’s. They – they don’t remember me,” Hermione said. “They don’t remember anything.”

Without warning, everything inside of her broke loose. All the sadness she had tried to bury deep inside of her burst open in floods of tears and heaving sobs.

Malfoy held her through all of it. He stroked her head and whispered promises to look after her, to never leave her side.

“I’ll find you the best Healers,” Malfoy vowed when all rivers of tears had finally dried out.

“What?” Hermione asked, her cheeks spotted red and eyes burning from salt.

“I have enough Galleons in my vaults, I’ll find you true luminaries in their fields, who can actually help,” Malfoy said and took her face into his palms, a gesture Hermione had come to associate solely to him. “You shouldn’t be sad during the holidays. Or ever.”

“I can’t possibly accept,” Hermione said, her eyes flicking between his.

Malfoy leaned in and brushed against her lips. “You must.” It was an order, one that Hermione couldn’t resist as soon as the words had been spoken.

They connected in a gentle kiss. It wasn’t ravenous. It wasn't impatient. It wasn’t a kiss just to feel flesh beneath – Hermione noticed the shift. It was a seed, planted in perfect soil. Watered by her tears, nurtured by his words.

It was the beginning of something new.

Hermione looked inside the big display window of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, shielding her eyes with a hand and leaning against the smooth pane. Sure enough, Ron’s fiery hair stood out from the sea of busy shoppers.

She stood back, regarding her reflection. A rosy pink tinged her cheeks and her hair looked freshly mussed. Nevertheless, she deemed herself fit to enter – any suspicions could be explained by the biting winter wind.

As she entered the shop, noise flooded her senses. Kids shouting to one another about something they’d found, teenagers giggling as they traded love potions, adults exchanging ideas for the uses of their new found gadgets. Feet stomping, hands grabbing, shoulders touching. The shop was alive and filled to the brim.

Hermione made her way through the packed shop and announced her presence with a, “Found something?”

Ron turned his head and looked down at her, then raised his brow. Hermione expected him to turn on his heel, or even just straight up ignore her – but he didn’t. Instead he stared at her.

His eyes jumped from her burning cheeks to her disorderly hair.

“Did you find it?” Ron finally asked.

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Find what?”

“The book,” Ron said as his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“Oh – no, I didn’t actually.”

“Shame,” Ron clipped, turning away from her and redirecting his attention to a bottle of everlasting water. “You looked for ages.”

Hermione nodded as her face grew even hotter, memories flooding her brain and making her knees weak. 

“You should come visit me at Malfoy Manor,” Malfoy said as he leaned against the bookshelf and looked at her with a cheeky glint in his eyes.

A laugh escaped Hermione. “Are you serious?”

Malfoy smiled. It took Hermione aback, to see him smile with such sincerity. It complimented his face in quite a breathtaking way – she wished she had witnessed him being happy more often.

“I am,” Malfoy said. “Only if you want to.”

“What about your mother?” Hermione asked, uncertainly.

She couldn’t believe she was actually considering his offer.

“She’ll be fine with it. She hasn’t left her room much ever since my father was sentenced.”

Malfoy looked into the distance, the smile fading for a second before it made room for a smirk instead. “Think about it, but don’t leave me waiting for too long, Granger.”

Hermione looked down at her shoes, a sudden nervousness creeping up as the blood rushed through her veins and her heart hammered against her ribs.

“Are you asking me on a date?” Hermione said, her voice quiet.

“No, a date would be me taking you out somewhere,” Malfoy said, stepping closer, towering over her. “I don’t ask my dates to come to the most private place there is to me. We’re way past dates, don’t you think?”

“Then what are you asking me?” Hermione shook her head slightly.

“I’m asking you to stay with me,” Malfoy said. He placed his hand on her cheek and stroked it with his thumb. It was enough to make Hermione’s breath hitch. Malfoy’s gaze wandered from her eyes to her lips when he continued, “I want you to myself. It is all I can think about.”

The magnetic pull between them vibrated. The constant ache for Malfoy only grew the longer Hermione withheld from indulging in him. A kiss wasn’t enough, that much she knew, but they were only shielded from the rare customer finding their way up to the history section by two book shelves.

“Tomorrow,” Hermione said under her breath. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close.

“Tomorrow?” Malfoy asked back and grinned.

“Yes,” Hermione whispered. “I’ll come to Malfoy Manor.” 

They intertwined once more, this time their kisses weren’t as soft or as innocent. This time, Malfoy’s greed for Hermione poured into every swipe of his tongue and every touch of his hands.

“Hermione!” Harry called and waved a hand in front of her face.

Hermione’s eyes fluttered, she shook the memory of Malfoy off and put on a smile. 

“Sorry,” Hermione said. “Did you ask me something?” 

Harry grinned at her with a knowing look. “Are you ready for lunch?”

Hermione nodded.

She was indeed very hungry.

Chapter Text

There was something about mornings that Hermione cherished deeply. When the stars vanished and the rising sun kissed the sky in pastels, her sorrows seemed to also slip away. Some nights she would wait at the window just to watch the night give in to dawn.

Hermione blinked the remaining sleep away and stretched in her bed at Grimmauld. She turned and glanced at Ginny's empty bed on the other side of the room.

It was tomorrow. The day that Hermione would go to Malfoy Manor. She wondered what Ginny would have said if she knew what Hermione was doing. Or rather, who.

Probably something along the lines of: “Bloody Merlin, are you insane? Did that bastard Imperius you?”

Hermione grinned, stretching one final time before heading to the bathroom to shower. Towel and fresh clothes in hand, she stepped into the corridor while a tall figure with ginger hair passed in the adjacent hall.

Ron’s head peaked around the corner, a smile hushing over his face when he saw her standing before the bathroom door.

“Morning,” Ron said and disappeared before Hermione could reply.

She smiled to herself as she entered the small bathroom. The rusty taps croaked angrily when she turned them on. Water blasted out of the make-shift shower head mounted on the wall with a little sticking charm. Hermione climbed into the tub and stood underneath the stream for longer than needed, her mind wandering to stormy eyes and big hands. To demanding lips and possessive growls.

“It appears the only way I can find you is when you’re around water.”

Malfoy’s voice rang through her mind. Her breath faltered as she thought of him between her thighs. She squeezed her eyes shut as water poured over her. Her stomach flipped as memories of Malfoy’s erection pressing against her core set her body ablaze. She reached down, her fingers gliding between her legs in such a familiar way. She sighed at her own touch while Malfoy stood before her in her inner eye. She remembered kneeling on slippery tiles, the way his hand had woven into her wet curls. How he had felt pushed hard against the back of her throat.

Hermione stifled a moan, her fingers circling around her most sensitive spot. She was a needy mess, desperate to feel Malfoy upon her again.

Her thoughts wandered to Malfoy lapping at her on the floor of the school’s library. How his cold eyes pinned her down while his tongue teased her. Hermione’s movements grew wilder, more tense – she danced along the brink of release.

“Take all of me.”

Take. Take. Take.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Even though Hermione tried her hardest to finish, something wasn’t right. Her fingers were not his, the heat of the shower was nothing compared to his tongue pressed against her. She let out a frustrated grunt before turning the taps off. There she stood – dripping, upset, and pathetic.

“Good morning!” Harry chimed as Hermione entered the kitchen. He still wore his pyjamas – a white, tight t-shirt and low-sitting trousers in Gryffindor red, of course. Hermione took a second look when he turned to grab a cup of tea for her. He had become rather fit since summer and filled the – once loose – t-shirt out quite nicely.

“Morning, Harry,” Hermione replied, not quite as enthusiastically, but with a gracious smile.

“Ready to head back to Hogwarts?” Harry asked just as Neville came down the stairs and joined them in the kitchen.

“Morning, Neville,” Hermione greeted.

“Good morning,” Neville said, stifling a yawn.

“About that, Harry – and Neville – I’m visiting a friend today and staying for the night–” Hermione started to explain before she was interrupted.

“A friend?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Don’t you dare leave me alone on Christmas,” Neville intervened, pointing a sachet of instant coffee at her.

Harry snickered while handing over a cup of tea to Hermione.

“Thanks, Harry – I would never, Neville! I’m only staying for the night. I’ll be back for Christmas Eve. Promise.” Hermione ignored Harry’s inquiry skillfully.

Neville nodded, satisfied with Hermione’s answer. Harry sat down at the table across from her and gave her a big grin, one she knew exactly what it meant. She shook her head at him in a manner of saying “what?” and Harry mouthed back “nothing”. Before Ron entered, he even winked at her with that cheeky smile of his. Hermione laughed into her cup, trying to hide her amusement.

“What’s up?” Ron asked, side-eyeing Hermione as he walked by.

Hermione was surprised at the change of heart he – apparently – had, since two days before. She had expected for him to take longer to come around. As she watched him pour milk over his cereal and take a seat next to Harry, a shy smile hushed over her face. Maybe there was a chance at returning to normalcy, after all.

The boys left Grimmauld after lunch, hugging Hermione and asking if she would be okay on her own. Hermione nodded, giving them a reassuring smile and repeating what she had said before. 

“I’m not going to be on my own – I’m visiting a friend, remember?”

There was no need to worry. She had never given them any reason to question her judgement. She breathed a sigh of relief when the emerald flames took them away one by one, finally free to stop the charade. Hermione had been feeling like she was sitting on needles the entire day. Her mind had been only on one objective; going to Malfoy Manor as quickly as possible. Her bones grated against each other, her muscles ached, the ever-incessant scratch in the back of her head a constant reminder of a need she couldn’t explain.

Even though she wanted to be able to explain it. Hermione had laid awake the night prior – she knew something had happened to her. She just couldn’t put her finger on what.

“A Promise Vow can be added to Marriage Rituals if desired. Connect the vein to your hearts by holding on to your partner’s left hand. Speak your true intentions. The ritual can only be completed by both parties’ will and if their emotions are aligned.”

No, that wasn’t it.

“By making a doll with the subject’s hair, the keeper will have the power to inflict pain to the subject by harming the doll.”

Not that, either.

“Love Potions vary in effectiveness and longevity, but they have been used to make a person obsessed with the giver of the potion for many centuries. However, even with the most powerful ingredients, no potion has ever been able to emulate true love.”

Almost? But still not the answer Hermione was looking for.

It had taken several hours of reciting academic texts before abstract dreams overtook her brain. Dreams of blood rituals and glowing threads of magic wrapped around her wrists. Of grey eyes and whispered runes.

Hermione needed to see Malfoy, for more than one reason. She grabbed her purse and entered the Floo, the powder seeping between her clenched fist.

One breath in for four seconds.

One breath out for seven seconds.

Her hand trembled as she held it out in front of her. She cleared her throat. Two words would take her to him, just two simple words – still, her heart raced at the thought of actually saying them. 

“Malfoy Manor.”

Maybe she knew that she’d come to regret them.

Green flashed before her eyes when the flames engulfed her. A dragging and tugging, stretching and bending, and then she stood in the Floo parlour of the Manor she had longed to forget.

Slowly, she placed a foot on a tile of black marble. The sole of her boot connected with it soundlessly. The rest of her body followed, stepping out of the Floo entirely. While dusting herself off, she dared to look around. There were two grand arched windows on the wall to the left of her and a crystal chandelier hung from the ornamented ceiling. A velvet sofa in a deep shade of blue stood by the right wall with an accompanying coffee table. It was probably considered small compared to the rest of the rooms in the manor, but to Hermione, it seemed rather pompous just for a Floo parlour. 

Opposite of Hermione, a double winged door with intricate carvings swung open.

Hermione expected Malfoy to be the one to welcome her, but instead, her eyes flicked down to a small creature with pointy ears and googly eyes.

“It is Jean-Pierre’s pleasure to meet Miss Granger,” the elf said and took a deep bow.

Hermione curtsied out of reflex and said, “Pleasure to meet you, too, Jean-Pierre.”

Jean-Pierre. What a posh name for an elf. Hermione wondered if Malfoy had given him the name – and why?

The elf smiled and gestured with his bony hand to the door. “Would Miss Granger be so kind and follow Jean-Pierre?”

Hermione nodded.

“Very well,” he said and walked out, turning right into a long hall.

They were at the very end of it, plenty of windows lining the entirety of the left side. They passed just as many doors until they reached the mezzanine of the Manor. Hermione glanced down to the entrance hall as they walked past the wooden railing. A jolt of realisation hit her. She remembered being dragged through that very hall and into the adjacent drawing room. Her skin pricked as a cold shudder ran down her spine, flashbacks of terrible pain overcoming her. Her heart stumbled, her throat tightened, but Hermione swallowed the creeping dread of panic – like she always did.

Jean-Pierre led her up a flight of marble stairs, down another hall, and stopped before a set of white double-winged doors. With a snap of his fingers, Hermione’s coat, purse, and shoes were gone.

“Your belongings will be waiting in Master Draco’s room,” Jean-Pierre said upon seeing Hermione’s confused look.

The elf placed his hand on the door and a gust of magic rippled through the air – the wards reacted to the elf. The doors opened silently and Jean-Pierre stepped to the side, gesturing for Hermione to enter. She stepped into the foreign room and turned around to where Jean-Pierre stood. She thanked him for his assistance and with a smile, he snapped his fingers and disappeared.

“Granger,” a low voice rasped.

Hermione immediately closed her eyes as she let the sound of Malfoy’s voice wash over her. It was enough for her to sigh in relief.

A click indicated the doors closing. Warmth on her back indicated Malfoy being close. Very close.

Hermione let her head fall back and it landed on his chest. An arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush to his body. The other snaked around her chest, his big hand fitting perfectly around her throat. Malfoy nestled his face in her hair, right at her ear, and inhaled deeply. As he exhaled, his warm breath caught in her curls and crashed against her skin.

“You came,” Malfoy purred. He tightened his grip, pressing himself against her. Hermione bit her lip and arched her back.

“Did I have a choice?” Hermione asked, breathy.

Malfoy hummed, the tone vibrating on her back.

“You always have a choice, little Selkie,” he said, his fingers dancing along the hem of her shirt, sending waves of excitement through Hermione.

“Prove it,” Hermione said, holding back a whimper as he continued to caress the sensitive skin underneath her shirt. “Let go of me, then.”

Malfoy didn’t hesitate to retreat.

Hermione turned around and finally laid her eyes upon Malfoy. His hair was mussed, his eyes darkened. The black, fine cotton jumper set a stark contrast against his pale skin. Beneath the fabric of his dark grey slacks, Hermione could see the outline of his hardness. She swallowed drily at the sight and looked back up again. Malfoy’s grin told her that she had been caught; of course she had been. It was abundantly clear that Hermione was a mess, a needy little mess.

Hermione needed Malfoy.

Now.

She quickly looked around his room for the first time since entering it. Opposite of where she stood, another door led somewhere else. The entire left side of the room was covered by bookshelves, the right by large windows. Beneath them, a small table with two chairs invited for late afternoon tea and reading. The four-poster bed stood between the other door and the windows, and to Hermione’s right, a dresser completed the room.

Hermione’s eyes flicked back to the bed. It was huge, opulent, and perfect for tying someone up to the posts.

“On the bed, Malfoy,” Hermione ordered and sternly pointed a finger toward the furniture.

Malfoy’s grin vanished as he walked past Hermione and sat on the foot of his bed.

“Arms up,” Hermione said and raised her wand.

“Are you going to curse me, Granger?” Malfoy asked, his arms raising.

Hermione’s magic snaked out of her wand in glowing tendrils. They licked against Malfoy’s skin which earned Hermione a raised brow, then enveloped his wrists. The magical rope extended to the posts on either side of him and fastened itself around them. With a sharp gesture of Hermione’s wand, the slack was taken in and Malfoy’s curiosity turned into surprise. She let her wand glide out of her hand. It landed on the dark wooden parquet with a soft thud.

A few steps closer, Hermione stood before Malfoy. He looked up to her, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed, his hair falling away from his face. Hermione took his face into her palms. His lips parted slightly as his breath grew shallower. Their eyes locked in.

“What have you done to me?” Hermione finally asked, even though she wanted nothing more than to be with him. To drink from his antidote, to bathe in the warmth he exuded, to surrender her pain to him. Her mind, however, still needed an explanation. The question had etched itself into her, it was almost as unbearable as being away from Malfoy. She had come to the conclusion that someone had messed with her. Considering Malfoy was the one profiting off of her new found inclination toward him, it was obvious that he had to be responsible for it.

A sudden flash of confusion hit Malfoy’s face – just for a second, but long enough for Hermione to catch it. “I haven’t done anything,” he rasped.

Hermione let go of his face and instead of backing away, she straddled Malfoy. She placed a hand around his throat and buried the other in the hair at the nape of his neck. The blood in his veins rushed beneath her skin, pulsating in rhythm with his rapid heartbeat. She tightened her grip. Malfoy groaned – the line between pain and pleasure blurring – and his eyes flew shut. Hermione brought her lips to his right ear.

“I don’t like it when you lie,” she hissed.

Malfoys chest heaved while his hips bucked, pressing himself harder against her.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy ground out between clenched teeth, his eyes flitting between hers. “I’m telling you the truth. I haven’t done anything to you–”

Hermione squeezed his throat.

“You may speak again when I’m done with you,” she said tersely. “Understand?”

Malfoy nodded. Hermione smirked.

She slid off his lap. With a quick Accio, her wand was back in her hand and another flick of it made Malfoy’s clothes vanish. His erection sprung up from the sudden absence of confinement. It twitched at the touch of her hand roaming up his thighs.

Malfoy inhaled sharply. His arms jerked against his binds, but it was no use. Hermione's magic wouldn't give. His abdomen lifted and sank as he took rapid breaths, his eyes fixed on Hermione.

“Do you feel it?” Hermione asked. “The way our bodies are attuned to each other?”

Hermione moved her hands upward and over his well defined abs and chest. Over the silvery lines that a furious spell had left behind. Malfoy sighed. He closed his eyes again.

“There is something so special–” Hermione drew a line over the jugular vein of his neck. She grabbed his jaw roughly and his eyelids sprung open. She held his face in place so he’d look at her. “About magical connection.”

Hermione could feel her heartbeat in her throat as she spoke. Her eyes narrowed as she moved closer to Malfoy’s face.

“Whatever happened to us – to me – I’ll figure it out, Malfoy,” Hermione said, her voice sharp and cold. “But first, I’ll have my fix.”

Hermione let his face go and climbed off of his lap. She pulled her jumper over her head, got rid of her t-shirt, opened the zipper of her trousers and turned. She slowly dragged them down and over her bum, bending at the waist to give Malfoy a spectacular view. He growled in desperation when he realised the missing knickers. Clothes gone, Hermione turned back and walked over to him.

She turned his face up with a finger under his jaw and gave him her sweetest smile.

“Be a good boy and don’t come until I say so, will you?”

Malfoy nodded, this time more frantically.

Hermione returned to straddling him. She took his length into her hand and slicked it with her own arousal. Malfoy tried to press himself against her more as a muffled “Fuck…” escaped him. She paused and gave him a scolding look.

“Did I give you permission to speak?” Hermione asked tauntingly.

Malfoy shook his head no.

“Don’t talk, then,” Hermione said at the same time as she sat on his hardness, taking him inch by inch. 

Malfoy’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and a deep moan escaped him.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Hermione hissed. “I want you to see what you’ve turned me into.”

He obeyed, but by the way his eyebrows furrowed yearningly, muscles strained against the magical ropes, and how his hips met her every move, he was fighting his inner demons.

Hermione put her feet on either side of him on the mattress and started to work herself on him in a frenzied tempo, holding on to his shoulders and digging her fingernails into his flesh. Malfoy leaned in and kissed her chest, tried to take bites of her, longing to taste the salt on her skin. Hermione let go with one hand and ventured down to her most sensitive spot. She circled around it just as she had done earlier beneath the shower.

Except this time, it was enough to make her explode. Her walls tensed around his erection, they squeezed and demanded for him to come, too.

“Granger–” Malfoy panted. “Please…” He nipped at her again, a weak attempt at extinguishing his plea.

Hermione continued her movements, growing even more rabid. “Use your words, Malfoy.”

Malfoy hissed and squirmed beneath her. He stared at her, admiration in his eyes as he asked, “Can I please come, Granger?”

Hermione gave it another two slow bounces before answering, “Yes.”

Malfoy shuddered beneath Hermione as pleasure rippled through him. Hermione watched him throw his head back and groan – eyes fixed on hers, lips parted, his skin glistening. Even while coming, he was beautiful.

Their rutting died down until Hermione let herself collapse onto him, but not before ending the confinement spell. Malfoy wrapped his arms around her and dropped back on the mattress with her.

Their breaths relaxed, their bodies turned buttery and soft, and Hermione could finally feel her aches vanish. She was floating, her head turned quiet again. Malfoy tilted her head up and slowly placed a sweet kiss on her lips.

“You’re absolutely maddening, do you know that?” Malfoy purred as his head sank back on to the bed, closing his eyes.

Hermione didn’t answer, her own eyelids too heavy to keep open anymore. Even sleep hadn’t felt good enough without him and she had become so very exhausted.

Hermione woke up to the late afternoon sun painting the sky a deep orange. Snow danced in front of the arched windows. She turned to see Malfoy sleeping soundly. His face was peaceful, something Hermione had never dreamed to be witness of. She took it in as if standing in a museum and admiring art. Malfoy being at his most vulnerable stirred something within her. The way his lips were slightly parted, how his chest moved in between soft breaths, how his body was draped only in linen.

She observed his slumber for a few more minutes before sliding out of the bed. A robe made of black satin popped into existence before her. She startled but plucked it out of the air, nevertheless. She slipped into it and almost fell over some matching slippers, which she graciously accepted, too. Must have been elf magic, Hermione concluded.

She sauntered over to the impressive windows and reached out. The glass felt cold beneath her fingertips. She watched the snow fall for a while. The Manor’s gardens were covered in white. 

After a while, she turned and eyed the wall of books across the room. Hermione should have known that Malfoy was a bookworm, him being a top student and all, but it still surprised her. She walked over to the shelf and read the titles.

Magical Creatures of the Americas

Runes: A Guide For Every Need

Hogwarts: A History

Hermione smiled upon seeing the familiar book; it had been a favourite for many years. She wondered if Malfoy ever read all of these books or if they were mere decoration.

When she reached the end of the shelf, she stood close to the second door of the room. Hermione’s eyes flicked to the bed; Malfoy was still asleep.

Her hand reached out to the handle and with a soft click, it opened. Hermione slid between the crack and softly closed the door behind her.

It was a study.

Fireplace to the left, big wooden desk in the middle of the room, and the windows overlooking the gardens on the right. A giant forest green carpet with intricate flower designs covered the entirety of the floor.

Hermione strolled around the study. She looked at the interesting little trinkets on the mantle of the fireplace; a golden egg adorned with what seemed to be sapphires, a photo of Malfoy as a boy with his parents, a butterfly with silver wings beneath a small glass enclosure.

She wandered over to the desk and sat on the pompous chair with leather worked into the arm rests. They were worn down in the middle in precise circles. Hermione placed her elbow on it and concluded that Malfoy must have spent a lot of time pondering here.

An almost closed drawer caught her eye. There was only an inch of opening, but the light hit the signatures of a document perfectly.

Hermione moved closer and tried to decipher the words she could make out.

“...as a condition of the Purity Act, he shall be irrevocably bound to the subject for the duration of his natural life.

With his signature, the defendant accepts the court order.

London, 23 July 1998

Chief Warlock and Minister for Magic

Kingsley Shacklebolt

Defendant

Draco Lucius Malfoy”

Purity Act? Hermione chewed on her cheek and flipped the name over and over in her mind, sure of having heard of it before. It hit her like a train barrelling down the track when her father’s voice rang through her memories. He had mentioned that very Purity Act.

In a trance, she opened the drawer and fished the document out.

Court Order No. 776: Draco Lucius Malfoy

Owing to the abundance of witness testimony, the fact that the defendant, Draco Lucius Malfoy, born 5 June 1980, was not of legal age at the point of the alleged crimes, and the emotional duress he had been under due the nature of the circumstances at the time, the Wizengamot has reached the decision not to sentence the defendant to Azkaban.

Instead of a prison sentence, the defendant is required to submit himself to the provisions of the Purity Act.

The defendant has been duly informed that compliance with the Purity Act will result in the dissolution of his “pure” bloodline.

Should the defendant fail to adhere to the conditions set forth, he shall be sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban.

Furthermore, the defendant has been formally notified that, as a condition of the Purity Act, he shall be irrevocably bound to the subject for the duration of his natural life.

With his signature, the defendant accepts the court order.

London, 23 July 1998

Chief Warlock and Minister for Magic

Kingsley Shacklebolt

Defendant

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Hermione’s vision went blurry as her heart jumped in a wild staccato beat. Even though she had never heard of said Purity Act, and even though she couldn’t quite understand what she had just read, she knew.

She knew it was the answer to all her questions.

She shot up from the chair so abruptly, it toppled over and landed on the carpet with a loud thud. She stormed back into the bedroom, where Malfoy had just woken up from the noise. He ran a hand through his hair and blinked at her.

“What happened?” he muttered, looking at Hermione with sleepy eyes.

Hermione halted before the bed and tossed the document at Malfoy.

“What is this?” Hermione hissed.

Malfoy’s eyes widened at the realisation of what she had stumbled upon.

“Why were you in my study?” Malfoy asked back.

“No – don‘t you dare! Answer my question!” Hermione growled through gritted teeth. Her face grew hot, her hands shook, and she could barely stand to look at Malfoy.

”It’s my deal with the Wizengamot,” Malfoy finally admitted. “The only way out of Azkaban.”

“I’ve gathered as much, Malfoy. I’m asking you one last time; what did you do to me?” Her fingernails dug into her palms as her fists clenched.

Malfoy’s eyes fixed on the bookshelf behind Hermione, his jaw clenched. He scoffed.

“Fine. Have it your way, Granger,” Malfoy flung back the sheets and got out of the bed, another black robe appearing out of thin air. He slipped into it with practised ease and walked around the bed, halting at the post next to Hermione. He leaned against it and looked at her. His gaze was hard and cold.

“We’re bound to each other by blood. Our bodies are connected through ancient magic. Some would call it black, even,” Malfoy said drily.

Hermione stared at him. Rage coiled inside of her. It clawed at her, writhing and seething, hot and poisonous, spreading through her veins, turning her heart into stone.

A soulless smile crept up on her face.

“Goodbye, Malfoy,” Hermione said and held out a hand. “Accio my belongings.”

Her purse and clothes flew out of the closet and into her hand.

“Where are you going?” Malfoy asked, alert swinging in his tone.

“As far away from you as possible,” Hermione snapped and stormed out of the room and down to the Floo parlour.

With a trembling hand, she cast the powder into the hearth and emerald flames took her back to where she had come from mere hours before.

She landed in Grimmauld, where the drawing room was almost dark now. Only a few candles illuminated the space.

“Hermione,” a surprised voice called out to her.

Hermione stepped out the Floo and saw Harry sitting on the sofa with a book.

“What are you wearing?” Harry asked, more than confused at the satin robe hanging from her body. He put the book aside and stood up to step closer.

“Harry…” Hermione whispered and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Harry didn’t wait to pull her closer. “What’s wrong?” he asked, quietly.

A sudden realisation of the magnitude of what she had discovered washed over her, leaving her shaking like a leaf on an autumnal tree.

“I don’t know–” Hermione uttered. “Don’t let me go, please.”

Harry tightened his hold. 

“I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Hermione and Harry stood in the dimly lit sitting room at Grimmauld Place for a small eternity. Intertwined, heads resting on each other, breaths taken and expelled in synchronicity. Hermione couldn’t stop shaking, her body screamed for someone else’s arms. Her mind – if she was being honest – too.

She couldn’t be honest. It meant losing control over herself, the one thing in the world she always had the reins over. It meant to give in to the mysterious magic that bound her to Malfoy. It meant that she’d surrender.

No, she wouldn’t be honest.

Harry’s voice finally broke the silence and brought her back from the darkening clouds in her mind. “What did Malfoy do?”

“How did you know I was with Malfoy?” Hermione murmured into his chest, still clinging onto him like a lifeline.

“I kind of put two and two together,” Harry whispered even though they were alone. Speaking at a normal volume seemed too violent at that moment. “Do I need to murder him?”

Hermione knew he meant it as a joke, but if she’d tell him what Malfoy had done, Harry would actually murder him. Even though Malfoy deserved punishment, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to tell Harry the truth. The thought of something happening to Malfoy brought her just as much pain as his absence.

“We had a fight,” Hermione half-lied.

Harry hummed. “Bad?”

Hermione nodded, choking back new tears that announced themselves with a stinging in the back of her eye sockets. “Wait,” Hermione said with a sudden clarity and pulled back to look at her friend. “What are you doing here?”

Harry pressed his lips into a thin line and dodged Hermione’s questioning look.

“Harry?”

He sighed. “I broke up with Ginny.”

Hermione’s grip on Harry’s shoulders tightened as a high-pitched “What?” escaped her. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

His mouth curled into a sad, crooked little smile. “It’s fine,” he said while his hands slid down her back and rested on her lower back. Hermione was painfully aware of their presence. “After our late-night conversation, I realised that Ginny and I need to discover ourselves outside of our relationship. And outside of war.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Hermione nodded. “So, what? Did Molly kick you out?”

Harry chuckled, his glasses reflecting the calming orange glow of the flickering candles around them. “No, Ginny actually wanted me to stay. I just didn’t really feel the Christmas spirit—”

Hermione gave him an understanding nod. They finally let go of one another, both too exhausted to stay on their feet any longer. The sofa called to them, soft and plush and worn-out. As they sat, Hermione eyed Harry, whose gaze was already set on her.

“What?” Hermione asked.

“Do you like Malfoy?” Harry asked, serious.

Surprised by the question, Hermione wanted to deny it out of reflex. She opened her mouth, paused, then closed it again. She had never thought about it. Now that she knew that they were bound together, she was almost sure that all of her feelings were just a mere product of magic.

She did like his attentiveness. How he never seemed to miss a detail. The way he let her have control. How he sought her out. How safe she felt with him. How he cared. He even wanted to help her parents.

Was that fabricated, too?

“I don’t really know how I feel, Harry,” Hermione admitted quietly.

“It’s alright, we don’t have to talk,” he said.

Hermione gave him a weak smile and nodded. Her stomach coiled as more questions about the new discovery bloomed inside her head. She wondered if there would be an escape from Malfoy or whether she’d simply wither from the abstinence of him.

“How are you – I mean, with the breakup and all?” Hermione asked, wanting to forget the sharpness of Malfoy’s grey gaze.

Harry stared into the dancing flames, his glasses making it hard to see his eyes. “I feel weird about being single again, I guess,” Harry admitted.

Hermione reached out to his arm and gave him a good squeeze. “It’s perfectly normal – it takes time to adjust,” she comforted him. Her hand lingered on him for a while, his green eyes searching her face for something. They sat there, frozen, and at the same time, everything whirled inside each of them. Invisible hurricanes ripping emotions from the darkest depths to the surface, raw and unfiltered, turning them vulnerable.

She was the first to move. Her hand wandered up his arm to his shoulder, and when she hesitated, he nodded. Her fingertips ghosted along the side of his throat before she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck. Their faces mirrored each other now, just mere inches from each other.

“Should we?” Hermione whispered, only guided by the blinding rage in her heart. She knew Malfoy would know about it through their connection. She wanted to hurt him. Wanted to make him feel the ache she was feeling.

She wanted to punish him.

“I don’t think we should,” Harry murmured. “But I want to.”

A beat passed.

“Kiss me, then,” Hermione purred, half-lidded and lips already parted.

Harry leaned in and just before their lips met, he hesitated one last time. Hermione closed the space between them.

It was a shy kiss, a kiss where no exploring took place – just the press of skin to skin. Hermione didn't feel anything. It wasn't like when she kissed Malfoy. There was no desperation to feel Harry all over herself, no need to satisfy a deep longing for connection. Nothing would ever compare to it. Hermione could sense it in the depths of her being. At the core of her magic.

About three seconds later, Harry and Hermione tore apart. Both wide-eyed, they stared at each other in utter horror of what they had just done. What absolute idiots they were to attempt something so foolish. Risking their friendship, risking to make things worse. What on earth were they thinking? They grew up together, fought together. They never regarded each other in any other way than being friends.

The utter ridiculousness of it all bubbled up Hermione’s throat, it tickled her cheeks and made itself noticeable as a bright laugh. She could barely hold it in, not wanting to hurt Harry’s feelings, but it wanted to escape.

To her surprise, Harry shook his head and a wide grin replaced the shock from before until he, too, couldn’t contain himself anymore.

For the first time in forever, Hermione laughed and laughed until tears streamed down her face.

“Let’s never try that again,” Harry gasped after they finally came down from their high.

Hermione patted her face dry and nodded. “The feeling’s mutual,” she chuckled.

At least for a short time, Hermione felt happy and light again and Grimmauld seemed less dreary than before.

Hermione and Harry had gone back to Hogwarts to celebrate with Neville after agreeing on never talking about what had happened ever again. Christmas and New Year’s went by with the blink of an eye, the days in between muddied together into one big puddle of snow and sleep.

Hermione didn’t want to celebrate. There was no reason for her to do so without her parents and with the daunting reality of her body being bound to Malfoy. Instead, she tried to pry more information out of her father – useless – and searched the entire library for answers. There were none. As the days went on, her body weakened. The insufferable scratching in the back of her neck returned, raging and ravenous. She ignored it as best as she could but it nearly drove her to the point of madness. She caught herself scratching at it more than once, absentmindedly and biting her cheeks until they bled. Her reflection showed a shadow of herself with sunken eyes and ashy skin, hair hanging from her head in disoriented strands.

Hermione dreaded the first day of school. It finally came around after a long night of tossing and turning, memories haunting her.

Ginny waited for her in the common room as the boys had already left for breakfast. She glanced at Hermione with a furrowed brow, which Hermione ignored with a breathless, “Thanks for waiting.”

“Another nightmare?” Ginny asked, voice low. They climbed out the entry hole and made their way to the Great Hall.

“It’s nothing, Gin,” Hermione said, a hand already on her neck. “How are you? Is it weird to see Harry again?”

Hermione’s mind flashed back to a candle-lit sitting room and lips searching for comfort. She blinked hard to rid herself of the memory.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Ginny said lightheartedly. Ginny hooked her arm into Hermione’s and leaned closer. “Besides, Dean is looking like the perfect distraction.”

Ginny giggled in delight and Hermione forced a tired smile when they rounded a corner and descended the marble stairs.

A speck of white in the crowd of black robes immediately caught Hermione’s eye.

Malfoy.

Her breath hitched and her heartbeat rocketed. He leaned on the wall next to the entrance of the Great Hall, chatting with Zabini and Nott, and for a brief second their eyes locked.

Hermione wanted to collapse into his arms. She wanted to sink her teeth into his flesh. She wanted to inhale the air that left his lungs.

To be one with him.

The steady thrum of voices, shuffling feet, and swishing robes vanished for a split-second.

A flash of worry washed over his face before it disappeared just as quickly.

Malfoy was the first to look away.

Hermione hadn’t anticipated the hurt that came from seeing him again. She wanted to collide her fists with his chest. Or preferably his face. This wasn’t fair.

Hermione could barely take note of what Ginny talked about. Her thoughts circled one thing only and it wasn’t Ginny’s detailed description of having a good time with Dean. The twisting pain in her stomach made it clear as day; Hermione had missed Malfoy. She put a hand on her belly as the realisation hit her, making her fear that she might get sick in the middle of the hall.

Ginny eyed her as they walked toward their friends who were already seated and enjoying breakfast.

“Hermione?” Ginny asked, worried.

Hermione murmured an excuse and turned on her heel, waving her friend off as she stormed out of the hall again. She stumbled through the Entrance Hall and out into the Viaduct Courtyard. Icy, crisp air hit her lungs as she gasped, doubling over and pressing her palms onto her thighs. Her hair fell like a curtain around her, shielding her sight from everything but the old cobblestones beneath her feet.

Steps behind her alerted her of someone’s presence.

Hermione snapped upright and turned, an excuse ready to explain her breakdown. Instead, her eyes grew wide and the words never made their way past her lips.

“How long are you going to run away from me?” Malfoy asked, his hands in his pockets as he sauntered toward her.

Hermione instinctively wanted to meet him halfway. She didn’t. There was too much that had shattered when she had discovered the signed document in his study. Even though she had suspected something, she had wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, Malfoy had wanted her despite everything that stood between them. A surprising revelation she tried to bury in the depths of her heart.

“Leave me alone, Malfoy.” Hermione turned away. She couldn't stand to look at him, even though it was all she wanted to do. His peaceful face as he slept beneath light linen flashed through her mind and gave her another stab in the heart.

Hermione put a hand on her chest and gasped.

How could it hurt so much? Why did she deserve to suffer?

“Let me help you,” Malfoy said softly behind her back.

“Help me?” Hermione hissed. “You’re the reason why I feel like this in the first place.”

“I can explain if you let me,” Malfoy said, his voice calm. The hair on her neck raised as his warmth emanated from him, reaching out to her, begging for her to turn around.

Hermione shut her eyes in agony as she ignored the invisible force.

“Please,” Hermione begged. “Please, leave.”

Silence turned the air even colder, it sat between them like an unwanted visitor. Malfoy finally broke it by sighing.

“Okay,” he said, bitterness dripping from his voice. Hermione could hear the soles of his shoes scrape against the stone as he turned. She waited for his steps to recede, but they didn’t.

“I’m sorry, Granger.”

Finally, he walked away.

Hermione’s fingers clawed at her own arms as his words shattered the last remaining resistance she had inside of herself. Her tears spilled out in tiny rivers, like waterfalls leaving the edge of her face and saturating her robes. She listened as Malfoy’s steps got farther away.

After standing there for a short eternity, hands pulled on her and in a trance, Hermione let herself be dragged to breakfast by Ginny. Her voice couldn’t break through the tumult that Hermione’s mind was in.

Back at their table, Hermione stared at the empty plate, awfully aware of Malfoy’s gaze across the hall. When she left for classes, it was like ripping away her skin and exposing her raw nerves. Everything grated against them, every sound, every touch, every movement. Nothing could soothe the pain Malfoy had infected her with.

He was a parasite that had taken over her.

Hermione could sense it, the truth crawled onto her skin and buried itself in it with sharp teeth.

She knew she was dying.

After a month, Hermione’s preparations were completed. Her will was written and sealed. Even though she didn’t have much, she split her belongings between her friends. Crookshanks would go to Harry, the little money she had earned during summer would go to Ron. It was mostly a symbolic inheritance. She had written letters to them, explaining what had happened and why she was gone.

Hermione had placed everything under her bed. She could feel that her end was coming closer. Her friends had sent her to Madam Pomfrey’s more than once, seeing how bad Hermione was doing. Her clothes hung off of her bony frame, her eyes turned dark and sank into her skull, she barely ate and turned silent. Madam Pomfrey was puzzled when presented with her, concluding that a Mind Healer was needed. Even McGonagall expressed her worry.

“Are you sure you can travel – like this?” the Headmistress inquired with furrowed brows.

Hermione nodded as she placed a foot into the Floo in her office. “I need to see my parents.”

One last time, Hermione thought.

“Alright then,” McGonagall said, her expression not changing.

Hermione ignored the old witch’s concern and cast the Floo powder into the hearth to be taken away to Grimmauld. She breathed a sigh of relief as she climbed out and dusted herself off. Her hands trembled and her knees were weak. With all the power she had left in her body, she stepped out of the dull house and walked to the hospital. Apparition wasn’t an option in her frail state, so her feet had to do.

Before entering her parent’s room, her hand already on the handle, she closed her eyes and inhaled. Her lungs rattled, making her cough in a desperate attempt to ease her pain.

When she calmed down, she pushed the handle down and opened the door.

An old woman, maybe in her eighties or nineties, sat in a chair by the window. The other chair was gone.

“Hello, darling, can I help you?” the little woman croaked.

Hermione looked at the number by the door in anticipation to find the wrong number on it, but it was, in fact, the right room.

“Oh! Excuse me, I must’ve confused rooms,” Hermione apologised either way. “Have a nice day!”

She quickly closed the door and headed to the reception, where Mrs. Evans, a middle-aged witch with lavender coloured hair, shot her a dashing smile.

“Miss Granger, how nice to see you,” Mrs. Evans greeted.

Hermione put her hands on the counter to hold on to, adrenaline spiking her blood and making her even more unstable. “Mrs. Evans – where are my parents?”

“Has no one given you notice?” Mrs. Evans asked, her eyebrows pulling together and making a crease in between them.

“No, I wanted to visit them and went to their room and they were gone,” Hermione recounted with a shaky voice.

“They got transferred–”

“Transferred?” Hermione’s voice started to get shrieky. “Where to?”

“Don’t worry, they’re still here,” Mrs. Evans said and put a hand on hers. “They’re in the private wing now.”

Hermione gave her a bewildered look. “I can’t pay for the private wing.”

Hermione’s legs started to shake and she feared they’d give in soon.

“No, no – it’s all covered. Mr. Malfoy paid up front for a year. He said you were informed.”

Hermione‘s jaw dropped.

It took her a few seconds to regain composure, even though she was so very confused. Mrs. Evans smiled at her sweetly and seemed to understand what had happened. “Follow me,” she said and walked out of the reception cubicle and down the opposite hall of where her parents used to be stationed.

They walked past closed doors until they stood at the end of the hall in front of a window looking out to the street below them.

“Go on,” Mrs. Evans said and looked at her expectantly.

Hermione looked at the window and then back at the receptionist.

“What am I supposed to do?” Hermione asked.

“You climb through it, silly,” the woman answered and chuckled. “When you‘re done, you have to go out the front door.”

“Okay,” Hermione said but was just as confused as before.

Hermione reached to the window and glided it upward, expecting some magic to happen but it still was just a window looking out to the street. She turned to get confirmation that she wasn’t about to jump out of the window and end up as splatter on the concrete. Mrs. Evans had already walked off to get back to the reception so Hermione was left standing there and wondering.

She shrugged to herself and stuck her head out of the window. As soon as she crossed the space between the window and what would have been air, a glowing wall met her and the street disappeared. She gasped when the veil of magic lifted as she climbed through the window.

On the other side, her childhood bedroom appeared. She looked back and St Mungo’s was gone. Instead of the hospital, her backyard was on the other side of the window. Hermione teared up as she walked around the room. Her fingers glided over her desk where letters from Ron and Harry were piled up in two neat stacks.

Muffled voices from downstairs reminded her of why she was there in the first place. As she ascended the familiar stairs, the scent of pancakes engulfed her. Her parents were in the kitchen.

Her father stood by the stove and poured batter into the pan, her mother sat by the table and flipped through a magazine.

For a moment, everything seemed like it once was. Like nothing had ever happened.

Her mother looked up and smiled and greeted her with, “Hermione! How nice of you to come visit us!”

“Hello,” was all that Hermione could choke out before a lump in her throat threatened to make her voice shake.

“Come in, come in – sit down,” her father said with a wave of his hand.

Hermione approached a chair cautiously, not trying to raise awareness of her weakened state. The wooden chair felt heavier than she remembered as she pulled it back to take a seat.

“How have you been?” her mother asked and gave Hermione a soft smile.

“I came to say goodbye,” Hermione said instead. She didn’t want to prolong the process, there was no use. “I’m moving – to the United States.”

“Oh, that's some news! Good on you, you’re still young, you need to explore the world,” her mother said excitedly.

Her father turned to them, pan in hand, his face frozen in a worried look.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked, a strange pricking of skin crawling up the nape of her neck.

“You can’t,” her father said and put the pan on the counter. “You can’t leave.”

“Why?” Hermione whispered and her mother scolded, “Wendell, don’t discourage her.”

Her father stalked toward them, shaking his head. “You can’t go, it – it –”

He put his face into his palms. “God, why can’t I remember – it’s all so foggy,” he mumbled.

“Darling, are you alright?” Hermione’s mother asked, standing up and crossing the kitchen to lay a hand on his shoulder.

Her father jerked away and stumbled toward Hermione, grabbing her by the shoulders and staring at her wide-eyed.

“D-Dad?” Hermione stuttered, an old reflex breaking free as fear rattled through her.

“You can’t go! You can’t go! The further away – the further away you get from him, the weaker you’ll be! No, no, no, no –” her father rambled, getting louder the more he said.

“Darling, you’re scaring us!” her mother shrieked and lunged forward to try to get him off of Hermione.

“From whom?” Hermione asked. “Get away from whom?”

“The boy, the boy! You are tethered, no, you can’t leave! The man – the Minister, he warned me, he warned me! You have to stay with the boy – with – with – the dragon, dragon, DRAGON!”

Tears ran down Hermione’s face as she stared at her father, shaking as a high-pitched ringing drowned out the voices. As if in slow motion, two Healers in green robes entered the kitchen and pointed their wands at her parents. They collapsed onto the floor. Hermione’s vision went blurry, specks of black dancing across the kitchen. Just as she looked up to ask for help, another person entered the room.

“Malfoy?” she heard herself say.

A pair of cloudy eyes was the last thing she saw before everything went black.

The first thought that rang through Hermione’s mind was that death wasn’t too bad. It was like sleeping. Floating through nothing, without a body that could hurt.

Until pain flashed through her bodily vessel once more and made her shoot up in a hospital bed, gasping for air. Bright lights blinded her, she reached up and tried to shield her eyes.

“It’s okay,” a velvety voice soothed.

The adrenaline in Hermione subsided and made her connect with the mattress once more. Her eyelids were too heavy to keep open and burned from the stark contrast to the darkness before. Every breath was torture, her ribs scraped against her skin from the inside-out.

The magnetic force that pulled her to the voice made her aware of Malfoy sitting next to the bed. Everything within her screamed to get closer. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t manage to get to him.

“Please, let me help you,” Malfoy whispered, a tremble in his voice. “Please.”

Hermione was surprised. Was that actual worry that poured out of him? Was it guilt? Both?

“Please don’t die,” he pleaded. His hands wrapped around hers. Even though he encased it, he was holding her like a fragile petal of a rose.

The touch of him licked against her skin, hot and sizzling, it tried to ignite a lost spark that couldn’t catch fire anymore. His magic tried to seep through her pores and leak into her.

With the surge of energy it gave her, she pulled her hand away from his. She could hear him lean back as his back made a soft thud against the chair.

“The Purity Act was originally to be invoked after the first war,” Malfoy started to explain, his voice low. “The Wizengamot wanted to ensure the extinction of Purebloods, starting with the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

Hermione gave some sort of scoff that rather sounded like a cough. She could hear him exhale loudly.

“Yeah, I know. It sounds absurd. They wanted to make sure that Voldemort couldn’t have a following. No Purebloods, no war. The act was buried after Voldemort vanished, no need for a homogeneous wizarding society, right?” Now it was Malfoy who scoffed. “They brought it back right after Potter won against Voldemort and all the trials started. Couldn’t even wait for a second, those bastards.”

It was silent until Hermione could hear Malfoy get up as his chair scraped against the floor. He started to pace back and forth.

“I swear, Granger. I didn’t want this for you, either. They didn’t include everything on paper, of course they didn’t.” His pacing stopped next to her.

Hermione’s hands twitched nervously. His fingers grazed hers ever so slightly. This time, she didn’t move but he retreated anyway.

“They didn’t really offer me anything. It wasn’t a deal. It was a threat.”

Finally, Hermione could crack her eyes open just enough to see Malfoy sit back down again. He moved his chair closer.

“I didn’t know it would be you. I thought it would be some random Muggle girl. They didn’t tell me about the ritual, they didn’t tell me about you… being… dependent on me.”

Malfoy buried his face into his hands. “Fuck – if I knew, I would have gone to Azkaban.”

Somehow, his words pierced her heart and made it bleed even more.

If he knew he’d be tethered to a filthy Mudblood he would have rather gone to Azkaban.

Malfoy lifted his head from his hands and moved even closer until he hovered above her face. He reached out and when his fingers caressed her cheek, tears shot into her eyes. They flitted between his.

Even though she was at the end of her life, she was happy to stare into those stormy clouds captured in the grey of his irises one last time.

“I had this ridiculous inclination towards you for ages, Granger. Salazar, the way your fist hit my face in third year was probably the start of it all. You drove me absolutely mad. Always ahead of me, smarter than me. I secretly admired you from the shadows. And even after all – everything I put you through – you spoke in my favour before the Wizengamot. And then I fucked you over, again. I would beg for your forgiveness, but I do not deserve it.”

Malfoy was only inches away as he spoke. His close proximity was enough to breathe some sort of life into her. His words brought warmth back into her cold heart.

“Kiss me, then.”

It was barely a whisper when Hermione spoke. It visibly caught Malfoy off guard as his eyes widened. It didn’t need to be said twice, though, as he gently stroked her hair and leaned in.

Their lips met and locked instantly. It was coming home after a long and tiring day. It was taking a breath after holding it under water for too long. It was everything.

Her blood rushed through her veins, her heart beat stronger, her pain was numbed. She held onto Malfoy and pulled him closer, sure she’d never let go again.

Malfoy did pull away just slightly. His brow furrowed and he let his fingers dance over her cheek again.

“I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

Chapter Text

It took Hermione seven days to recover.

Careful touches marked the first day of her recovery. Draco would press soft kisses onto her cheeks, lips, eyelids, knuckles – wherever his lips would land, her body would soak up his soothing magic. Wherever her body ached, a soft caress followed by a spark of reviving magic cleansed her of any pain or fatigue. 

By the second day, her eyesight strengthened and she realised that she was in a room at St Mungo’s.

When her voice came back for good, she asked Malfoy why he wasn’t going to classes. He smiled at her and whispered something along the lines of, “Classes can wait.”

By the fourth day, she could move her legs. She clung to Malfoy’s arm and he gladly helped her get out of her bed. They walked up and down the hospital corridors the entire afternoon, one foot after the other, slow and steady. They talked the entire time, whispering secrets and hidden thoughts, spilling out as if they’d known each other forever. She confessed how she had been feeling lost ever since the ending of the war, not knowing what her future held for her. He confessed how he didn’t think he deserved to walk as a free man, knowing the pain he had brought to many by his mistakes.

By day five, Hermione had regained enough of her strength to venture out to other floors. Although Draco had reassured her that her parents were taken care of days prior, she needed to check for herself. One of their Healers had stopped her before she could climb through the window and into her childhood home. Instead, she explained their condition and the aftermath of the incident. Memories are like a convoluted maze, a single wrong turn and one could end up stuck. Especially since her father needed time, the Healers had told Hermione it was better for her to wait with visits. Somehow, Hermione was glad. There was enough to worry about already.

When Malfoy didn’t come that same day, Hermione feared he had abandoned her. Bile threatened to burn her throat as her stomach churned its contents. Only when Malfoy entered the hospital room late that afternoon did her hands stop shaking.

“You’re being transferred to the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts,” Malfoy announced with a smile and reached out to take her hand.

On the sixth day, Hermione was swarmed with visitors – Harry and Ron, Ginny and Neville, and most of her Gryffindor classmates. Only when Malfoy entered the Hospital Wing, everyone scattered – apart from Harry and Ron. Ron stood at the foot of Hermione's bed with crossed arms, his jaw clenching as he watched Malfoy approach. Malfoy, on the other hand, spared Ron no look, his gaze only set on Hermione.

Sometimes, Hermione thought that she had become the centre of his universe, the way he seemed to only see her. She didn't dare to actually believe it, though.

“Sod off, mate,” Ron growled when Malfoy brushed past him. Malfoy scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

“Do you need another fist in that unfortunate face of yours?” Malfoy snarled as he broadened his stance.

“I swear to Godric, I will kill you both if you dare to fight again,” Hermione warned. “I mean it!”

The boy's heads turned toward her simultaneously. Malfoy exhaled loudly and stepped away, while Ron shook his head in disbelief.

“I just don't understand what you see in him, 'Mione,” Ron ground out through gritted teeth and stormed off without another word. Harry followed suit after he gave Hermione a shrug.

On day seven, Hermione looked no different than before starving herself from Malfoy. Not only did she look better, she felt the part, too. Malfoy had brought her fresh clothes for her release from the Hospital Wing. Even though she was strong enough now, he helped her into them. He let his fingers glide over her skin when pulling down her hospital robe behind closed curtains. Her skin exploded into goosebumps and his magic soared with hers as they intertwined through his touch. She closed her eyes and hummed satisfied.

“I want to make you feel whole,” Malfoy murmured as he buried his face into the crook of her neck while she stood with her bare back to him. “We both know that touching and kissing won't suffice.”

Hermione shuddered as his lips ghosted over her skin. 

Yes, of course she was aware of it. 

She had concluded that the Purity Act was meant to be a mating bond to stop Purebloods from procreating more Purebloods. She had also concluded that Malfoy must feel the need to fulfil the mating, unlike her.

She wouldn't allow him to do so, though.

“You don't deserve me – just yet,” Hermione whispered back. “You'll have to earn me. Ritual be damned.” A soft scoff escaped her.

Malfoy laughed and a warm breath spread across the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. “That's right, little Selkie. I’ll do anything for you, remember?”

“I do. Which is why we need to go public and dismantle the Purity Act,” Hermione continued and turned around to look Malfoy in the eyes.

Draco’s amusement turned into concern. His brows furrowed and his smirk disappeared. He reached out and stroked her cheek gently. 

“We can't go public,” he said softly, despite reminding her of his conviction to do anything for her. His denial let indignation flare up in her stomach.

“Why not? They wouldn't dare to put you into Azkaban when the entirety of Wizarding Society will scrutinise them for it,” Hermione said with such fierceness that her hands trembled. She couldn't imagine doing nothing. It was a great injustice that had been done to them. Therefore, it was the only right thing to tell the world what the Ministry had done.

Malfoy reached for her blouse and held it open so Hermione could slip into it. When she turned back around to him, he busied himself buttoning it for her. He didn't say anything until he was done.

Hermione analysed his face. Zeroing in on every pull and release of muscle, every blink, every breath that left his body. Had he not already expressed his unease, she would be none the wiser. Unlike her, he was basically unreadable.

“Okay,” he said decisively. “We can go public, but if anything happens to you, I will raise hell and make sure they'll suffer immeasurably.”

Hermione's eyes flicked between the grey of his. She wanted to believe his words came from his heart. From a place where she was truly important to him and he cared about her and not just because they were bound to each other. At the same time, she wished he wouldn't have said them at all.

It was on the second day of being back in classes when a little flower made out of parchment waited for Hermione on her desk in Ancient Runes. She sat down and placed her books neatly on the wooden surface before picking the flower up and placing it into her palm. Upon contact with her skin, the flower unfolded and revealed a neatly written message in it.

Granger,

Do me the honour and let me take you out on Valentine's Day.
Be ready at eight, wait for me in the Astronomy Tower.

Yours,
Draco

Hermione's cheeks burned as they flushed bright pink. Yours? Draco?

She couldn’t remember having been asked to be taken out, nevertheless on Valentine’s Day. Surely, Viktor Krum tried to be as much of a gentleman as he could during his stay at Hogwarts. Even when he took her virginity in his cabin on the Durmstrang ship, he was polite. But did he ask her out? Apart from going to the Yule Ball? No.

Ron wasn’t even worth mentioning, considering their history and all. Cormac McLaggen was a disaster. And her only date ever, now that she thought about it.

A smile snuck onto her face while she folded the parchment neatly and placed it beneath a book.

Yours, Draco.

A simple way to end a letter, yet it stayed with Hermione the entire day.

When night arrived, Hermione couldn’t ignore it anymore. It.

The endless clawing of the binding magic within her.

She sat in her bed, her hopes of getting rest long gone. It was one of many nights where she dreamed of dreaming. It was useless to try to fall asleep. Even though she was better, she wouldn’t feel whole again without having all of Malfoy.

Without his hands wrapped around her neck, his lips pressed against her, his hips moving in frenzied and forceful thrusts to drive himself deeper into her.

It was what made her feel normal.

A deep sigh escaped Hermione as she looked out the window and into the darkness. Yes, she knew how to soothe it.

But soothing wouldn’t suffice in the long run. She needed to break whatever had been cast upon her and Malfoy. She couldn’t and wouldn’t live like this. Like a caged animal, forced to breed.

Breed.

She had thought long about it. How the Purity Act was supposed to guarantee offspring with mixed blood. How Malfoy had come inside her, without her considering the consequences of it all. She wouldn’t just be irresponsible like that if it weren’t for the dark magic that cursed through her veins.

“I made sure that you won’t get pregnant.”

Malfoy’s voice rang in her head as she thought back to their conversation about it back at the Hospital Wing. A weight had lifted off her chest as soon as he said it. She was barely able to look after herself, a pregnancy – a forced pregnancy, at that – would have been quite literally the worst thing to happen to Hermione.

Another sigh disturbed the silence in the shared dorm room. This time, it came from one of the other girls Hermione had thought were fast asleep.

Ginny pushed herself up and leaned against the headboard.

“Can’t sleep?” Hermione whispered.

Ginny shook her head.

“Come here.” Hermione flipped her sheets open and patted the mattress.

The ginger witch stood quickly and hopped over to Hermione’s bed. They laid down and faced each other, hands clasped together and a knowing look being shared.

“Harry?” was all that Hermione had to ask.

A single tear rolled down Ginny’s face. She sniffled before saying, “I miss him heaps.”

“I know,” Hermione said. “He misses you, too. He told me when I ran into him at Grimmauld Place.” She reached out and dried the trail of sadness that was left behind on Ginny’s face. Ginny smiled at her.

“What about you?” Ginny asked, voice low not to disturb the others. “Why can’t you sleep?”

Hermione sighed out of reflex. “It’s complicated.”

“Malfoy hung around quite some time when you were in the Hospital Wing,” Ginny said. “What’s that all about? Ron has been really weird about it, too.”

“Ron…” Hermione thought out loud. She assumed that he had come around quite well, but maybe he was just hiding it in front of her.

“He really loves you, you know. He's worried about you,” Ginny said, her lips slightly turning downward. “I don’t trust Malfoy, he used to call you a Mud–” Ginny stopped herself before the atrocious word could escape.

“He’s not like that anymore,” Hermione whispered back, a bit too sharply.

“I don’t believe people change this drastically,” Ginny shot back.

“People might not, but Draco did,” Hermione replied, her tone turning harsh – something Ginny wasn’t used to, making her flinch.

The girls went quiet and stared at each other for a moment.

Draco.

His name had never been present between them. It slipped out, Hermione didn’t even realise it until it was too late. It meant that Malfoy wasn’t just the son of his father anymore – not just a pesky Slytherin, not just a bully, a Death Eater.

It meant that he was his own person. Someone Hermione cared about.

“I see,” Ginny clipped and slipped out from the sheets. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

With that, she turned and got into her own bed again. Hermione was left with a bitter taste on her tongue and coldness wrapping itself around her heart.

Ginny seemed to find peace quickly as her breath slowed and deepened. Hermione, not so much. She kept turning from side to side, sitting up and staring out the window, then laying down again and shutting her eyelids firmly. She counted down from a thousand, struggling to get further than a few hundred. Her mind kept drifting away, longing for the grip of big hands and burning eyes upon herself. Her hand reached to the nape of her neck instinctively.

Hermione swung her legs out of the bed and escaped quietly down the stairs and out of the Gryffindor common room.

The castle's halls were barely lit when Hermione ghosted through them. With quickened breath and quicker steps, she made her way down to the dungeons. A part of the castle she hadn't discovered really. Still, she remembered Harry and Ron’s description to the Slytherin common room from years ago. 

Just as she turned a corner in one of the many identical cave-like halls and started to fear that she'd get lost, she bumped into something. Or someone, in her case. Knowing that she wasn't supposed to be outside the Gryffindor common room she started to mutter excuses.

Two hands wrapped around her shoulders and steadied her, making her look up.

“It’s only me,” Draco said and an amused huff escaped him.

Hermione sighed in relief. Being caught by prefects – or worse, by a professor – wasn’t what she needed right now.

“I was looking for you,” Hermione said and tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

Normally, his eyes were quite strikingly bright. Here in the depths of the castle, they had turned completely black. Still, she couldn’t tear away from his gaze.

“I know,” he hummed before dipping down and kissing her softly.

He wasn’t ravenous, nor demanding. His lips moved slowly, his hands were patient. Everything about the kiss reminded Hermione of… peace. Her heart beat differently when Malfoy was around. She tried to think about when exactly it became like this. Was it before or after almost dying?

They stayed there in the shadows of the dungeons for a while, unable to put distance between them. It was an endless relief to be with Draco. To let go. To stop pretending. Ginny wasn’t the only one that caught on to him hovering around Hermione. The students hushed and whispered when she walked the halls of HogwartsSome pointed, some gave her dirty looks, and some even straight up asked her questions.

“Are you and Draco a thing now?” A sixth year Slytherin girl had asked. Her voice was sticky with fake friendliness, a saccharine smile plastered on her long and sharp face. Hermione had shook her head in distress and walked off with haste, leaving giggling girls behind.

Everything within her wanted to say yes! But how could she?

Draco pulled her into his arms. Her magic sparked at his touch, thrumming to the same beat as his.

“Do you want to sleep in my bed?” Draco asked, gently placing the suggestion between them.

Hermione’s heart jumped at the intimate question.

“What about the others in your room?” she asked, not looking for an excuse but rather for confirmation. Confirmation that Draco wanted her around and didn’t care about others seeing them together.

“They’re fast asleep,” Draco replied.

Hermione couldn’t help but smile into Draco’s chest. Butterflies somersaulted in her stomach, a feeling she had long forgotten, one the war had taken from her.

Draco stepped back just slightly to grab her chin and tilt her face up.

“And even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t care,” he said softly.

Hermione’s eyes flitted between his, she opened her mouth to say something, to tell him how much it meant to her in such an unexpected way – but then she closed it again. Not in a million years would she have ever dreamed of hearing him speak such gentle words, and they were directed at her.

Draco seemed to see her thoughts racing behind her eyes. A smirk played on his lips as he stroked down her arm and interlocked their fingers.

“Are you ready to see the gruesome chambers of Slytherin?” Draco mused.

“Let me guess, stretching devices instead of sofas and spikes for beds?” Hermione answered and chuckled at the imagination of it. As a child, she truly believed that must have been what the Slytherin common room looked like.

“And ropes to tie you up,” Draco replied with a glint in his eye. “In case you’re being naughty.”

A sharp sensation rushed through her, pure thrill and excitement, making the fine hair on her body stand up. She shook it off, determined not to let her body dictate the course of the night. She wasn’t looking for physical confirmation of their attraction. That part had to be purely because they were bound together. 

Although, ever since Draco confessed that he had his sight set on her since their early school years, she had been thinking back to it as well. She remembered how annoyed she was at Draco’s handsome features. Because as gruesome as he was, his outer appearance wasn’t. She had thought of it as an unfair advantage, something politicians would use to gain a following. His signature Malfoy hair, the sharp grey of his eyes, his long fingers adorned with one single ring, the way he carried himself through the halls. Annoying, yes – but also invigorating.

No, Hermione didn’t want to indulge in him – not yet. She desired to be close to him – emotionally. He felt safe, he understood her pain. He didn’t want her to pretend. Was that part of the binding magic, as well? She'd only know after going through with her plan.

The plan.

“Granger?” Draco’s voice was like a light beaming through thick mist.

Hermione shook her head to get rid of her thoughts. “Sorry, I’m just tired.”

“Let’s get you to bed, then,” Draco replied and with that, he guided her through the dungeons. It only took a few minutes to reach an unsuspecting blank wall.

Draco stopped in front of it and spoke the password. “Remorse.”

A door appeared in the wall and cracked open. Hermione looked at him amused, while he stepped into the common room.

“What? It’s a good password,” Draco replied.

“I didn’t say anything,” Hermione snickered. “Slytherin is doing damage control, I see.”

“As much as we can,” Draco said, his tone turning serious.

They walked through the long dark room, steering toward another door that probably led to the sleeping quarters. The space oozed a luxurious aura with big plush emerald couches, tapestries and plenty of portraits. Hermione’s eyes fixed on the grand windows. They were immersed in the Black Lake, a sight that made her breath hitch. Moonlight filtered through the water, glowing algae wafted in it. She even caught a glimpse of the glittering end of a Merperson’s tail before it vanished into the depths of the lake.

“I’ve read about the common room being under water,” Hermione whispered. “But seeing it in person is something else.”

Draco turned his head to Hermione, a grin replacing his serious expression. “You’ve read about the Slytherin common room? You’re truly swottier than I’ve ever thought.”

“Hey! Hogwarts: A History is basic lecture to read when starting school. Don’t you have a copy of it at home? Who’s the swot now?”

Draco laughed and shook his head while they walked through the second door and into a long hallway.

“You could’ve just asked to see the common room, you know?” Draco said and squeezed her hand lightly. “I would’ve given you a private tour.”

Hermione stifled a laugh. “As if.”

“I’ll show you around tomorrow,” Draco said in a low voice. He stopped in front of what had to be his room and Hermione looked at him expectantly.

He let go of her hand and took her face into his palms instead. It was one of Hermione’s favourite gestures of his. His hands were big and warm and she could’ve stayed like that forever.

“I’m glad that you looked for me,” Draco said and bent down to kiss her forehead. The sweet act caught Hermione by surprise and made her heart jump in ecstasy.

“How did you know?” Hermione asked. He always knew so much more than what should be possible.

“I feel you,” was all that he said before turning and pushing the door open.

Hermione let the words sink in as they slipped into the darkness. He had told her that already, but never elaborated. Before getting the chance to think too much about it, her eyes jumped to the only source of light in the space. Two dark eyes stared back, looking up from a book, the glowing tip of a wand dousing its surroundings in silvery blue.

It was Theodore Nott.

Hermione prepared herself for a hostile exchange, maybe a heated argument that would wake the others up. Instead, Nott’s eyes jumped to Draco. A moment passed. No one said anything. Then, Nott redirected his gaze back to the book in front of him.

The tension in Hermione’s shoulders eased and made her exhale in relief. Now that her eyes had adjusted, she realised that the faintest light trickled into the room from above. She determined that it must be moonlight, coming from an enchantment as there were no windows. Five beds were placed on each wall of the hexagon shaped room. Draco’s was the one in the middle, opposite the entrance.

Hermione stood before it and Draco reached out to her robes. She glided out of them and he placed them on a chair next to him.

She looked up to him and he nodded toward the bed with a reassuring smile. Quickly, she crawled into the bed and under the sheets. It felt like her bed. Same cotton sheets and all. No difference between Gryffindor and Slytherin beds at all. Her hand glided over the mattress and she smiled. Draco stepped out of his house shoes and got into the bed. With a swiping motion of his hand, the curtains of the four-poster drew shut.

He murmured a quick Imperturbable charm, which earned him a raised eyebrow from Hermione.

“It’s not for what you think it is,” Draco said at a normal volume, his voice now being muffled by the charm. “I just want privacy for you. I will not touch you until you give me permission, Granger.”

“Good,” Hermione said certainly. Still, her pulse quickened just at the thought of him all over herself. Inside of herself.

Draco slid down onto his pillow and Hermione followed, nuzzling her face into his chest. He pulled her even closer. She instinctively inhaled and his scent washed over her. It was so distinctively him. Fresh citrus, mowed grass, and washed linen blowing in the wind.

“Granger?” Draco murmured into her hair.

“Yes?” Hermione asked back, equally muffled by his fabric covered muscles.

“If the plan works–”

“It will.”

“If it does… Will I lose you?”

Her nails bore into his t-shirt as she clawed at it.

Lose… her?

She couldn’t imagine it, but the possibility was there. How could she know what was real and what was an illusion made by magic?

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

The hold around Hermione seemed to tighten just the slightest, or maybe Hermione was tired and imagined it.

Exhaustion finally crashed over her, making her drowsy and her eyelids heavy. Somewhere in the waves of sleep that pulled her deeper and deeper, Draco’s voice swam in the ocean with her. A far-away good night, and maybe even an I want to keep you forever, but Hermione couldn’t differentiate between reality and dream anymore. She sank deeper and deeper until she reached the bottom. Darkness engulfed her.

Hermione could rest, at last.

It was in the early hours of morning when Hermione’s sleep got lighter. Barely awake, she could feel hot skin pressing against hers. Eyes closed, she reached for Draco’s neck and curled her hand around it. His fingers ran through her hair in return, then brushed down her back and down to her bottom, and up again. Her pyjamas had shifted throughout the night, exposing bareness to his hand. She hummed as she enjoyed his caresses. Soft lips searched for hers and found them. Draco’s hand moved down again. This time, he grabbed her thigh and draped her leg over his waist. 

Their mouths opened in unison, a dance that had become familiar to them along the way. His tongue was between her teeth, his thigh between her legs. He pressed it against her core, she keened at the sensation of it.

“I’m sorry,” Draco groaned. “I shouldn’t.”

He retreated his leg. Hermione remembered what she had told him, what she had set her mind to and nodded, still with her eyes closed. Draco stroked the side of her face. The relaxing touch made her mind cloud. Darkness overcame her once more and sleep greeted her with open arms.

Something soft stroked the side of her face when Hermione woke up. Hermione smiled as realisation hit her.

“Good morning,” Draco greeted her with a raspy voice. “We need to go to classes.”

Hermione basically jolted upward at the mention of school.

“Oh, Merlin!” she exclaimed in a panic.

It was a normal school day with normal classes with normal students everywhere. Which meant students were in the Slytherin common room, which meant they’d see her. Not only see her, see her with Draco.

Draco’s laugh took her out of her spiralling thoughts.

“What’s so funny?” Hermione hissed and tried to peek out of the drawn curtains of his bed. “How am I supposed to get to class? Everyone is going to see me.”

Draco crossed his arms behind his head and rolled his eyes in that arrogant, snarky… annoyingly attractive Malfoy way.

“And?” he asked.

“And… What are we going to tell everybody? What if someone tells on us? We’ll get points deducted from our houses for breaking three separate rules.”

Hermione tried to tame the messy curls on her head by running her fingers through the knots, but got frustrated and cast a quick spell instead.

“Let that be my problem, Granger,” was all that Draco said.

“And what about my uniform?” Hermione was almost at the point of hysteria.

Draco gave her that damned smirk.

“You’re a witch, and a pretty good one at that. Transfigure one of mine.”

Hermione huffed and before she could get any more irritated at her own stupidity, Draco took her hand and pressed a kiss onto her palm.

“It’s going to be fine,” he said confidently.

And she believed him.

That was until the door to the room crashed open.

“Where is he?”

“Get the fuck out of here!”

“Are you all daft?”

“She has to be here!”

A jumble of voices exploded around them.

Hermione’s eyes widened as she stared at Draco in shock, he on the other hand, pulled his wand from under his pillow. His brow furrowed and his nostrils flared when he stepped out of his bed and disappeared between the fabric shielding them from the intruders.

Hermione sat there, frozen.

“You!” It was Ron’s voice.

“Honestly, Weasley, I’m getting concerned at this point. What is wrong with you?” Draco snapped.

“What is wrong with me? You kidnapped Hermione! What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!”

“Ron, we don’t know that for certain–” Harry’s voice interjected.

Draco barked a strained laugh.

“Gryffindors always need to be the heroes, huh?” Nott’s voice came from the room.

A step, followed by two more, indicated someone moving.

“Kidnapped Granger?” Draco hissed.

Hermione clenched a fistful of sheets as she held her breath.

“She came to me. Unlike you, I don’t have to beg for her attention.”

Another step.

“Unlike you–” A pause. “I understand her.”

“Fuck you!” Ron spat.

“No,” Draco replied, calmly. “I’d rather fuck the girl in my bed.”

Hermione gasped and at the same time, shuffling and shouting filled the room once again. Bodies hit the floor with a thundering fall.

Fists hit bone, blood dripped and filled the air with the smell of iron.

Hermione pushed the curtains aside and jumped out of bed, expecting to see Ron’s bloodied face on the ground.

Instead, Ron was the one on top of Draco.

Ron’s fist hammered down in a relentless rhythm, while Harry and Nott tried to pull him away.

Hermione stood there.

She tried to see beneath the streaming rivers of red, but there was hardly anything. Jolting pain twitched inside her body, it made her blind, made her want to kill. Rage filled her until nothing else was left.

“Stop!” Hermione heard herself scream.

Her hand raised.

She pointed her wand at Ron.

There was no going back after this, and Hermione knew. 

She knew.

Chapter Text

Harry’s eyes met Hermione’s. She could see the pure fear in the familiar green. See that, for the first time since they’ve known each other, he was afraid of her and what she would do.

A dagger of pain stabbed through her heart when her gaze fell upon the wand in her hand. Something vile nearly spilled out of her mouth, a spell she would have never dared to use – not even on an enemy.

Horrified, she lowered her wand. Harry nodded in response, reaching for his own wand to finally put an end to Ron’s blind rage. Their friend fell onto Draco as his body went limp, the paralysing spell working to its full potential while Harry and Nott quickly rolled him off. They immediately burst out into a heated exchange, blaming each other for the result of the altercation.

A ringing filled Hermione’s ears, it overpowered their voices, and thankfully, the gruesome gurgling coming from Draco’s blood-filled lungs. Every inch of his face was covered in dark, sticky, seething blood – it bubbled up from his wounds, it spilled and soiled the carpet below.

Stumbling, Hermione moved closer and sank to her knees. With shaking hands she reached out to him.

When her fingertips dipped into the stream of his blood, the ringing in her ears turned into an unbearable siren. It filled her head, made the room around her turn red, red, red – everything was blood.

Hermione wanted to scream. She wanted to call out for Harry, wanted to beg for it to end. The ticking in her neck turned into a ruthless clawing, nails scratching under her skin until it tore open.

Endless pain crashed over her and threatened Hermione to faint. Hands emerged from the opening, they yearned for freedom. Arms followed, they wrung a body out of Hermione and sunk their fingers into Hermione’s hair.

Something crawled out of her.

“We’re complete,” a voice came from the door.

Hermione didn’t know how she got there, but she would recognise Malfoy Manor anywhere – even if it was mostly the ceiling she stared up to. She tried to blink into the moon light that illuminated the large sitting room – but her eyelids just wouldn’t move. She had been sleeping at Grimmauld Place just before. Confused, she tried to speak, but her body wasn’t moving.

A nightmare, she thought.

Footsteps, dampened by the carpet, announced the presence of more people.

“Good. It’s almost time,” another voice spoke. It was low, raspy…and Hermione knew it.

Shacklebolt.

“Step forward, boy,” he commanded.

A figure towered over her. Hermione’s widened eyes couldn’t move in its direction but the halo of white hair betrayed him anyway.

It was Draco Malfoy.

Thunderous pounding in her chest made her aware of the truth, that she wasn’t dreaming. Blind panic spread where confusion sat before.

“I can’t do this.”

Malfoy’s voice cut through the silence with sharpness, a decided tone swinging in it.

“Let her go,” he said.

Hermione’s thoughts hung on what exactly Malfoy couldn’t do.

“There’s not much we can do for you now, Mister Malfoy. You signed the contract,” a third, female voice answered.

“I don’t care. Take me to Azkaban,” Malfoy replied, hard and emotionless.

“You won’t be the only one going to Azkaban if you change your mind,” the woman said dryly.

A pause followed. Malfoy moved out of sight, and by what Hermione could hear, stepped closer to wherever the woman was standing – her feet taking steps, too.

“What do you mean?” Malfoy hissed.

“If you don’t follow through, we have to take measures to ensure the extinction of Purebloods. If that means letting them rot away in Azkaban, so be it. Your mother will be taken to her cell first thing in the morning. Your friends… Mister Nott and Miss Parkinson? They might be lucky enough to get another day or two,” the woman explained with an eerie calmness.

“What about your own Minister?” Malfoy shot back. “If I recall correctly, Shacklebolt belongs to the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Does he get a nice cell, too?”

“We have to start,” Shacklebolt replied instead. “The moon is at its highest point.”

“So, Mister Malfoy, what do you choose?” the woman asked.

A scoff, some steps, and Malfoy was back at Hermione’s side.

“Let us begin,” the woman spoke.

Even though Hermione’s body was petrified, her stomach turned at these words. Everything inside of her wanted to flee, to get away from whatever was about to happen.

“Take the knife,” the woman instructed.

Cold sweat clung to Hermione’s skin; it wettened her hair, made the cotton of her pyjamas stick to her body. She was awfully aware of the dread crawling up her spine.

Metal dragged out of a sheath.

“Turn her around, it has to be placed at the nape of her neck,” the woman explained.

Malfoy looked down at Hermione – was it pity that reflected in those lifeless eyes? Or was it disgust?

He reached out and pulled on her so she’d roll onto one side. He did it gently, and if Hermione didn’t know any better, with respect. He brushed her hair away from her neck. Warmth ghosted across the side of her face.

“I’m sorry, Granger,” Malfoy whispered, his voice breaking at the end.

It was a sting at first, when Hermione felt the blade glide over her skin. As it turned into a fierce burning and heat trickled down and pooled under her cheek, she realised what Malfoy was doing.

He was cutting her.

Hermione’s eyes started to tear up, but her body remained still – despite the gruesome pang of inflicted violence echoing inside of her.

“Now add your blood.” The woman said it quietly, patiently even.

Hot streams of tears ran down Hermione’s face. Maybe she was dreaming, after all. It couldn’t really be happening to her, right?

Malfoy pressed his hand onto her wound and waves of agony hit Hermione, making her vision go blurry. Specks of black danced around, her bones seemed to bend and twist while her flesh was consumed by ravenous fire. Just when Hermione thought she was going to die – everything stopped.

Instead, a chilling scream tore through the Manor.

Was it Malfoy?

The woman stepped into Hermione’s view when she pointed her wand at her head. Hermione knew her – she scrambled through her memories until stumbling across her in a court hearing after the war. Blonde, sleek hair. Middle-aged. Scrawny. Black attire. Just like she stood before Hermione right now. 

Thilde Twyll. Member of the Wizengamot.

If there was any possibility of Hermione’s heart jumping out of her chest, it would have happened at that moment. She didn’t believe in a God, still, she spoke messy prayers in her thoughts. This had to be it. This had to be her end.

Twyll’s eyes flashed when her lips parted.

“Obliviate.”

ᛏᚹᚩᛋᚩᚢᛚᛋ

Two souls

ᛏᚹᛁᛋᛏᛁᛝᛒᛖᚾᛠᚦᛋᛁᛚᚠᛖᚱᛚᛁᚷᚻᛏ

twisting beneath silver light.

ᚱᛖᛞᚱᛁᚠᛖᚱᛋ

Red rivers

ᚳᚪᚱᚱᛁᛁᛝᚦᛖᛁᚱᚠᚪᛏᛖ

carrying their fate,

ᛒᛖᚳᚩᛗᛁᛝᚩᚾᛖ

becoming one.

ᛒᚩᚢᚾᛞᛒᛁᚦᛖᛋᛁᚷᚾ

Bound by the sign

ᚩᚠᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᛁᛏᛁ

of eternity.

ᛁᚠ ᚩᚾᛖ ᛚᛠᚠᛖᛋ ᚦᛖᛁᚱ ᛠᚱᚦᛚᛁ ᚠᛖᛋᛋᛖᛚ ᛒᛖᚻᛁᚾᛞ

If one leaves their earthly vessel behind,

ᚦᛖ ᚩᚦᛖᚱ ᛁᛋ ᛋᛖᛏ ᚠᚱᛖᛖ

the other is set free.

Draco had never thought that he would get his arse beaten by the Weasel. Then again, he had also never thought he’d fall head over heels for Hermione Granger. But there he was, on the floor, blood streaming out of – well, everywhere – and going in and out of consciousness, only one girl on his mind.

Apparently, Hermione raised her wand against Weasley but the Boy Who Lived just had to talk some sense into her. Everything went black and when he came back from his intermittent nap, Theo was cursing next to him.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, panic saturating his voice. Draco could only see out of one eye, and even that was almost completely swollen shut. Theo sat next to him and tried to cast a diagnostic spell, but nothing came of it – only a few sparks that extinguished right away. He rose abruptly and charged at Ron, who stood there like a buffoon. Theo grabbed fists full of Ron’s robes.

“I swear to Salazar, if you killed him, I will torture you until your brain leaks out of your fucking ears!” Theo screamed before pushing Ron to the ground and storming off.

Draco’s chest tightened a bit at the realisation that his friend cared so much for him.

“Hermione!” Draco heard Potter call somewhere on the other side of the room. He wanted nothing more than to turn his head so he could see what was going on, but the pain shot bolts through his body as he tried to move. 

“Ron, she’s not responding–”

Movement, a head of ginger hair crawling past Draco, and then a sob.

“I’m such a bloody idiot,” Weasley said, his voice cracking at the end.

Upon hearing that Hermione wasn’t conscious, a surge of adrenaline pumped through Draco. He managed to roll over onto his side, a pain-ridden groan filling his throat and making Potter and Weasley turn.

“At least you didn’t murder Malfoy,” Potter said and Weasley exhaled loudly at the sight of Draco moving.

Draco could barely see but at the sight of Hermione, his throat tightened and a sharp pain in his chest made him heave. She laid there on the ground, expression soft - as if she were just dreaming.

There was blood.

So much blood.

She was covered in it. Her hands, her neck, it streaked down her cheeks and her hair stuck together in thick strands.

What the fuck happened to her? Had Weasley laid his hands on her, too?

“What’s he doing?” Weasley hissed.

Draco reached out, his fingers trembling violently as he brushed a lock of hair out of Hermione’s face.

Voices and hectic steps rang through the hallway. As they approached the scene, Theo’s voice boomed above all. He was cursing worse than a drunken sailor making a familiar voice – Headmistress McGonagall – scold him furiously. They entered the room and three pairs of feet came into view. Someone gasped loudly.

“Even after the war,” McGonagall said while stepping closer, robes fluttering dramatically. “It’s always you three.”

“Technically, it’s four, with Malfoy,” Potter replied quietly.

“Five, if you count Nott,” Weasley had the audacity to add.

“Quiet!” McGonagall’s voice cut through the air like a sword.

Her eyes darted to Draco and Hermione, jumping back and forth. She waved Madam Pomfrey over. Madam Pomfrey drew her wand and cast – what Draco presumed was – a complicated diagnostic spell. Both of the witches stared at the hovering orbs.

“Mr. Malfoy first,” McGonagall instructed.

Madam Pomfrey sat herself beside Draco. A bag appeared next to her, which she opened with haste.

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Nott – you are to come with me!” McGonagall finally said and turned, again with swishing robes underlining the seriousness of her words. Feet shuffled, muffled complaints were said and then the room grew quiet.

“Wounds…” Madam Pomfrey murmured. She rumbled through the bag and pulled out a vial. “Are you with me, boy?”

Draco’s face was swollen, pain pounded against his skull, his skin was torn and on fire. He could only manage to bring out a sound of despair. 

“Good,” she said. “This is going to burn.”

A punch of panic hit Draco in the stomach, but when the vial’s contents dropped onto his face it was immediately exchanged for excruciating pain.

The cuts and bruises healed in a rapid speed, his flesh closed up within seconds and the swelling went down just as quickly. The whole ordeal didn’t take much longer than a minute, still, for Draco it felt like an eternity.

“There, there,” Madam Pomfrey said and reached for a tub in her bag. As she opened the lid and scooped out a brown cream, she said, “What happened to Miss Granger?”

Draco sat up and rubbed his jaw. Dried blood was the only reminder of his injuries. That, and the splitting headache. Madam Pomfrey swatted at his hand and tsked him as if he were just a little boy.

“You need some Dittany Paste first,” she said and applied the cream onto his face. She worked with gentle but quick fingers.

“I don’t know what happened, I blacked out,” Draco said with a raspy voice.

He scooted over to Hermione before Madam Pomfrey was finished, which made her audibly upset – he didn’t care, though, because how could he worry about his face when Hermione was still not moving? His face contorted as he took a closer look. She had bled from her eyes, her nose, her ears. Acid burned in his throat as his lungs ached, trying to draw a breath, but there was suddenly no air around him. His heart pounded against bone and flesh, it made him want to wretch as he closed his eyes to hinder himself from memorising how broken Hermione looked.

It was all his fault.

He did this to her.

A hand on his shoulder took him out of his spiraling.

“Breathe, boy,” Madam Pomfrey said. “She’s going to be fine. I’ll take care of her.”

“Why are you so calm? Haven’t you seen the way she looks?” Draco hissed, irritation blooming inside of him.

“I’ve got years of experience, Mr. Malfoy. Diagnostics say she’s lost blood, yes, but she’s not hurt. AReplenishing Potion should do the trick.”

Draco hadn’t seen the glowing orb above Hermione before, only his. When Madam Pomfrey pointed up, his gaze was met by the shimmering colours of Hermione’s health chart. He didn’t know much more beyond the basic healing spells they had learned in school, but seeing the overall blue and green hues made him exhale in relief.

She was indeed doing fine.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take your beloved to the Hospital Wing,” Madam Pomfrey said decidedly and summoned a floating stretcher.

“She’s not–” Draco gulped down the words that were about to come out of his mouth. They weren’t true anyway, just an old habit that wanted to make itself present again. “Can I come with you?”

Madam Pomfrey gave him a sorry little smile. “You cannot, I’m afraid. Headmistress McGonagall is waiting for you in her office. As far as my assessment showed, you are not in need of any further medical attention from me. Do rest for the remainder of the day – you have a light concussion.”

With that, the old healer walked out and with her, Hermione followed on the floating stretcher.

Draco entered the Headmistress’s office quietly. The witch welcomed him in, far more composed than when she stormed into his room before. Still, Draco felt the air fizzle with unruly magic – despite her best efforts, he knew that she was deeply upset. When she didn’t look up from the piece of parchment beneath her palm, feathered quill still flying over it hectically, he knew he was in big trouble.

“Don’t bother to sit, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall said. “You and Mr. Weasley are going to spend two hours together every day after classes to write a compelling piece on why unity between the Hogwarts Houses is important in this day and age. Until then, you are both prohibited from leaving the common room after dinner and from visiting Miss Granger.” McGonagall punctuated her words by scratching a long line onto the parchment.

“What? No!” Draco exclaimed, but swallowed his protest upon McGonagall shooting him a vicious glare.

When silence settled into every crook and cranny of the old office, McGonagall nodded, satisfied, and turned her attention back to writing. “Have a pleasant day, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I won‘t,” Draco said under his breath and left.

The day dragged on sluggishly.

Draco sat in a study corner in the Slytherin Common room and stared at the parchment before him. He figured he’d get the essay started to minimise the time spent with Weasel, but his thoughts only circled Hermione. He could still feel her, which was good, he guessed. She was sleeping and was in no pain. Her mind, though, was tumultuous. It paced back and forth, reminiscent of a wild animal. Draco had noticed that it only turned still when they were together.

Theo came back to see him between classes and sat across from him at the table, letting himself plummet onto the chair with a great sigh. He nodded to the empty paper taunting Draco.

“Essay about the importance of inter-house peace?” Theo asked and couldn’t bite back a scoff. “I have to write one with Potter.”

For the first time since the whole drama happened, Draco’s lips curled upward.

“I’ve got Weasley,” Draco said and shook his head.

“Speaking of Weasley, I will get him sooner or later,” Theo said with a nonchalance Draco had always found quite amusing.

“Don’t bother,” Draco replied, nevertheless. “We’re even.”

Theo rose from his seat. “You’re right. He beat up my best friend, so I’ll return the favour.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, but really, he wasn’t surprised. “You’ll start a witch hunt if you’re going for the Boy Who Lived.”

Theo put his hands into the pockets of his robes. A mischievous grin spread across his face. “Oh, but Draco, I won’t hurt him. I’ll fuck him.”

Draco scraped a hand over his face. “No… Theo–”

“Yes, Theo!”

Theo slowly walked backward.

Draco smirked. “Theo!”

“That’s how Potter is going to sound,” Theo said, his volume increasing the further away he got. “Theo! Oh, Theo!”

Some students turned their heads to him, some snickered and giggled, others ignored his shenanigans.

“Don’t you dare, Theodore!” Draco shouted after him and with a half-moaned, half-yelled ‘Yes, Theo!’ his friend vanished.

Draco’s slight improvement in his mood changed drastically when he joined Weasley in the library. He didn’t bother to spare him a look and so Draco didn’t bother to announce his presence by greeting him. Draco sat down next to him and pushed his parchment over to Weasley.

The ginger looked at it as if it were ridden with the plague but read the first few sentences. He took his quill and continued the essay with more good-sounding claims.

Draco read as Weasley wrote. It wasn't profound, not terrible either, so he bit his tongue and continued writing when Weasley gave it back to him.

They finished a five page essay in those two hours and Draco was sure it would satisfy the old Headmistress — but when the boys stood before her in her office and waited for her to finish reading it, she set it on fire.

“Do it again,” McGonagall said and waved a hand to signal the end of their stay.

Both Draco and Weasley groaned, but it was of no use. They left the office and as soon as the stairwell gargoyle stood still, they both erupted in frustrated shouting. They each blamed the other for having to redo the essay, of course, how could they both be at fault? Then, with no further comments, they marched off in opposite directions to their respective common rooms. 

Draco laid wide awake that night. After dinner, his fingers started to tremble again. They itched to feel Hermione’s skin. He needed her to be with him, needed those dark eyes on him – only on him. The absolute despair for her was in every breath he took and worsened with every exhale.  Hermione was awake. He knew. That damned bounding spell made it impossible for him to ignore the signs, the forceful pull that made him want to beg on his knees for just a crumb of her. With shaky hands, he wrote her a note and folded it into a flower. He needed her to know what happened, needed to spill his yearning for her onto paper and ask her for forgiveness. After all, he terribly provoked the Weasel. He sent the flower on its way, hoping the floating charm would suffice.

McGonagall burned the new essay the next day, as well. She did the same thing the next day, and the day after that. On the fourth day – it was a Friday – Weasley finally broke down in the library.

“How many times do we have to do this bloody essay?” he cursed, throwing his quill onto the table.

Draco reached for the parchment and read what Weasley had written.

Slytherins can shove a snake up their arses.

“Great,” Draco huffed. “That’ll help us get out of this, for sure.”

Weasley shot him a sharp look and grunted. Draco rolled his eyes and asked, “What?”

“McGonagall doesn’t care about the essay,” Weasley hissed.

“You think she’s trying to get us to be, what? Friends?” Draco couldn’t help but laugh at the thought.

“Obviously not, Malfoy,” Weasley spat back. “It’s just a tactic to make us talk it out.”

Draco looked up to the ceiling and wished for anything but a conversation about ‘it’. At that moment, a paper airplane flew around the corner of a book shelf and bumped right into the back of Draco’s head. Weasley looked at him with raised eyebrows while he fished the badly-folded paper airplane from the ground. As he unfolded it, neat handwriting revealed itself to him.

Hermione’s handwriting.

Draco,

I’m fine, but Headmistress McGonagall doesn’t want me to leave the Hospital Wing until next week.

I’m so angry at everyone, honestly. I can’t believe you said that to Ron and I can’t believe he hurt you. I thought I was losing you, Draco.

Draco noticed a dried droplet at the end of the sentence, making the ink bleed into the parchment.

I saw something when I touched you. It scared me. We need to talk as soon as possible.

Yours only,

H.

“Did ‘Mione write to you?” Weasley asked when Draco put the paper down on the table, his eyes fixed on it.

“None of your business,” Draco replied and gathered his things, shoving them inside his bag before reaching for Hermione’s message.

“Is she okay?” Weasley continued to ask, his voice trembling just the slightest bit – but still, Draco noticed.

Despite Draco’s upbringing and despite the way he presented himself – he did pity the poor bugger. After all, Draco came in out of the blue and swooped his almost-girlfriend of eight years. Then again, Weasley had eight years to make a move or confess his feelings and still didn’t. How could anyone fall for Hermione Granger and be quiet about it for so long?

“She says she’s fine,” Draco finally said and rose from his chair. “She’s angry at us.”

Weasley exhaled loudly and basically folded into himself on his chair.

“Yeah, I figured that much,” Weasley muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

The silence grew awkward quickly and Draco didn’t want to witness Weasley’s meltdown, so he turned, ready to leave the lonely library. Before he took a step forward, Weasley quietly asked, “Does she love you?”

Draco froze. He hesitated, knowing full-well how much power he had over Weasley right then. He could destroy him with one simple word, worse than all the fists Draco took to his face.

Instead, he answered honestly.

“I don’t know.”

It took everything within Draco not to flee and to confront the situation instead. Having a heated back and forth that ended in flying fists would have been way easier than this. He stifled a groan and turned around at last.

Weasley looked utterly devastated. His pratty demeanor had changed to a broken one.

“Look, Weasley…” Draco started, making the ginger wizard look up. “It’s far more complicated than you think.”

Maybe it was hope that sparked in Weasley’s eyes or maybe just worry, but Draco noticed a slight shift in his expression.

Weasley cleared his throat. “Just – promise me you won’t break her heart,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“I promise,” Draco replied in a heartbeat.

Weasley nodded and his shoulders dropped, Draco returned the nod.

“Alright. See you on Monday, I guess,” Weasley said and with that, Draco left him behind for good – but not to go back to the common room.

Instead he snuck his way to the Hospital Wing, gliding through shadows and vanishing behind a disillusionment charm. Now that four days have passed, it was safer to try to see Hermione. Draco wasn’t stupid enough to break the rules right away, but knowing how McGonagall would leave on Fridays to London for a weekly meeting with Shacklebolt, he knew it was the perfect opportunity.

Right when he wanted to open the winged doors to the hospital, Madam Pomfrey exited through them. She stopped abruptly and inspected her surroundings with a confused look on her face. Draco pressed himself to the stone wall and held his breath. At last, Madam Pomfrey muttered ‘must be tired’ and continued to walk down the hall.

Draco slipped through the doors and counted only one closed bed curtain – Hermione was alone. He quickly got rid of the disillusionment and hurried down the aisle of empty beds. His body ached to feel her again, his blood pumped furiously through his veins and made his vision almost go blurry. He needed her.

As he came to a halt before the drawn curtain, he inhaled. The air was sweet, a faint trace of cherry blossom hung in it.

“Hello?” a soft voice asked from behind.

Draco’s brows drew together, his heart skipping a beat at the realisation. He grabbed the curtain and pulled it aside.

Two brown eyes stared at him.

“Malfoy?”

“Weasley?”

Chapter Text

Draco’s gaze settled upon long, straight hair – fiery red and very much not Hermione’s chocolate brown curls. His sight wandered to light brown eyes next, which stared back at him with hot hatred.

“What are you doing here?” Ginny Weasley hissed. 

She sat up in her hospital bed, a hand pressing onto her side where white bandages kept an injury hidden.

“Where’s Hermione?” Draco asked, his voice barely above a breath, his heart beating wildly beneath his ribs. Something coiled in his stomach at the sight of Ginny, knowing that his girl was supposed to be there instead.

Ginny’s neatly plucked brows pulled together. “I don’t know–” She sucked in a sharp breath, pain written across her face. “I woke up just before you got here.”

She let herself fall back into the pillow and groaned in discomfort.

“What happened to you?” Draco asked against his better judgment.

“Crawley’s Crawling Coup,” Ginny replied and closed her eyes. “What does it matter to you, anyway? Just because you have something going on with Hermione?" The ginger witch scoffed.

Draco remained silent. She was right, it didn’t matter to him. Maybe, in some other timeline where there hadn’t been a war and he had been raised differently, where they all could have been just kids – Hermione and him could have been a couple and Ginny and him could have been… friends.

Not in this timeline, though. Not because he didn’t want to. He had always wished for nothing but a normal childhood, actually. But the truth was, that even if Hermione wanted to stay with him, he knew her friends would never accept him. He couldn’t blame them – he was well aware of his faults. It was just something he would change if he could turn back time.

Draco nodded then turned, but before he left, he looked over his shoulder.

“Crawley’s Crawling Coup only works with a light broom.”

The witch looked at him, puzzled.

He didn’t wait for Ginny’s answer, his legs already carrying him out of the Hospital Wing and through the castle’s halls. Some students crossed his path, whispered suspicions getting shared between the various groups that Draco rushed past. He didn’t care if he looked mad – he felt the part. Panic bloomed in his sternum and he placed a hand on it absentmindedly.

Something was wrong.

He could feel it. Right there, in the nape of his neck.

Much worse – he halted abruptly and leaned on the cold stone of the dungeon’s walls – he noticed the absence of Hermione.

Usually, he had this… instinct. A pull of threads, a magnetic force, maybe just pure magic which drove him to where she was. 

It wasn’t there.

Why wasn’t it there?

How hadn’t he noticed?

Being cut off from her wasn't just a loss of her familiar presence or the uncertainty of her whereabouts. The snap of the thread connecting him to her resembled a lifeline torn to shreds. Without it he'd crumble. Inside his chest his heart stuttered, the time between beats growing further. His lungs burned as if on fire, yearning for air.

Draco’s hand trembled as he reached for her note in the breast pocket of his shirt. He unfolded it and read it again and again and again–

“Draco?” a deep voice spoke next to him.

Draco jerked away slightly and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his robes.

“Greg,” Draco muttered as he tried to calm his breathing.

The broad wizard put a hand on Draco’s shoulder and gave him a concerned look.

“We should get back,” Greg said and led Draco to the entry of their common room.

Inside, almost the entirety of Slytherin was gathered – it was a Friday, after all. One group was all huddled up in a corner, their bursts of laughter filling the room as they played rounds of Exploding Snap. Another sat in front of the hearth, sipping on hot tea and nibbling on biscuits. All the tables with boards of Wizard's Chess were taken, the players deep in tactical thoughts. Pansy looked up from her game and gave Draco a smile – he quickly averted his gaze.

Since their first year at Hogwarts, Pansy Parkinson had set her heart and mind on Draco. It had annoyed him immensely at first, he didn’t care much about most girls at the sweet age of eleven. But then, right after the summer he turned thirteen, his hormones had driven him quite bonkers, random erections during classes making his life uncomfortable and awkward. For the first time, he saw the girls around him with different eyes. They had curves. Some more, some less. They had scents – from sweet to citrusy to wooden. They carried themselves so differently and Draco was utterly overwhelmed. Pansy noticed. She always noticed. He didn’t say anything when she pulled him behind a tapestry and pressed her lips against his. He didn’t say anything when she took his virginity on a random Tuesday night during their summer stay in France after fourth year.

He just let it all happen, even though it never felt right.

It wasn’t the same with Hermione. With Hermione, his entire world came crashing down. Hermione was the sun and he was the moon, rotating around her. She was his air that made living bearable.

Maybe it was all due to the ritual, or maybe, he thought with a terrifying realisation, he actually loved Hermione.

Greg and Draco walked past the students and through the door to the dormitories. When they reached their room and the door fell into its hinges behind Draco, he exhaled loudly.

Theo, who was lounging on his bed, looked up from his book.

Draco rubbed the back of his neck and took a few steps toward his own bed, then turned around again and headed for the door. He held the knob in his hand, turned it, then let go of it again and leaned his head against the wood.

Another great sigh escaped him.

“I found him like that outside the common room,” Greg explained to Theo, who huffed in response

“What’s wrong, Draco?” Theo asked and Draco turned around, leaned his back against the door and slid down to the ground, where he buried his hands into his hair.

Greg and Theo exchanged confused looks.

“Come on, spit it out – it can’t be that bad,” Greg urged.

“I went to visit Granger in the Hospital Wing,” Draco said, not moving from his crouched position.

“And?” Theo asked and Greg followed with, “Did she break it off with you?”

Draco groaned.

“No – I wish – she’s gone.”

“Gone?” Theo and Greg repeated in unison.

“Gone. One moment she was there and wrote me a note and then the other… she vanished.”

“Well, maybe she got released from the Hospital Wing,” Theo said.

“Why don’t you ask the war heroes where she is? They usually come as a package,” Greg suggested.

“Actually, I was about to meet Ha–Potter for that… essay,” Theo clearly lied, but Draco couldn’t bother with it right now.

Draco looked up to him. “I’m coming with you.”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Theo asked and Greg decided to jump onto his bed.

Draco stood and dusted himself off. Enough was enough, he had to get a grip and get to the bottom of this.

“I’m not, let’s go,” he said, looking at Theo expectantly. Theo wailed in agony – it might have been just a sigh of inconvenience really – and got up.

Draco held his hand out. “I promise I’ll leave you two alone as soon as possible so you can snog.”

Theo rolled his eyes and clapped his palm against Draco’s as they shook on it. “Fine.”

“What do you mean Hermione’s gone?” Potter looked between Draco and Theo as they stood behind the History section in the library, hidden from Madam Pince’s glaring eyes and all-hearing ears.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and stifled a flood of curses.

“She was supposed to be at the Hospital Wing, she wrote to me–” Draco pulled her note out and flailed it around. “She wrote that McGonagall isn’t letting her leave.”

“And?” Potter asked, side-eyeing Theo, who shrugged at him.

“I went to go see her and she wasn’t there anymore,” Draco hissed.

His confusion bordered on rage now, his thoughts racing in an ever-turning circle. It was clear to him that Hermione was in danger, but how was he supposed to explain it to them? No one was listening.

“Fuck it,” Draco said and walked off.

Swishing robes and hasty feet followed him through the library.

“Where are you going?” Potter asked.

“I’m seeing McGonagall,” Draco snapped back, earning a sharp shush! from Madam Pince as they walked past her desk.

“We’re coming with you,” Potter said decisively.

“We are?” Theo asked in surprise. “What about… our essay?”

“By all means, Theodore, if Malfoy's concerned about Hermione’s safety, I’m trusting his judgment,” Harry spoke behind Draco, his tone carrying a worried note.

Theo huffed but kept quiet.

As the boys turned a corner, Draco almost crashed into Longbottom, who carried a root of some sort.

“Godric, watch it, Malfoy!” Neville shouted as Draco rushed past him with a whirlwind. 

“Wait–”

Another pair of stomping feet joined them.

“What’s going on?” Longbottom asked, out of breath.

“We’re looking for Hermione,” Potter explained.

“Why? What happened?”

“Malfoy wanted to visit her in the Hospital Wing, says she wasn’t there, even though she was supposed to be.”

“I didn’t see her in the common room, if you’re trying to find her there.”

“We’re heading to the Headmistress,” Theo chimed in.

“Okay,” Longbottom said. “I’m joining you.”

“Great,” Draco said, sarcasm encasing every word, “Why don’t you go ahead and call for the Weasel, too?”

“Stop calling me Weasel, you proper bell end,” another voice called from behind.

Draco halted and turned, staring into four pairs of eyes now – one belonging to Weasley. Draco scoffed.

“This has to be a joke,” Draco moaned. “Where did you even come from?”

“I saw you all running around,” Weasley said and crossed his arms.

“I don’t have time for this,” Draco said under his breath and decided to set off again. Still, everyone followed.

He heard Potter explain the situation to Weasley, who started to curse and barrage him with questions until he was quiet, too.

The group came to a halt in front of the stairwell Gargoyle to McGonagall’s office. Draco stepped in and wanted to announce the password, instead, McGonagall emerged behind the others.

“Four out of five of you aren’t supposed to be roaming the castle after dinner,” the old hag said, making the rest of them turn to her in surprise. “I supposed this is about something urgent?”

Four heads turned back to Draco with expectant looks on their faces.

Draco stepped out again and took a breath. He wanted to scream in frustration.

“Where is Miss Granger?” Draco asked, keeping his temper at a bay.

McGonagall’s eyebrows sprung up in surprise.

“It isn’t any of your concern, Mister Malfoy,” she replied and moved forward, making the group part on each side of her.

“It is, Headmistress McGonagall,” Malfoy said. “She is supposed to be in the Hospital Wing, being cared after by Madam Pomfrey.”

“Well, if it eases your mind – Minister Shacklebolt took Hermione to see her parents, as there was an emergency. Now, if you don’t wish for more detention, I would advise you to return to your respective common rooms now.”

Draco furrowed his brow.

“The Minister?” he asked, but Theo pulled his elbow and he staggered backward.

“Come on,” Theo whispered softly but with urgency in his voice.

McGonagall gave Draco a pointed look, then turned and stepped into the stairwell.

The group turned, too, heading back to the common rooms.

“See, there’s nothing wrong with Hermione,” Weasley said and looked at Potter, “I told you he was obsessed.”

“Why should the Minister himself occupy himself with Hermione’s parents? You really buy that?” Draco sneered. “And anyway, I would have been first to know if anyone was to visit her parents.”

Weasley shot him a wide-eyed look. “How?”

Draco bit his tongue, knowing he couldn’t possibly explain everything. His shame was far too great.

“Spit it out, Malfoy,” Potter urged.

“We could go to St. Mungo’s and look for them,” Longbottom suggested.

“How? McGonagall won’t let us use the Floo,” Potter replied.

The beat of Draco’s heart staggered just like his feet. The tempo of his pace slowed, the walls of the castle tilted, and when he thought he was about to black out, his hands shot out to Theo. His friend looked at him with surprise, then worry, steadying Draco with a tight grip around his shoulders.

Longbottom was the first to notice, followed by Potter and then Weasley.

“What’s wrong?” Longbottom asked and turned around to walk back to Draco and Theo.

Draco was certain he was going insane, his lungs were not working right – his breath coming in short and shallow in- and exhales. His heart beat fast and loud in his ears, drowning the voices around him. He put a hand on his chest.

“I think he’s having a panic attack,” Potter said, surprised.

“Yeah, looks like it,” Longbottom said and started to rumble through his pockets.

“Mate,” Theo whispered to Draco and took his face into his palms to turn his head up. “Breathe. In–” Theo took a deep breath and Draco tried to follow. “And out–” Theo exhaled long and Draco did the same.

They did this for a few minutes until Draco calmed down. Longbottom held out his hand and presented some dried leaves. Draco gave him a questionable look.

“Dried dittany,” Longbottom explained. “Helps with anxiety.”

Draco reached for it, but didn’t know what to do with it.

“Chew it.”

Longbottom could poison Draco for all he knew –and honestly, he had all the reasons to – but Hermione trusted him, so Draco trusted him, too. He stuffed the leaves into his mouth and began to chew, the bitterness spreading quickly across his tongue.

“Malfoy, what the fuck is going on?” Weasley finally asked. “You’ve even got me worried.”

Draco closed his eyes and let the dittany calm his frazzled nervous system. With a few more breaths, he prepared to tell them the truth – the trial, the contract, the ritual.

“I’ll tell you, but not here. Meet me in front of the Slytherin common room at midnight,” Draco suggested.

Weasley shook his head no. “I’m not going down there. Come to our common room.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

“I told you,” Weasley spat. “I bloody told you something was off with Hermione.”

Potter scrubbed a palm down his face, his glasses in his other hand. The mismatched group sat in the lousy common room just as they had agreed. It was well after midnight now. Draco had went through everything that happened since signing that damned contract with the Wizengamot – leaving out the sexual details, even though he really wanted to rub it into Weasley’s face – feeling more and more light-headed as he went on.

By the end of it, the others were speechless – either staring at the carpet or at Draco.

“This is so…” Potter uttered, “fucked up.”

“So, that’s why Hermione had this – seizure? When I–” Weasley started to stutter, “When I–”

“When you almost killed Draco? Yeah,” Theo hissed, crossing his arms before his chest and leaning back into one of the worn-out, dirty armchairs.

“What seizure?” Draco turned to Theo. “Why haven’t you told me?”

“She touched you and then her eyes rolled to the back of her skull and–” Potter closed his eyes. “Blood streamed out of her eyes and mouth and…”

He rubbed his eyes and left them closed.

“Great.” Draco wanted to walk out of the castle and down the hill to the lake, wade into the biting cold water and drown. He let his head hit the cushion of the grimy sofa that faced the fireplace and stared at the ceiling.

What have I done?

Draco used to ask himself that question on a daily basis. As a child, he once overheard his father talk to Draco’s piano teacher.

“Utterly useless, that boy,” Lucius had said without an ounce of emotion, it was just… a fact. “Can’t even hit a few keys without it sounding like a tragedy.”

Draco was five years old.

Five.

Still, he asked himself what he had done wrong and how he could improve so he’d earn his father’s approval.

Now, he didn’t ask himself what he had done wrong, because he knew – accepting that fucking deal with the Wizengamot – but still, he asked himself how he could change the trajectory of this disaster.

Weasley pushed off the window sill he leaned on.

“Should have trusted my gut feeling,” Weasley muttered, then shot Draco a disgusted look. “If something – anything – happens to Hermione, I swear to Merlin–”

“We had a plan,” Draco interrupted. Weasley was right to be upset, even if it annoyed Draco.

“A plan?” Longbottom repeated. The poor bugger looked like he had aged five years since listening to Draco’s revelation.

“Hermione said she had ties to Rita Skeeter,” Draco said.

“Ties? More like, terrified her into submission,” Weasley said and shook his head.

“I’m beginning to see why you like her,” Theo interjected but only earned rolling eyes and huffs.

“How is she supposed to help?” Potter asked

“Since the Ministry is trying to keep the Purity Act hush-hush, Hermione wanted Skeeter to do a piece on it. She guessed the binding spell would be made undone once the public found out. She thought the outrage would force the Ministry’s hand.”

Draco looked into the round, expecting some sort of resistance – it never came.

“Do you have evidence?” Potter asked and polished his glasses with the fabric of his t-shirt.

“I do,” Draco replied. “The contract.”

Draco stood up from his sunken-in cushion and started to pace in front of the hearth. His chest still felt like it was being constricted by tight rope.

“I’m leaving tonight to get the contract,” Draco said decisively, more thinking aloud rather than telling the group.

“I’m coming with you,” Weasley announced.

“Fuck off, Weasley,” Draco said drily.

“No, Malfoy, you fuck off. I’m doing this for Hermione.”

“I don’t need you with me, what I actually need is for you to find Skeeter. I’ll bring you the contract for Skeeter and then I’m going to look for Hermione.”

The two stood close now, having stepped closer as they spoke. Weasley’s blue eyes flicked between the greys of his.

“Fine,” Weasley said. “You better find her.”

“Okay, lads – let’s not use Granger’s disappearance for a cock-off,” Theo said and stood up from his armchair. “Shall we, Draco?”

Theo nodded toward the comical entry hole.

“You’re joining me?” Draco asked, surprised.

“Of course, I am. You’ll be quicker finding Granger if I bring the contract to the others,” Theo replied nonchalantly. “Let’s go.”

Draco looked back at the group of Gryffindors. He couldn’t help but feel a sudden wash of gratitude. He bit his inner cheek.

“Go,” Potter said. “Send a Patronus when you find her.”

“I’ll try,” Draco replied, knowing he had never managed to summon his own Patronus. “Err – thanks for your help.”

“We’re helping because of Hermione,” Weasley clarified, flexing his jaw.

“I know,” Draco replied and stood.

Suddenly, the room tilted. Draco ignored the strange dizziness that clouded his mind.

“Still, I wanted to say thank you–” he tried to continue saying, but when he took his first step, he stumbled over his own feet.

“Malfoy?” Longbottom asked, concerned.

Draco steadied himself on the backrest of the couch. His vision went blurry. A high-pitched ringing threatened to drown out everything else.

“Fine – I’m – tired,” Draco muttered and wanted to walk over to Theo.

“Malfoy!”

“Draco!”

Draco faltered, collapsing onto the carpeted floor with a loud thud. He knew he was there, on the ground, but at the same time, he hovered.

He hovered between the tree canopies of the Forbidden Forest. The ground was frozen, silvery frost turning the sparse grass crisp. Draco looked down, searching for his body, but there wasn’t one. Instead, he saw them.

Shacklebolt and Twyll.

They stood before a stone slab. Draco was drawn to it with an uncontrollable force, something pulled him closer and he couldn’t resist. When he finally saw what laid upon it, he wanted to scream.

His girl.

Hermione.

ᛞᛁᛋᛏᚪᚾᚳᛖ ᚹᛁᛚᛚᚩᚾᛚᛁ ᚪᛚᛚᚩᚹ ᛈᚪᛁᚾ

Distance will only allow pain.

ᛁᚠ ᚩᚾᛖ ᛋᚻᛖᛞᛋᚦᛖ ᛒᛚᚩᚩᛞ ᚩᚠᛈᚱᚩᛗᛁᛋᛖ

If one sheds the blood of promise

ᛏᚻᛖᚩᚦᛖᚱᛋ ᛋᚩᚢᛚ ᚹᛁᛚᛚᚠᛚᛖᛖ

the other’s soul will flee.

ᛁᚠ ᚦᛖᛁᚱᛖᛗᛠᚾᛏ ᛏᚩ ᛒᛖ

If they’re meant to be,

ᚾᚩ ᚪᛗᚩᚢᚾᛏ ᚩᚠᛒᛚᚩᚩᛞ

no amount of blood

ᚳᚪᚾᛏᚢᚱᚾ ᛒᚪᚳᚳᛏᛁᛗᛖ

can turn back time.

ᛒᛖᚻᚩᛚᛞ ᚦᛖᚹᚱᚪᚦ ᚩᚠ ᚦᛖᛒᚩᚾᛞ

Behold the wrath of the bond.

ᛁᛏ ᚹᛁᛚᛚ ᛏᚪᚳᛖ

It will take.

ᛁᛏ ᚹᛁᛚᛚ ᛈᚢᚾᛁᛋᚻ

It will punish.

During war, Hermione had often laid in the darkness of the tent while Harry and Ron were fast asleep. She wondered if it would be her last night, if someone would finally find them and then it would be all over. She wondered what her last thought would be. When she planned for her death just weeks before, she thought she’d get an answer to it.

Instead, she got it laying on cold stone in the Forbidden Forest.

She thought about her parents, how they might never remember her now that she would die.

She thought about her friends. How they would never come to learn what happened to her. How she should have appreciated them more and should have been a better friend to them in general.

As Twyll turned her petrified body around and brushed her curls out of her neck, Hermione’s mind wandered off.

It found Draco in the chaos of it all.

She remembered his scent, the way his fingers would play with her curls. How he would look at her with utter adoration and she didn’t even realise it.

“Do you miss your father?” Hermione asked him as they walked up and down the aisle of St Mungo’s.

He held her up as she wobbled on her legs, trying not to buckle in. Draco scoffed.

“Strangely, I do. He was catastrophic as a father, even worse than he was a husband. He deserves to be in Azkaban, but–” Draco paused and kind of looked to the side so Hermione couldn’t see him well. “But so do I. But I’m free and I don’t understand why they chose me– I mean, us–”

“You didn’t have much of a choice, Voldemort lived at Malfoy Manor,” Hermione interjected, feeling impossibly protective about him.

“I had lots of choices and I chose wrong every time. Since coming to Hogwarts, I’ve always done the wrong thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted to be Potter’s friend,” Draco laughed, “but chose to demean Weasley before introducing myself. Who would want to be friends with someone like that?”

“You were eleven, Draco.”

Draco looked down at Hermione with a sorrowful smile.

“I was born into hate, but no matter the age, I knew the wrongs I was doing. And I still continued to do so, just because I was scared.”

“You may have had the privilege of wealth, but a child needs love, too, Draco. The adults in your life failed you. You made mistakes and I can see how you’re doing your best to not be your father.”

“I’m so sorry, Hermione,” Draco whispered. They had stopped walking during their conversation, Draco had an arm wrapped around Hermione’s waist so she could rest.

“For what?”

“For saying – that word to you, for harassing you and being the worst kind of person I could have been. You didn’t deserve any of it, of course, you didn’t – you don’t need me to say that but –”

Hermione reached to his cheek where a tear left a trail of regret.

“I accept your apology and I forgive you.”

“I don’t deserve it, I don’t deserve you.”

“Just take it already or I’ll run away from you again,” Hermione joked and demanded a kiss by tilting her face up.

“Gods,” Draco uttered, the look he gave her was so tender and honest.

He curled his free hand around the nape of her neck and leaned in to meet her lips with his.

Cold fingers pressed onto Hermione’s neck, bringing her back to the present. It was dark in the forest, only the wands of Shacklebolt and Twyll illuminating their surroundings.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Shacklebolt asked quietly.

“We need to move on to other subjects, this clearly didn’t work out,” Twyll hissed back. “Hand me the knife!”

“Fine.”

After a moment, metal pressed into Hermione’s skin. The sharp end perforated her skin with ease and blood trickled down her neck as Twyll drew a line with the blade. It hurt, it did, but Hermione didn’t register pain. Instead, she fled into her memories. She built them high like a fortress where she could stay forever.

In the silence of the forest, she faintly heard a twig break. Or maybe, just maybe, it was just her imagination. A wish?

“She’s bleeding too much,” Shacklebolt said, worried.

“She has to bleed his blood or else the bond won’t be broken,” Twyll replied as if it were just a normal fact to state.

Crack!

Another twig broke somewhere in the depths of the forest.

“Who’s there?” Shacklebolt shouted and his voice echoed.

Hermione was still turned sideways, staring at the same spot of trees since waking up. She had been laying in the Hospital Wing before and then suddenly, after writing a note to Draco, she hadn’t anymore. The tree closest to her was an old Scots pine.

Her dad used to take her to the forest and teach her about the different kinds of trees. She never understood why, but now she missed those days. She missed her parents.

The warmth of her own blood made her aware that she had lost plenty of it – too much probably – and when her eyes began to flutter shut, the only thing she thought of was how tired she had been.

Still, she didn’t want to die. Of course, she didn’t. There were too many things left unsaid.

She wanted to tell her parents that she was their daughter, she wanted to listen to her friends and laugh and cry with them.

The sharp pang of sorrow rattled through her as she concluded that she wanted to tell Draco her feelings. They were real, they were the truth.

She didn’t care about the ritual and the bond anymore, because she wanted nothing more than to be with Draco.

Determination got a hold of her as she forced herself to stay conscious. This was not the end of her, no matter what.

Electrifying magic sparked up within her.

In her thoughts, one spell rang as a steady mantra.

Finite incantatem. Finite incantatem. Finite incantatem.

The more Hermione repeated it, the less her body seemed to be made out of stone. When she tried, she could wiggle her toes in her shoes. She remained still, not to alert Twyll and Shacklebolt.

Her mind raced, trying to come up with a plan. She didn’t have her wand, and risking a wandless spell could fire back and hurt her instead.

Another crack disturbed the silence of the night. Now able to move, Hermione’s eyes instinctively shot toward the noise – and were met by darkened plates of grey.

Draco.

Her Draco.

He raised a hand and signed for her to be quiet. A tear escaped and ran down her cheek. He reached out and caught it.

“Stupefy!” someone yelled behind her. The voice conjured memories of shared tea before a roaring fire. Ron?

A thud indicated something heavy hitting the ground.

Without thinking, Hermione jumped off the stone slab and tumbled down to Draco, who caught her fall.

“I’ve got you,” he panted and stroked her hair out her face. “I’m here.”

Hermione could only nod, as he stood abruptly and shoved her behind himself. Hermione staggered backward.

There they stood in a circle; Hermione and Draco, Nott, Neville, Harry and Ron.

In the middle, a lanky woman with a stern, blonde bun stood with her wand raised. She turned slowly, facing her opponents one by one.

Hermione realised it Twyll, the woman who seemed to be most adamant of forcing the Purity Act.

“Mister Malfoy,” Twyll said when she faced him and Hermione, “and Miss Granger? My – and here I thought the bond didn’t work.” She scoffed.

“It didn’t,” Draco said calmly. “I can’t feel her anymore.”

Hermione held her breath.

“What a pity,” Twyll said with fake compassion. “This makes you two useless to the Ministry.”

Two things happened at the same time.

Twyll fired a spell, red, hot and angry – Draco parried it with such ease, that Twyll raised her brows in surprise.

A smirk appeared on Draco’s face and Hermione knew that look. It was the same as when he sat on his broom and finally caught a glimpse of the snitch.

Quick and silent was the movement of his attack, the blue lightning hit Twyll’s chest, making her freeze in time. Her widened eyes stared back at them.

“Hermione!” Ron stumbled forward, followed by Harry, Neville, and Theo.

When he saw her entangled with Draco, he stopped in his tracks. His eyes shot back and forth before he took another step.

“You're bleeding,” he said and Neville swiftly walked around her and Draco and asked her to keep her hair out of the way.

Hermione reached up, but Draco let go of her and gently pulled her hair back instead, earning a glare from Ron.

He seemed more on edge than usual.

“Can I put some healing paste on it?” Neville asked from behind.

Hermione nodded.

When Neville applied the paste, a sharp stinging traveled down her neck through her spine and left Hermione shivering.

“What are you all doing here?” Hermione asked.

“Malfoy told us about the Purity Act,” Ron said, bitterness clinging to his words.

“Oh,” Hermione whispered.

“We don’t have time for that right now,” Harry said and nodded toward the petrified and unconscious bodies of Shacklebolt and Twyll.

“We’re all going to end up as Dementor-fodder,” Theo muttered.

Ron cursed.

Hermione let go of Draco and stepped closer to the unmoving forms of them. Disgust mirrored in her face.

“I know exactly what we’ll do with them.”

Chapter Text

Hermione looked into the faces of five young men, all staring back at her. She would have never thought that they would all show up for her. Somehow, her gratitude mixed with intense guilt.

“You don’t have to help, guys,” she said. “Don’t get yourself in trouble for me.”

“Well, I’m kind of the reason why you’re in this situation in the first place. The least I can do is help,” Draco said.

“No way you’re doing this alone,” Harry added and Nott just whispered, “Fine… The things you do for love.” Harry snorted, trying to bite back a grin.

Hermione really needed to ask what was going on between them. That would have to wait, though.

“What’s the plan?” Neville asked and Ron nudged Shacklebolt with his foot and said, “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind putting the old man in his place.“

Hermione nodded and instructed them to levitate the petrified bodies of Shacklebolt and Twyll, marching through the forest ahead of them.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked, his head slightly bent down to her,speaking in a low voice.

“I’m fine, really,” Hermione assured. “My neck hurts a bit, but that’s all.”

Draco’s hand reached for Hermione, but he stopped himself mid-air and cleared his throat. She stole a glance at him and immediately recognised the look on his face. She had seen it when he sat beside her hospital bed, staring into the distance with absent eyes. He was deep in his own thoughts.

Hermione looped her arm around his.

“Is it okay if I hold on?”

“Of course.” A faint smile hushed over his face.

The group continued in silence – out of the forest and across the school grounds, until they reached the entrance gates near Hogsmeade station. There, they restrained them against the metal bars with Incarcerous.

“What now, ‘Mione?” Ron asked, his wand poking Shacklebolt’s throat roughly. “I should beat him up.” In lieu of violence, he spat on him. “Filthy traitor.”

Draco hummed. “I agree.”

“I don’t know about that, guys,” Neville murmured and Nott just stood there, his face chalky.

“No.” Hermione shook her head. “They will get what they deserve. I just want everyone to know the truth.”

“How?” Harry asked. He stole a worried glance at Nott, which Hermione couldn’t quite place.

“Draco, do you still have the contract?” she asked.

It was still dark out when Hermione finally sat down, her head exploding with thoughts, memories, and questions. Neville had tended to her wound properly in the common room as the group settled before the fire to decompress. Draco had insisted on her sleeping in his dorm, but Hermione had ensured that she was fine and they all needed rest. So he had nodded, given her a kiss on her forehead and left to the dungeons with Nott.

“How are you?” Ron asked, genuine worry manifesting as deep ridges between his brows.

Hermione wondered if she should lie. It had become such a reflex to hide her true feelings, but she couldn’t anymore. Everything had been turned inside-out, laid bare in front of her closest friends to see. There was no good in hiding.

She looked into Ron’s familiar blue eyes and gave him a somber smile.

“I’m not doing great, to be honest,” she said. “The war… our time hunting Horcruxes and the battle… we lost so many. Now this whole ordeal… It’s too much.”

She looked away and into the glowing flames. Saying it out loud made it real, and seeing the pain in Ron’s eyes only made it worse.

“The past few months have been the worst of my life.”

“I’m sorry…” Ron whispered. “I should have protected you.”

“I don’t mean because of Draco. I know how it looks from the outside. But it’s not just because we were bound together.”

“How can you know if it’s real?” Ron reached for her hand and slid it into his palms. She looked at him in surprise. He took a shaky breath. “I just want you to be happy. If that is with me, with anyone else, or with Draco bloody Malfoy–” He smiled but his gaze remained on their hands. “So be it. The only thing that matters is your happiness. But please–” His eyes shot up to hers. “Make sure that you actually like him. Please don’t rely on a binding spell. If it’s broken now, test the connection.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but closed it again.

Ron was right.

“Enough of that,” Ron said and let go of her. His missing warmth left her skin tingling. “We need to look after you. Like you all did for me.”

Harry sat on the other side of Hermione and put his arm around her shoulders.

“You’ll never get rid of us, you know,” Harry said with a grin. “We’re the Golden Trio. Forever.”

“Oh, shut up,” Hermione joked, but her heart – it didn’t feel as heavy as it used to.

That night, the so-called Golden Trio fell asleep on the carpet in front of the crackling fire.

When Hermione woke, the carpet had been transformed into a mattress and the old quilt had been draped over them.

“I thought you might enjoy a good night’s rest,” Neville said, sitting on the armchair with a cup of tea and the Daily Prophet. “You’ll need your energy for what’s to come.”

He extended the paper to her.

Upon unfolding it, the picture of Shacklebolt and Twyll – gagged and fixated to the gates, with the Purity Act contract floating as a howler in front of them – revealed itself to her.

THE INSIDIOUS PURITY ACT: WIZENGAMOT ENTANGLED IN BLACK MAGIC BINDING RITUAL

Hermione bit back a smile. Finally, the truth was out.

Rita Skeeter had been the one to find them first – right at the dusk of dawn. Hermione despised the witch but she did appreciate her working morale. If there was a sensational story waiting for her, she would not waste a minute to get to it.

During the time it took for the rest of the press to catch on, students had spilled out of the castle and made their way down to Hogsmeade to get a glimpse of the Minister for Magic and the Wizengamot chair member who had yet to be released from their binds.

“Did you hear the howler?”

“Absolutely mad! They sold someone to Malfoy!”

“He didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Who did he get bound to?”

“Hermione Granger, supposedly. Of all the people!”

The event disrupted the entire morning schedule of the school with McGonagall having to shoo away the ever-growing audience. When Aurors finally showed up, they warded around the gates so no one could get any closer. As additional precaution, they added the disillusionment charms, making the last of the spectators disappear out of boredom.

By noon, they were gone – both Shacklebolt and Twyll not to be seen anymore.

Hermione and Draco were called to the Headmistress’ office. McGonagall sat there, stiff as ever, but her face – her eyes glistened and the tip of her nose was red, as if she had been crying.

“I am deeply disappointed that something like this could have happened under my supervision,” McGonagall said and clasped her hands together on her desk.

“I hope you both know that, if I had known, I would have—” Her voice wavered ever so slightly. “I am sorry that I wasn’t able to protect you. If you need some time off from school, please be sure that it is no problem.”

Draco and Hermione exchanged quick looks, then shook their heads no. Maybe that was a dumb decision, but Hermione knew that it was inevitable. The whole spectacle was going to happen, she would rather get it over with sooner than later.

“Are you okay?” Draco asked when they left the Headmistress’ office.

They stood shoulder to shoulder while the Gargoyle staircase twisted to bring them down.

“I don’t know, are you?”

“I don’t know either,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” Hermione whispered and turned to face him.

“For what?”

“You know, saving my life.”

“Hermione.” He raised his hands and took her face into his palms gently, one hand stroking some rogue curls from her cheek. “That was the least I could have done.”

Her eyes stung while she tried to ignore the lump in her throat.

Before they could continue their conversation, the Gargoyle turned one last time and revealed them to a bunch of students, who had been waiting for a front row view.

“Salazar, they’re actually bound to each other!”

“He’s holding her!”

“That is vile…”

Draco’s face turned to stone as his hand dropped and Hermione felt a sharp pang in her chest – so he was ashamed of her.

Instead of rushing away and leaving her behind, he took her hand and bent down to her ear.

“How about we get out of here?” Draco asked.

Hermione nodded and in an instant, she was being pulled behind him as he shoved the gawkers away. As soon as they broke out of the mass of students, they just ran.

They ran through the halls, past everyone and everything and for the first time since forever, Hermione could feel it.

The weight she carried since war dropped off her back as her feet carried her forward. Forward to a future where war was truly over. Where she didn’t have to pretend anymore. Where her choices were made by herself, only herself.

In that instance, a laugh escaped her and Draco looked back, his hair flying around as their speed increased. His face lit up like a fire igniting.

They ran and ran, until they stumbled through the dungeons and finally came to a halt in the Slytherin common room. Apart from one or two students, it was empty. Draco held Hermione tightly as they crossed the space to get to the dormitories. As soon as they entered his room, they kicked off their shoes and collapsed onto his bed. 

The curtains were drawn, charms were in place and the both of them laid there with arms and legs tangled. Their chests moved up and down in unison. Hermione craned her neck so she could look at Draco, who was stroking her back in peaceful bliss, eyes closed and a smile curling his lips.

Her eyelids grew heavy quickly. The exhaustion finally caught up with her. It lulled her into a heavy blanket, made her breath shallow and finally, she slipped into a dreamless slumber.

Hermione stirred in her bed – no, Draco’s bed, she realised. She scraped a hand down her face while memories of blood and spells crashed over her.

“Hey,” Draco murmured into her curls. He was still holding her, her head pressed against his chest.

She groaned. Everything hurt. Her neck, her limbs, her head was splitting from a murderous ache.

“I feel terrible,” Hermione said, her voice raspy. “I don’t know if I can attend class today.”

A soft chuckle escaped Draco, making Hermione’s head lightly bob on his chest.

“What?” Hermione quipped.

“Nothing.” He gave her a cheeky smile.

“No – go on, say it.” Hermione poked his side, which made him twitch with a laugh. He grabbed her hand and guided it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on her knuckles.

“I’m in awe of you, that’s all,” he whispered against her skin, his eyes locked on hers. “You’re still thinking about your education even after all that happened.”

“Aren’t you?” Hermione asked, surprised.

His eyes dropped down to their entangled bodies and up again.

“No.”

Heat spread low in Hermione's stomach, but the pounding in her skull immediately put an end to it. She closed her eyes in quiet suffering. Draco slipped away, swishing curtains indicating him getting up and out of bed – Hermione stayed put, not able to move.

“I’m getting you some Calming Draught and tea—” Draco announced. “One sugar and a ridiculous amount of milk, right?”

“Actually,” Hermione murmured half into the pillow, “coffee would be better.”

Draco stroked the side of her face before kissing her cheek.

“I’ll be right back.”

Hermione hummed. She heard Draco talk to someone – maybe Nott – before the door opened and closed. It took Draco an awful long time to get back and when he returned, Hermione woke up from a nap. She stretched and yawned as he sat down beside her.

He handed her the vial of Calming Draught and said, “Drink.”

She did as he commanded and uncorked the vial, quickly downing the Draught. The liquid traveled down her throat with an exceptionally fast effect and in an instant, her pain was numbed and peace spread within her.

She let her head fall back onto the plush pillow. Her body, though freed of its aching, demanded more rest. Her eyes fell close once more.

“How long has she been sleeping for?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” Draco’s voice carried over to Hermione, who was slowly waking up.

“Over a day?”

“Yes.”

“That honestly doesn’t surprise me.”

Hermione sat up and cleared her throat.

“I’m awake,” she said. It was the first time she didn’t feel like going back to sleep right away.

Draco opened the curtain, Madam Pomfrey standing close behind, her hands clasped together.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “I was starting to worry so I called for Madam Pomfrey.”

“I’m doing a lot better,” Hermione replied. “I think I just needed rest.”

“May I?” Madam Pomfrey asked and scooted past Draco. She didn’t wait for an answer from Hermione, quickly casting her diagnostics. The chart was clear, blue and green colours illuminating the space.

“Looks good,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Do you feel pain? Are you nauseous? Any black liquid that you have been coughing up?”

Hermione shook her head.

“Sounds like you needed rest, indeed,” Madam Pomfrey dusted her Healer robes off. “But if you notice anything, don’t hesitate to come to me.”

Hermione nodded.

Madam Pomfrey grabbed her kit and made her way to the door. Before leaving, she looked over her shoulder and said, “I won’t tell the Headmistress that you slept in the wrong dormitory. But I won’t keep your secret the next time.”

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione and Draco said in unison. She left and the both of them were alone again.

Hermione looked at Draco, who had sat on the bed again. His hair was thoroughly tousled, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and his tie loose around his neck.

“You look–” she started.

“Rough?”

“A bit. Didn’t you rest?”

“No, I couldn’t. The Aurors interrogated me.”

“What? Already?”

“Apparently, the rest of the Wizengamot wants a court case as soon as possible.”

“That means I’ll probably be next,” Hermione concluded.

Draco nodded. “Probably. But don’t worry, it wasn’t bad. They believe us.”

Hermione sighed. “Are you okay?”

Draco leaned in and their lips locked for a moment before he pulled back.

“I am.” He gave her a sombre smile.

Hermione’s hand moved up to his collar, her fingers drawing a line on his skin beneath.

“Draco,” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I could really go for a bath right now.”

The lavatory on the fourth floor welcomed Hermione and Draco in right away. It was a sanctuary just for the Selkie and her sailor. The soft glow of the candles engulfed them, the pool started to fill with deliciously warm water the instant they crossed the threshold.

Their hands were immediately all over each other as soon as the door closed behind them. Draco pressed himself against her, pinning her against the wall. His hands encased her face as his lips locked against hers. Hermione reached for his robes and slid her hands under the heavy fabric to release him from them. Draco let go of her, but continued to steal kisses and bites from her as he dropped his robes.

“Take your clothes off,” Hermione breathed against his hot skin.

“Anything you say,” Draco purred and opened the belt of his trousers with a hand and one swift motion. When he unbuttoned his trousers, he halted for a moment. “Have I earned you?”

“What?” Hermione pulled her jumper up and over her head and let it drop to the floor.

“Last time you said that I needed to earn you before I could have you.”

He let his fingertips glide over her arm.

“Do I deserve you? You’re free of me, Hermione. I don’t want you to feel obligated to do something just because we did it before.”

Hermione’s stomach flipped. She wanted him so much, all over herself, inside and out. She wanted to feed off of his voice, wanted to take his hands and place them over her heart, wanted to jump into unknown waters.

“Draco, you are so much more than your past, do you know that?”

She took his chin and made him look at her.

“You don’t have to deserve anything.”

Hermione could hear Ron’s words ring in her head. She buried the sound deep, in the furthest back of her mind.

“Let us be happy for now,” she whispered, not sure if she was saying the words to him or rather to reassure herself.

He hummed and his hands found his waistband again, he hooked his fingers under the fabric and then his trousers pooled at his feet.

He unbuttoned his shirt and let it glide down to the floor as well.

His pants didn’t hide the fact that Draco was fully hard. He followed her line of sight and smirked.

Hermione stroked his erection over the soft cotton and at the touch of her hand, he made an intoxicating sound – something between a sigh and a moan – and his head lulled back contentedly.

Hermione’s patience had run too thin. Too long had she been starving for this man.

“I’ll just–” She whispered the incantation to make their remaining clothes vanish altogether.

Now they stood bare, hard, and wet, in front of each other. Her hands were still on him, now with nothing between them. When she gave him another gentle stroke, he sucked in a sharp breath.

Hermione stared up at him in awe. The candle light illuminated his white hair, making it look like a golden halo. His jaw clenched tightly and he squirmed beneath her touch, lust already dripping from his tip.

“Your hand feels so good,” he uttered and his hips bucked slightly to get more friction.

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh, you’re doing so well, little Selkie.”

“How does this feel?” She got on her knees and gave his head a slow lick. “Does that feel good?”

His head snapped down, he looked at her with half-lidded eyes, his lips parted as he took a sharp inhale.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Hermione licked him again, making him twitch, his hardness bobbing up and down. Then, without any more introduction, she glided her hand along his shaft and encased him with her mouth.

A groan filled the lavatory as Draco grabbed for her head and buried his hands into her curls.

“Oh,” he whimpered. “Oh, fuck.”

Her tongue swirled around the tip of him as she took more and more of him in, her hand sliding in a steady rhythm now. Saliva coated his length, it dripped down on Hermione’s naked breasts.

It didn’t take much for him to pull her up from her knees and demand to taste himself. His tongue explored hers with furious hunger, his hand grabbed her jaw to keep her locked in place. 

He pulled back.

“I need you,” he said breathlessly. “Please, let me have you.”

Hermione nodded, thinking he would finally fill her, but instead, he went down on his knees. He took her foot and made her place it on his shoulder, exposing all of her to him.

He inhaled deeply as his face aligned with her core. The warmth of his breath ghosted over her wetness, making it unbearable for her. She was soaking, her lips were plump and sensitive. The whisper of his presence wouldn’t suffice – she needed his touch.

His tongue slid through her folds and Hermione jumped from the sensation. Draco steadied her with a hand on her waist.

He continued to travel upwards until he hit the sweetest of spots. Now it was Hermione who took fists full of his hair, her nails scraping along his scalp. Draco groaned against her as her grip tightened, his voice vibrating against her ever so menacingly.

Hermione whimpered in response, but she didn’t want to close her eyes as her body demanded it, she wanted to watch.

She watched as he let his tongue wander in circles, slow and steady. She watched as he slicked his fingers with her arousal and pushed them inside of her. And when he looked up from beneath his lashes to catch her reaction, she watched with a smile on her lips.

“You’re amazing, Draco,” she breathed before a moan slipped from her lips.

He sucked gently, then lapped at her with greed.

It seemed like she hadn’t been the only starved one.

“I need you.” It was Hermione who said the words this time around. “Let me have all–”

Draco didn’t need more confirmation to stop his ministrations, put her leg down, and stand up.

“Turn around,” he said with utter desperation, so sweetly out of breath it made Hermione’s chest tighten. She followed suit and as soon as she did, he bent her over with a large hand on her back, then lined himself against her entrance.

She instinctively wanted to push back so he’d finally be inside of her – all of him, every single inch.

“Hold on,” he uttered, reached around Hermione’s waist with one hand and placed his fingers on the bundle of nerves between her thighs.

She moaned, a symphony only a lover could orchestrate. Draco was the player and Hermione his instrument. 

Oh, and how she sang beneath his touch.

The Gryffindor common room buzzed like a wasp’s nest the following day. Hermione and Draco had concluded it was best to keep low, which was why she had gone to the Gryffindor dorms after their lavatory excursion. Now, standing atop the stairs and hearing the commotion, she regretted the decision.

With another deep breath, she made her way down, expecting everyone to grow silent upon seeing her, but no — no one seemed to even notice her arrival.

“I heard she slipped a love potion into Malfoy’s tea,” McLaggen said into the round.

“Shut up,” Ron gritted out between his teeth. “It’s the Ministry’s fault!”

“Let it go, Ron,” Harry put a hand on his arm to calm him down.

“Yeah? How is it the Ministry’s fault?” McLaggen teased and laughed. “Did they mandate Granger to suck Death Eater cock?”

Sounds of disapproval, mockery, and shock went through the room. Ron was about to get up and, by the look on his face, eat McLaggen alive when Hermione decided to rush past them and out of the common room.

It was infuriating, honestly. The wizarding world was in complete and utter chaos after the news had broken, the Wizengamot trying to find any and all excuses possible, and there Hermione was, having to hear her peers drag her name into the dirt.

She stomped through the castle and to McGonagall’s office, where the old witch had already placed the Floo powder next to the hearth.

“Would you prefer it if I accompanied you?” McGonagall asked, a deep line between her furrowed eyebrows.

“No, it’s fine, Headmistress. Thank you,” Hermione answered as she dipped her hand in the powder. “I’ll be back shortly.”

McGonagall nodded and Hermione stepped into the fireplace. With a strong hand, she released the powder and headed to London to finally pay her parents a visit.

Her parents were in their old living room this time. Hermione was still in awe at the spell-work and magic, not exactly sure if the window at St Mungo’s was a portal or if the entirety of her childhood home was merely a transformed hospital room.

It didn’t matter, she had decided as she stood in the doorway and watched her mother snore softly on the couch. The TV announced the news of the day, showing footage of the Glastonbury festival – that took place almost two years ago.

It was a small detail, but the Healers made sure her parents only got to see and hear things that fit within the timeline of their memories.

“Hermione,” her Dad’s voice came from behind her.

She turned in surprise. He stood down the hallway, his expression shifting from unsure to – relief.

He crossed the space between them in long strides and embraced her in a tight hug. So tight, in fact, she feared for her ribs.

“Hermione, you’re alright, thank God you’re alright,” he muttered and stroked her hair.

“I’m alright, Mr. Wilkins,” she murmured into his shirt. It smelled as it always had – clean cotton, dried in the breeze of the wind with a touch of earthy bark.

He pulled back and tears had pooled in his eyes.

“Hermione, it’s me… Dad.”

“You remember?” she whispered in disbelief.

“Of course, I do. My Rose, come here–” He pulled her into another hug.

Hermione’s head spun in wild thoughts, she clung to her father and tried to wake herself up by pinching her wrist. It couldn’t be true, this had to be a dream.

But she didn’t wake.

“How?” Hermione asked, her voice heavy of imminent tears choking her vocal cords.

“The last time you were here you triggered a – the doctors, I mean Healers, call it a core memory. It was like you tipped the first domino stone and then one after another the memories came back.”

“Why did no one contact me?” Hermione croaked.

“You were in recovery yourself, Mrs. McGonagall had informed the Healers.”

The both of them stayed standing there in the hallway until their tears finally ran out.

“I need to tell you something,” her father said after they had made tea and sat down at the kitchen table.

Hermione looked at him expectantly.

“A year ago, a man by the name of Kingsley Shacklebolt visited us in the hospital.”

Hermione’s heart sank at the mention of his name.

“As you know, your mom’s memory has always been more affected by the magic than mine. The man wanted to speak to me in private, so we were taken to a separate room. He informed me that he was the Minister for Magic and that he came to warn me.”

“Warn you?”

Her father nodded.

“He said that you were going to be magically bound to a boy. Draco Malfoy. You went to school with him, remember? That bloke that teased you?”

“Yeah…”

Hermione had told her parents all about him when she was younger. She used to write them letters, sprinkled with her tears, whenever Draco had called her a Mudblood. Her heart twisted at the memory.

“Even though I didn’t understand, I still asked why he couldn’t stop it – he was the Minister, after all.”

“And?”

Her breath hitched and cold sweat started to cling to her skin.

“He said that he didn’t have a choice.”

“Of course he said that,” Hermione scoffed.

“He explained that you would be sort of tethered to that Draco boy, that we needed to leave before they could fulfill the magic spell thing.”

“But you forgot.”

Her father nodded slowly. It broke her to see the tears in his eyes well up again. She reached for his hand and he took it and squeezed it, just like he did when she was a kid.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t able to protect you, was I?”

Hermione’s gaze dropped to their entangled hands.

“The spell has been broken and they’re being prosecuted.”

Her father hummed and they continued to sit in silence for a while.

The day was already advanced when Hermione returned to Hogwarts. McGonagall was writing on parchment, as she so often was, when she returned.

McGonagall looked up, her small glasses sitting on the tip of her nose, as Hermione dusted herself off.

“Welcome back, Hermione,” McGonagall greeted her.

“Thank you, Headmistress.” Hermione stepped closer. “Do you have a moment?”

McGonagall nodded and invited her to sit. “Always.”

The old chair groaned as Hermione sank down on it. She cleared her throat and dried her sweaty palms on her robes that she had put on before coming back.

“I think some time off of school would be good,” Hermione started. “My father regained his memories and I want to be there for him.”

That was partially the truth.

On her way back from the hospital, her thoughts had run a thousand miles per hour. Nothing she knew about Shacklebolt or the Purity Act made much sense, it all was too convoluted and blurry.

Worse than that, her breath had hitched when Draco crossed her mind. The memory that her father had conjured up had left a bitter aftertaste.

Once again, Ron’s words had echoed through her mind.

Please don’t rely on a binding spell.

“Take as much time as you need,” McGonagall said, taking Hermione off her thought-carousel.

“Thank you, Headmistress McGonagall.”

McGonagall nodded and gave her a little smile. Upon leaving the staircase, she swallowed hard.

Now came the difficult part.

The Astronomy Tower had always been a beautiful spot. With the clear dome and the balcony surrounding it, Hermione thought it was quite romantic. She used to dream of her love professing their feelings to her here, beneath the millions of sparkling specks, when the moon would be the only light source.

Instead, it was her who would profess her feelings.

The crisp air made her breath cloud, the wind was gentle and curled around her like a soft hug. As if it wanted to encourage her.

“Hermione.”

She let go of the railing and turned to face Draco. His smile dropped when he saw her expression. She quickly looked at her feet and held her elbows in a weak attempt to soothe her thundering heart.

“What’s wrong?” He stepped closer and wanted to reach for her, but she shied away from him ever so slightly.

Enough for him to freeze.

“I’m going to London for a while.” Hermione tried to say it with a steady voice, but there wasn’t much conviction to it.

“Did something happen to your parents?”

Smart little bugger.

“My dad remembers,” she replied flat out.

“That’s great!” Draco was genuinely excited, but when Hermione didn’t share said excitement, he asked, “It’s not?”

“No – yeah, it’s great. But I just… I need to be with my parents. And after all that has happened, I need time.”

“Of course, that makes sense.”

“I need time to figure things out,” she continued. “By myself.”

“By… yourself?” Draco repeated, unsure. He held onto the railing with a hand.

Hermione took a deep breath and forced herself to look at him. His brow was still furrowed, his jaw flexing – he ran a hand through his hair.

She knew it was going to be difficult. Knew that it would break him.

She needed to do it anyway.

“Come on, Malfoy–”

His eyes flickered at the mention of his surname, the spark finally taking its last breath before it died.

“The past few months have been crazy. We were bound to each other. How do we know if any of it was real?”

She drove the knife deeper with every word and she could see it so very clearly on his face – the hurt, the betrayal, the disbelief.

“It was real to me, Granger,” he said quietly, a revelation beneath millions of witnesses who could only shine their light upon them.

He let go of the railing and took a step forward, slowly and with precise calculation as he looked down to their almost touching shoes. When his gaze wandered up and over her body, just to land on her chest, she held her breath. His hand raised and then – he put it over the spot where her heart must have been crashing against bone.

Hermione didn’t know why she let him, but she did and it took a few seconds of silence before she stumbled backward.

Draco’s fingers curled inwards as he let his hand drop. A smirk tugged on his lips.

“And I know it was real for you, too,” he said with finality in his voice.

Hermione’s eyes prickled as tears demanded their way out, but before the first one spilled, Draco had vanished.

The dragon had been slayed, at last.