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Chapter Text

In hindsight, it all seems quite inevitable. In each precarious, unholy moment of it, it seemed utterly impossible. If I had to place a finger on when it started, I would probably point it to the week before we graduated. Sometimes, I have to remind myself that more than a decade has passed since then.

“Granger.”, Malfoy says. He does not snarl, or mock.

“Malfoy.”, she completes the ritual and shoves the leftmost stack of books to the right, making space for his.

This is their routine, carefully established in silent negotiations. One of them arrives first at the library, finds an empty table in the quietest corner and sets to work. They make space when the other arrives and they work in silence for as long as their tired eyes will allow them to. Sometimes, one of them points at a particularly difficult paragraph, circles the critical phrase and they nod at each other. They do not talk, not even about their studies. Neither of them knows how to start.

Tonight, however, Hermione notices that Malfoy is restless, and it irritates her more than she thought it would.

“What is it, Malfoy?”, she whispers because she cannot imagine raising her voice in a room that is more sacred to her than a church could ever be.

“Nothing.”, he replies but his hand stills. A puddle of ink forms at the tip of his quill.

“Oh, shut it, Malfoy.”, Hermione hisses. “Tell me or tell your feet to keep still under the table. I cannot think with that constant noise in my ears.”

He looks at her with empty eyes. She is shocked by how bright they are, gray and blue like winter skies. She realizes that she has never looked him in the eyes before and that she is probably staring. Yet, she does not look away, she is no coward, and she tells herself that he is staring just the same.

“What will you do after this is over?”, Malfoy asks out of the blue.

His voice is quiet and Hermione thinks that it is not only because they are in the library. For a few seconds, she ponders her answer but then she gets sidetracked into thinking about the reason behind his question. It does not take her long to put the pieces together.

“What I do best, I suppose. Argue and point out others’ mistakes. I think I’ll start at the department for Muggle Relations, seems like an easy point of departure. You?”

She says it lightly and with confidence. She waits for a snide remark but Malfoy remains silent. If she is honest, she is disappointed. There are many practical reasons why she shares her precious library space with Malfoy – he is one of the few other quiet students, one of the ten other eight-year students, perhaps the only other student who is willing to stay as long as she does – but there is only one main reason: He is the only one she would, grudgingly, consider her intellectual equal.

“Malfoy, you cannot seriously believe that you don’t have a career ahead of you.”, she adds. Her hand reaches for his arm before she can think about it. She is surprised when he does not shrug it off. “They would be stupid not to hire you.”

Hermione tells him the truth, her truth. She believes in hard work and competence. Malfoy’s worldview is far less optimistic. He snorts and shrugs her hand off.

“They would be stupid if they did. Nobody wants to tarnish their reputation with my name.”

Hermione makes a sound that hovers between a sigh and a growl. Malfoy raises an eyebrow at her.

“You know, that is just as stupid as that mudblood-bullshit.”

He flinches, just a little, when she says that. Then, the faintest hint of a smile nudges the corner of his mouth upwards. Hermione is surprised at how happy it makes her to see him almost-smile.

“I do not envy anyone who will try to stop your agenda.”, he says.

“Neither do I anyone who will try to stop you.”, she adds.

Chapter Text

Maybe it also started later. At least, it took me another year to even have a firmly suppressed inkling of what was going on. I have always wondered whether you knew earlier. But we never talk about it. We have always been so good at not talking about the most important things.

“Bored?”, Malfoy asks and hands Hermione a champagne flute.

“Out of my mind.”, Hermione replies and emphasizes her point by draining half of her glass.

Ministry receptions are her kryptonite. She knows that she needs to be there, be kind, and make small talk, smile at the faces of those who never appear at the official negotiating tables but who will, in the end, decide the fate of any proposal she brings forth. She anticipated all of this and she has accepted it as part of the package deal that came with her dream job. What she has not anticipated is that Draco Malfoy would be her saving grace.

In the end, Malfoy did get to pick his job, too, as she had predicted. Perhaps she had to help matters along a little but really, she believes she only helped him to get a fair chance. Now, he is junior partner at the law firm that handles almost every case that involves the ministry. As such he is part of almost every single cursed reception she has to attend, too. It does not always help her agenda that he occasionally represents the party opposing her bills but she always oddly enjoys facing him.

“Montague is getting tipsy, though.“, Malfoy remarks. „Might be an opportunity.“

„How tipsy?“, Hermione asks. She silently resents Malfoy for having a better eye for these things than she has. As long as he is willing to share it, she will take advantage of it, though. Her hesitation concerns the probability of Montague getting handsy rather than the veracity of Malfoy’s observation.

“Keeping his hands in his pockets tipsy.“, Malfoy answers. He knows about her reservations and he loves mocking her about it. „Send a napkin if that changes.“

She smiles and rolls her eyes. He will never cease to remind her of the one time she send a cocktail napkin with a not-very-subtle HELP magically inscribed his way when Oliver Wood, of all people, had her cornered at a charity gala. To his credit, he did come over with a made-up case that he urgently needed to discuss with her. He may or may not also have not-so-accidentally spilled a glass of wine on Wood’s robes. And she might have laughed about that, afterward.

She throws a glance back at him when she turns towards the standing table he has pointed at. It is rather unfair, she thinks, how effortlessly he carries himself in layers of formal dress robes while she struggles to keep her balance on heels. He always wears gray or blue, never green, and never the same outfit. She wears the same robes to almost every occasion even though she tries to make an effort to change dresses. She hates dresses.

“Mr. Montague!“, she exclaims, a fake smile on her face. As he smiles back at her and his eyes grow slightly larger as they wander up and down, she remembers why she does wear dresses nonetheless. She hates that Malfoy was right about that.

Thirty minutes later, she catches herself looking for Malfoy. She is exhausted, both mentally and physically, and in dire need of one of the drinks that he inevitably holds in store for her. Sometimes, she wonders how he manages to stay sober, or at least make the impression to of being sober while carrying around a constant supply of alcohol.

As if on cue, his still perfectly relaxed-looking figure appears in the crowd. He takes care not to look at her directly but she can tell that he walks towards her because he only greets the other witches and wizards in passing.

„Did he bite?“, Malfoy asks when he reaches her. She really should not tell him, just like he should not tell her about who happened to have lunch with his boss last Monday. But then – what else were they supposed to talk about?

„Maybe.“, Hermione admits. Then she sees Malfoy’s crooked grin and adds: „Definitely not like that.“

He barks a short laugh and Hermione is glad and jealous at the same time. Glad that he is here, taking the edge off an event that could be agony, and jealous that he has the self-confidence to make dirty jokes. Of course, he does, with his long limbs and handsome face. She always knew that, as a matter of fact, Malfoy was attractive. The trouble is that, little by little, her body has developed very non-matter-of-factly reactions to it.

„Shame.“, Malfoy jokes. Hermione dearly hopes he jokes. His eyes look sapphire blue in the dim light and they sparkle with mischief.

“Oh, shut it.“, she snaps and reaches for his wine glass. Malfoy chuckles and she can feel herself smile. „You are insufferable. Remind me why I even bother talking to you?“

„Hm…“, he fakes a serious tone, grasps his chin with two silver-ring-adorned fingers, and licks his lips. It should look tacky, that much jewelry on a grown man but somehow it does not and Hermione is afraid that it has something to do with the size of his hands and the length of his fingers. She catches herself staring at him.„I wish I could say it was for the enticing conversation but seeing that you are more interested in talking to other people tonight, I must deduce you either keep me around for fashion advice or my very own dashing exterior.“

She opens her mouth to counter but no words come to mind. Malfoy is the only one who does that to hear, makes her speechless, and she can see the satisfaction of his victory glow in his eyes. He says things like that because he knows that it is her weakness, her blind spot, the one strategy that always works. She hopes that it is his only reason.

“And may I say, while we are on the topic of fashion advice“, he continues, almost mercifully, and lets Hermione drown her embarrassment in lukewarm chardonnay. „that you could have shaved off say… fifty centimeters of that hemline?“

Hermione gulps down a generous sip of wine. „Fifty? That would make for quite the mini skirt.“

„Exactly.“, his smile widens into a lopsided grin.

Chapter Text

Godric, you were so obvious, and I was so oblivious. To my credit, you flirt with everybody. It has become your new weapon and I dare say it is far more effective than the intimidation techniques your father favored.

“Congratulations!“, Malfoy’s baritone booms across the room.

Hermione smiles at him and, without thinking, draws him into a hug. She is drunk on success and prosecco. Ron makes a pained sound and Harry clears his throat a little too loudly. Hermione does not care. Today is her day, so the two can shut it. She wants to celebrate the passing of her first bill – an amendment to the strict ban of magic use in the proximity of Muggles that takes more than life-threatening emergencies into account – with all of her friends. No matter how difficult it has been for Ron and Harry to come to terms with the fact that Malfoy has become one.

Malfoy is about a head taller than she, so the hug is a little awkward, with her head resting on his chest and his arms draped across her shoulders. She can hear his heart beating through the noise of the pub. He smells of his cologne, he always uses too much in her opinion, and below that of cigarette smoke.

„You’ve been smoking.“, she scolds when the hug is over.

Malfoy rolls his eyes in mock annoyance and retorts: „Oh, kill me now, will you, before the cancerous substances do.“

“I might.“, she snaps. „but only after you bought me the drink I deserve.“

He smiles at that, gently and without irony, and it makes her head swim a little more than it does already. He buys her a glass of sparkling that is probably more expensive than necessary, and then another, and then Harry insists on buying another round for everyone because it makes him uncomfortable when Malfoy shows more generosity than he does. By the time the pub comes properly to life, they are all quite drunk and squeezed into a booth that is intended to seat only about half their number.

Hermione is wedged between Harry and Malfoy, cheeks flushed from Harry’s sheer body heat and the sight of Malfoy’s collarbones. It must have been the fourth glass, she thinks, that threw most of her reservations overboard and just let her ogle Malfoy as much as she wanted. To his credit, he did not comment on it even though she read his self-sufficient smile as clear evidence that he was well aware of her eyes on his body. That and the fact that over the course of the last hour, he has lost his outer robes, opened his collar, and rolled up his sleeves.

It is a rare thing for Malfoy to do, showing his skin. Hermione cannot say that she is the greatest fan of his constantly closed, high collars and long sleeves. It drives her a little mad, to be honest, to just about be able to guess what lies underneath, and no more. But now, she can follow the sinewy lines on his neck down to the hollow between his collarbones and it is just pale, smooth skin for days that looks a little too pristine. It is crying to be marred, really, just a little. Merlin, she wants to bite his neck. She tells herself to stop staring at Malfoy’s throat but that only brings her eyes to his hands and those give her a whole other world of ideas.

„You alright, Hermione?“, Deborah asks from across the table.

„What?“ Hermione startles and blinks as if she just woke up from a dream.

„Are you alright?“, Malfoy repeats and lies a hand on her shoulder. A perfectly normal gesture, Hermione reminds herself and tries to ignore the shiver that runs down her spine. He leans closer, the pub is loud after all, and perhaps she did not hear. And perhaps he just wants to inch a little closer. „Deb just asked.“

His breath is hot on her cheek. It smells like wine and cigarettes and that should disgust her but it does not, even if she wants it to. She smiles and looks at Deborah whose cheeks are as flushed as Hermione’s feel. She is glad that everybody seems at least tipsy, most of all Ron and Harry who have fueled their Quidditch talk with ample lager throughout the night.

„‘S all good.“, Hermione squeezes out. She is not entirely sure about that and she wants to blame that feeling on the alcohol. „Maybe I should call it a night, though. I think I might need a hangover potion tomorrow, to be honest.“

Hermione gives Harry a goodbye hug and shakes Ron’s hand awkwardly. Their break up had not surprised anyone but she knows that Ron is still a little sore from it. Sometimes, she feels guilty about how little impact the end of their relationship has had on her. When she turns to scramble out of the booth, Malfoy looks at her with a curious expression.

„Would you mind?“, Hermione asks and gestures towards the end of the bench they are sitting on.

Malfoy takes his time to start moving, inching back just enough to let her through. His hand brushes the hem of her skirt when she shuffles past and she almost trips over her own feet.

„I don’t think it’s a good idea to let you stumble home alone like this.“, he says. „If you want, I could-“

„Yes.“, she blurts out before she can change her mind.

Malfoy gives her an intense look before he nods slowly.

Chapter Text

Despite what everyone likes to believe, I do not live under a rock and I am not a rock, either. I think you were the first one who really reminded me of that. You and perhaps Victor. You never looked at me like I was some sort of neuter of knowledge, not even when we were teenagers and we traded insults instead of banter. The way you look at me, it does something to the way I look at myself. That and your horribly selfish fashion advice.

„Circe, I’ve wanted to do this for ages.“, Draco sighs. It is definitely Draco now, Darco’s hands on Hermione’s cheeks and in her hair and Draco’s lips that crush down on hers, leaving them both panting.

Hermione chuckles a little at that and pulls him closer, a wordless ‚me, too‘. She laces her fingers into his hair and pulls, baring his neck, so she can run her tongue over it. He groans and pushes his whole body against hers, his hands sprawled across her lower back. She takes it as encouragement and draws the soft skin below his ear between her teeth, takes that bite she has been fantasizing about for hours. His moan vibrates through her body.

„I want…“, she starts but gets distracted by his hands wandering below her blouse. His fingers dance across her waist, up her ribs, stop below her breasts, waiting for permission. She loses the rest of the sentence in an ocean of want that she cannot put into words anymore.

„Yes.“, he whispers against her ear. „Tell me what you want.“

All that leaves her mouth in response is a shaky breath. She catches his eye and hopes that her face can say it all. His gaze is intense, blue, and utterly too much for her shaking legs. She lets herself fall against the door, realizing that they have not even made it past the coat rack. Hermione does not care. Her legs are too busy trying to keep her upright to go anywhere, the throbbing heat between them too urgent to think about moving anywhere but closer to Draco’s body.

She presses her hip against his thigh, feels the muscle contract underneath her core, and her wetness spread through her knickers. His eyes widen in response, so she keeps rocking against him, taking her pleasure from the bit of friction and the sounds that leave his throat. His hands cup her breast from below, the silver rings are cold against her skin, hard in contrast to the softness of his fingertips. His thumb flicks over her nipple and she screams, just a little, into his open mouth.

„What do you like, Hermione?“, he breathes the words into her face. His hands move restlessly over her body as if they were searching for an answer of their own. They travel from her breasts to her thighs, back up and down, lifting her skirt in the process.

„This.“, she manages. „I like this…“

She can feel his grin against her neck where his tongue has just done unspeakable things. A sharp bite makes her vision blurry.

„Hm…“, he licks over the bite, there is nothing subtle to it, it is the whole, wet breadth of his tongue. „Do you like to be fingered?“

He runs his hand down between their bodies and into her knickers, stopping just above her clit. Hermione’s hips buck and she bites her lips to stifle a scream.

„Or do you prefer tongue?“, Draco continues. He pushes her panties down as he slowly sinks to his knees.

Hermione feels like she is dying a little. Her cheeks glow with heat, her chest heaves with the effort of breathing. The sight of Draco kneeling in her hallway, his hair tousled by her hands, his neck bruised by her teeth, lips swollen from kissing her mouth, is too much.

„Tell me.“, he says the words against her pelvis while his thumbs run circles along the inside of her thighs. His eyes are on hers when his tongue takes a first experimental lick. She screams properly this time. He grins and pushes her legs open wider.

Hermione feels exposed but she has no control over her body. Her legs fall open willingly under the command of Draco’s fingers. He gently pulls her labia apart and peppers kisses across her cunt. Her hands clench into fists. It is all too much and yet not nearly enough.

„Or perhaps“, his mouth moves against her core. „you want it all.“

Her eyes fall shut as his tongue licks straight across her clit and his thumb pushes at her entrance. She can feel herself clench around nothing. Her hips rock into Draco’s face. She can feel him smile as he flattens his tongue to cover her entire clit before tapping her entrance with his fingers. Tease, she has known he would be a tease.

„Are you that greedy, hm?“, he continues talking and it drives her mad. She wants to answer, she really does, but every time she thinks that she has gathered a coherent thought, he does something else, something more, and that thought dissipates into another moan.

„Yes.“, she manages to hiss, finally. And then it all needs to come out. „Yes, I’m greedy. I want your tongue. And, ah, your fingers, just… please.“

She grabs the back of his head with one hand to emphasize her point. He obliges willingly, sets his tongue to work on her clit in small, quick circles as his thumb pushes into her with one determined movement. He pumps his finger experimentally until her fist clenches in his hair and then he does not let go of that spot anymore.

„Yes.“, Hermione sighs. „Oh, please. Please.“

She does not know what she is pleading for other than for him not to stop. She can feel pleasure coiling tightly in her stomach, her walls pulse around his thumb. She is close, unbearably close, and the world is centered around this one inevitable fact.

„Please what?“, he asks, voice muffled between her legs. It is the shortest of breaks from the constant pressure of his tongue but it has her whimpering.

„I… please don’t stop.“, she pants. For a second, she feels a sting of guilt, feels selfish, but then his tongue is back on her clit, faster and harder than before, and all reservations are forgotten. „Yes. Harder. Please, I want to…“

Hermione wants to come. She needs to come, right now. She forces her eyes open and looks at Draco’s face in her lap, his head bobbing lightly, sees the muscles in his arm working as he drives his fingers into her and that is it, that is all she needed. Her core clenches, hard, her entire body pulses with wave after wave of pleasure. She tries to back away but Draco is relentless, his tongue keeps massaging her clit, his finger borrows deep into her, pulsing in the rhythm of her throbbing cunt, until her orgasm ebbs off after what feels like an eternity.

Chapter Text

People used to be afraid of me. First, they were afraid of the power that, by association with my family, was bestowed onto me. Then, they were plain afraid of me. After the war, people were afraid of being associated with me. I shared all their fear, a hundred-fold. But you, you were never afraid of me. Why?

Draco leaves Hermione’s apartment when a lazy Wednesday morning sun just about touches the outlines of the horizon. There is a smile on his face. He can feel it, the curving of his mouth, but the happiness that is supposed to go along with that smile has a bitter aftertaste. He supposes that it has been too long, that joy has become a shy stranger, and that he cannot properly recognize it anymore. He leaves her a note on a stray piece of parchment.

Three hours and two double espressos later, Draco has convinced himself that his note has been perfectly appropriate, uncharacteristically honest and truthful even. He has also convinced himself that there is no reason for his and Hermione’s relationship to change in the slightest. They have flirted before. Now, that flirting has come to its natural conclusion. So why, then, should anything have changed?

Working hours come and go, no ministry appointments in sight and Draco cannot tell whether he is disappointed or relieved. He opens a bottle of Bordeaux at home, drinks the first glass too fast, the taste is not quite right yet. But then, the entire day has not felt quite right. He has not felt right. His game has been off. His smiles have been polite, alright. He has made small talk, alright. It has not been enough. The deal is still where it had been a week ago: under negotiation. Draco does not remember the last time he failed to close a deal, not when he wanted to.

He takes another generous sip of wine, lets his lips hover on the glass, empties it. The clock on the mantelpiece chimes. It is too early in the evening to go to bed but Draco really wants the day to be over. If the deal had come through, he would be at some high-end bar, continuing the flirt with his client, if they were his type, or, if they were not, finding a way to end it with everybody’ fragile egos intact.

Draco sighs. He really does not want to come to the conclusion that flirting with clients is an integral part of his negotiation strategy. Sadly, the conclusion does not change after another glass of wine. Instead, the half-empty bottle starts begging the question of whether flirting has been an integral part of his entire career. And he already knows what question will be on his mind when nothing but sediment remains in the bottle: Why did he stop doing it?

“Are you avoiding me?”, Hermione asks.

Draco has to concentrate to avoid flinching.

“No, of course not.”, he replies. It is a half-truth. He could have avoided the event, knowing she was there. He has not. However, he has also not come to find her. And he does not have a second glass of wine for her like he usually does.

“Do you want to talk about it?”, she suggests, very matter-of-factly.

“No.”, Draco replies before he can think about it.

“Fair.”, Hermione says.

Her expression is flat but not unpleasant. Relief washes over Draco. He can live with a little indifference, with the chill in her smile. This, he is used to. He can manage any kind of suppressed feelings, he has mastered this art as a mere child. There was no surviving Malfoy Manor without that particular skill.

“Can I get you anything?”, he asks. It is a peace offering, a promise that things can go back to where they had been.

“A good excuse to leave and a pair of comfy slippers?”, Hermione suggests. Peace offer accepted.

“Ah, Miss Granger, I expected better.”, he retorts. Their peace is not about backing down, it is about the promise of fair negotiation. “I will offer a cushioning charm and a guaranteed rescue from Montague after you have talked to him.”

She huffs. “Fine. Five minutes.”

“Ten.”

“Seven. That is my last offer or you can forget about that invitation to Hoffer’s birthday dinner.”

She strides away, surprisingly fast considering that she is sporting stilettos, Montague’s stodgy figure in firm focus. Draco shakes his head in disbelief. Has she always been like this or has his influence finally rubbed off on her? A bit of both, probably.

“I swear, that was at least eight minutes.”.

Hermione slumps down on the bench and places her feat in Draco’s lap. The air is still too chilly to lure anyone outside for the sheer pleasure of fresh air. They are alone on the little bench next to the side entrance of the Ministry’s reception hall.

Draco does not mention that it has been eleven minutes according to the tempus charm he cast when she left. But when he came to fetch her, he overheard Montague mentioning that he was not convinced of Hermione’s suggestion that Dragon aggression would be much better managed by allowing them more space instead of constraining their movement even further. He preferred to give Hermione a few minutes to murder his arguments over giving her feet a much-needed rest.

“It did sound like it was worth it.”, he replies before he casts the cushioning charm on her shoes. Only part of him wonders why Hermione does not enchant her own heels. He knows that she is more than capable of doing so.

“Please tell me that this endless masquerade ends at some point.”, she sighs.

Her feet still rest in his lap. Draco never paid much attention to these situations before, not in earnest. Now it feels strangely meaningful that she allows him to keep holding her feet, his thumb stroking over her ankle, bare and pale.

“I can tell you, alright.”, he says and takes out his cigarette case. His fingers need something else to do. “It won’t make it true, though.”

“How are you dealing with this all your life?”, she groans. Draco’s entire body goes rigid. “Does smoking help?”

He laughs. It is a small chuckle, muffled by the cigarette that sits between his lips. She is getting better at it, he thinks, navigating the difficult questions instead of bashing her head against the wall that protects people’s self-worth until they break.

“Maybe.”, he says and lights his cigarette. He knows that she dislikes him smoking and a part of him suspects that it is precisely why he wants to smoke, now. “Or maybe I just need to keep my bad-boy reputation up somehow.”

“You know, there is a Muggle song about that.”, Hermione says. Her voice sways from cranky to soft. “Oh why do good girls like bad boys… I had that question for a really long time.”

She simply says the lines but Draco suspects that the song is nothing like a ballad. It sounds like something from the Weird Sisters, full of sarcasm and heavy bass. He chooses not to dwell on the double message behind her words. Instead, he does what they both love: argue for argument’s sake.

“Are you implying that you are a good girl then, Ms. Gryffindor head girl?”

“What else could the Golden Girl of the infamous Gryffindor trio ever be?”, Hermione asks back. She wiggles her feet that still lie in his lap, heels precariously close to his crotch.

“You do know that good girls usually have rather short-lived political careers?”

“Ah, but that is exactly why they keep their bad boys around.”

Her smile does nothing to confirm her alleged status as a good girl. Draco loves it. He loves to see that stroke of evil caress Hermione’s features, fears all that this feeling implies. And while his brain still catches up with these implications, his body starts to have very much fully developed responses to those. The fact that Hermione’s feet still push against his thighs, that her own thighs are one bare, long extension of that, by no means covered due to his own insisting on shorter skirts, it does not help at all.

“And there I was, flattering myself that you keep me around for quality conversation.”

He leaves it at that, avoiding her eyes that rest firmly on his face. Instead, he watches the cigarette smoke curl and dissolve into the night sky.

“Not going to brag about your good looks tonight?”

“Hermione…”, he starts and distracts himself with vanishing the cigarette stub.

“I don’t regret it, you know. You don’t have to be weird about it.”

He hums at that. Part of him wants to congratulate Hermione. She has finally done it – made him speechless. He cannot say that he likes it. His fingers try to find safe grounds but the only natural place for them to rest is her legs, so this is where they go. Her skin is cold and soft. He traces the line of her shin, feels the goosebumps forming underneath his fingertips and he knows that it is not the cold that caused them.

“I don’t do regrets.”, he says because he wants to mean it. “But I know you do.”

He keeps his eyes straight ahead, far away from her face, her hazel eyes. He can still feel her body shift, can still hear the rustle of her outer robes as she leans closer. He can feel her breath on his neck when she says:

“Not this time.”

He stills. He knows exactly what she is doing to him. He knows she knows, just like he has known, for years. He does not know whether he can deal with being on the other side of the exchange.

“Nothing needs to change.”, she continues. Her nose touches his throat just so. He swallows down the painful lump in his throat that is a tangle of doubt and hope and fear.

Chapter Text

I grew up believing that the world owed me everything. Then the world showed me that it owes me nothing. I think that contradiction never stopped haunting me. It haunted us for a very long time. I never understood why you were so reluctant to take what was offered to you. I never understood why you offered so much to me. What you thought I had to offer in return.

“You are gorgeous.”, Draco mutters.

His fingers run across Hermione’s half-naked torso, trace the outlines of her breasts, hush down her sides. She chuckles and sighs, stretches like a cat basking in the sun. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes half closed. He adores her like this, self-conscious and -confident at the same time, arching into his hands.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of her jeans, tucks at them with just a smidgen of magic poured into the movement. Her eyes widen in response, her breath hitches. Draco grins as he lowers his head towards her belly button. He gives it a kiss in passing as his hands trace the outline of her panties.

“You don’t need…”

He shushes her before she can finish the sentence and frowns. It stings that she still says things like this, he does not quite understand why. Of course, he does not need to go down on her, lick her, edge her until she screams. He wants to, desperately. He wants to feel her pleasure, hear it, taste it. And so he will, even if he has to tie her down to do so. Especially if he has to tie her down to do so.

“I know. Don’t state the obvious unless it’s” He lets his mouth hover over her core as he continues. “‘Yes, Draco’” A kiss on her pubic arch. “or ‘Please, Draco.’”

He licks the length of her cunt once, through the damp fabric of her panties.

“Yes, Draco.”

“Good girl.”

She laughs at that but he can also feel her cunt contract as she does so. He wants to vanish the lace off her core right there and then but he knows better than to spoil the fun. Instead, he mouths her clit through the fabric, sucks once, again, again, until her hip starts pushing against his face.

“Please, Draco.”

It is his time to laugh, a little, every breath catching on her core. He slips two fingers into her panties. Hermione is wet and open, his fingers slide into her without resistance. Her walls clench around them. She makes a desperate noise that sends blood rushing to his cock. It throbs heavy in his pants and it takes a good measure of restraint and perhaps a pinch of masochism to ignore the urge to just take her, now.

Instead, he keeps pumping his fingers shallowly, keeps them in deep, steady, until her fingers claw into his hair and her hips fall into a stuttering rhythm that screams desperation. He pushes the fabric to the side completely and lets his tongue find her clit, circles it lightly, lets her control the pressure for a while before he backs away ever so slightly.

“Please, Draco.”, she repeats.

“Please what?”

He looks up at her face, her beautifully flushed face, framed by a messy crown of hair.

“I thought”, she breathes the words as her hands continue pushing Draco’s face towards the obvious. “I’m not supposed to” Her grip becomes harsher, desperate, but Draco does not budge, merely curls his fingers in a way that makes her moan. “state the obvious.”

“Hm…”, he hums against her clit. She moans again. “But is it please…” He sucks at her clit once. “or please…” He adds a third finger, roughly, pushing all of them in until his palm presses against her core. “or please, Draco, fuck me?”

He watches her grab her wand as he says it. He skips a breath when his cock suddenly springs free, his trousers gone to Merlin knows where. Her eyes sparkle with something devious, dangerous even as they shamelessly focus on his prick. He can feel it bobbing when she licks her lips in anticipation.

“I take it you had a good day?”, Draco asks, later.

Hermione’s head rests heavily on his chest. It fits there, just so, right below his collarbone. As if the little hollow spot were made for it. He does not remember when this started to feel so familiar, the weight of her head, the tickle of her curls.

“How can you tell?”, Hermione asks. Her fingers draw lazy circles on his stomach. He knows that she will never admit it but he can tell that she likes his body, the fact that his abs are visible when he contracts them, the sharp line of his hip bones.

“You were very determined.”

“Ah.” Her fingers stop moving.

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“Hm.”

“I like it.”

“Hm.”

She does not sound the least convinced. Draco feels the familiar sting in his chest, the one that accompanies all of her attempts to push him away, stop him from doing things to her that are meant for her to simply enjoy. He still has not figured out why she will not, most of the time.

“I mean it when I ask you what you want.”, Draco repeats. He feels like he has repeated this sentence a hundred times.

“Huh-huh.”

Draco frowns deeply. Somehow, this conversation has gone wrong, all of the one hundred times. This is, in his opinion, the worst way of doing so, the quiet one. He much prefers the heated arguments, a proper row, the make-up sex that follows. This is new, quiet, and tender, and he does not know how to deal with it.

“Don’t take it as a charity act. That’s your business, not mine.”, he tries. “I ask you what you want so I have control over giving it to you, alright? I get pleasure out of that.”

I get pleasure out of your pleasure is what he does not quite manage to say even though that is more the truth of it. At least, he consoles himself, the rest is part of the truth, too.

“Fair.”, she says. He takes the re-appearance of words as a win, even if it is just one. “I just… I don’t know.”

She buries her face in his chest, not a pillow, and Draco takes that as a win, too.

“Alright. Now”, he crosses his arms behind his head. Give her space, he thinks. He has always wanted space and there had always been so little of it. “I figure you finally got Montague cornered?”

He can feel her smile against his chest. Then her face reappears as she sweeps her hair behind her ear. Her eyes are a darker shade of brown in the sparse light of the lamps on the bedside tables, nothing like the hazel of a doe’s.

“It is only a matter of time until he has to give up on his backward cage-the-beasts-policies. He is running out of arguments and out of support.”, she says. “We are so, so close.”

“We?” Draco lifts an eyebrow at her.

“Well, of course.”, her smile widens into a grin. It is wicked and self-indulgent and everything that Draco loves about her. “Me and my charming little dresses.”

Chapter Text

I used to watch the peacocks in our garden for hours when I was a boy. Before they became fodder for a giant serpent. I wondered, back then, why the males would carry around those pompous tails all their life. I wondered even more why the females would ever fall for such a blunt display of useless pomp. I loved watching them.

“Hermione, is that really you?”

Hermione’s robes flare out around her when she turns, waves of gold and red, of course, they chose those colors for a reason. They look perfect on the portrait the Prophet’s photographer has taken to write an article about the freshly appointed head of Department for Magical Creatures. Hermione looks at Neville with wide, unbelieving eyes before she drags him into a hug that is so unmistakably Gryffindor that it makes Draco laugh.

“Neville! Oh, I have not seen you in ages! Let me look at you.”

Hermione holds her friend at arm's length. Neville has not really grown up, Draco thinks, his features are still soft, round. A man-child, not in a bad way, in a way that immediately makes you trust him. His robes are worn but one can tell that they have been expensive even though a layer of dust and soil tries its best to hide it. Draco has always wondered what mattered more when they appointed him professor: the Longbottom name and the grandmother who bears it or Neville’s acts during that godforsaken war.

“You’re just the same, aren’t you?”, Hermione asks. “Why didn’t you write to let me know you are back in London?”

Neville smiles, it looks a little pained. “Well, I thought you’d be busy, with all that ministry stuff. So I thought I’d just pop by, maybe, and… well, seems like you’re busy after all.”

He looks at Draco with an expression that hovers between curiosity and distrust. Draco averts his gaze, crafting a believable excuse to vanish in his head as he does so. It has taken Hermione years to force her other friends to give him so much as the benefit of the doubt. He sees no reason to put her through the ordeal another time. Not when he knows that Neville has a life at Hogwarts, far away from London, far enough away to make him as good as irrelevant to their lives.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Draco and I were just about to leave.”, Hermione smiles at them both in turn. “We have a promotion to celebrate!”

They arrive at the pub as a trio. It is the same pub they celebrated Hermione’s first bill’s success. Nobody has ever quite caught onto the internal joke it has become to her and Draco. For all they know, everybody still believes that nothing has changed. Themselves included apart from that one, crucial detail they hide in their bedrooms.

Hermione grasps Neville’s arm firmly and Draco does not know who is holding on to whom. There is a strangeness to Neville being there, like a crack in the shiny new facade they erected, a crack that grants a full view of a past they have worked so hard to hide from everyone.

“What would you like?”, Draco holds out the question like a peace offer.

“Er… Just a pint, I guess?”

Neville looks at Hermione as if he wants to ask her whether that was the correct response. She smiles at him but it does not accomplish what it was meant to do. Instead of smiling back, Neville frowns. The day is saved, ironically, by Harry Potter, who barges in, Ron in tow, and draws both Hermione and Neville into another of those Gryffindor hugs.

“Neville! Great to see you! Did ‘Mione invite you?”

“No,” There is a hint of disappointment in his tone. “I just wanted to pop in. There’s not so much to do during summer break, you know?”

“Glad to have you! Now, let’s celebrate the brightest witch of our age, yes?”

Draco does not know whether he is happy or worried that Neville spends the next hour with Harry and Ron. They talk and laugh and that is all fine. But then there are the glances that are directed at Hermione that do not quite fit the celebratory mood of the evening. Luckily enough, Hermione is preoccupied chatting with Deb and when she is not, Draco does his best to keep them entertained with jokes that Hermione hates as much as she loves them.

“I really, really need to sit down.”, Hermione exclaims when they are about to order the third round. “Those heels are killing me.”

There is a general murmur of agreement but as they walk over to the same booth they always occupy Neville asks:

“Since when do you wear heels? I thought you hate them.”

“Well, I do. It’s just… helpful.”

Hermione smiles through something that Draco can only describe as pain.

“Helpful for what?”, Neville pushes. “I bet not for running. Or being on your feet at all from what it looks like.”

“Well, to be frank,” Draco can tell she does not want to say what she is about to say. “helpful for getting the attention of certain people who matter.”

“Matter how?”

Draco watches the rest of the group focusing their attention on Neville. Harry and Deb still look confused but Ron has started wrinkling his nose the same way he does when is about to figure out checkmate in three. Draco does not like that look one bit. He likes the wavering in Hermione’s smile even less.

“People whose opinion matter to the ministry.”, Draco answers. He does not want to watch this interrogation any longer. He wants to end it, here and now. “People who do not care about how intelligent, thoughtful, and frankly brilliant you or your ideas are. People who are powerful but impressionable and who grew up in a world so shallow that it made them even shallower. People like Montague, like Hoffer, like so many of your grandmother’s friends.”

Draco huffs, his throat feels tight and dry.

“People like your parents?”

Neville’s response is not as sharp as Draco expected it to be. It is quiet, measured. Nothing could have been more effective. A glowering silence engulfs the table.

“Yes.”, Draco manages, his pride winning out over common sense. “The people I grew up with. The politics I grew up with. I know most of you do not like it but if Hermione wants to be successful in that world-”

“She has to stoop to your level?”

Now Neville’s voice is bitter as bile. Draco cannot figure out whether it is jealousy or concern or something else entirely.

“Is head of department stooping to you?”, Draco hisses back. “Does Hermione look, in any way, like she stoops to anyone?”

“Sure looks like she stoops to you-”

“Enough.”

Hermione does not need to shout to make herself heard. She just stands up, her gold-and-red figure looms over the table. As much as he hates it, Draco thinks, Neville has to admit how effective this is. Hermione Granger, no longer a wallflower, but a stunning woman who can command attention, who is not interesting despite but also due to her looks.

“I will go, now.”, Hermione announces.

It takes all of Draco’s self-restraint not to grab her hand and apparate them both away. Instead, he grants her the exit she deserves, in his opinion, an exit that leaves Neville mute and confused. They all watch Hermione leave the pub, red robes billowing. Nobody dares to move.

“Go.”

It is Ron who first finds his voice. His eyes rest steadily on Draco’s face. Draco cannot read his expression in its entirety but he does recognize that wrinkled nose.

Draco arrives in Hermione’s living room a minute later. Swearing, because his head hit the top of the fireplace rather hard as he scrambled through, he looks around. The room is dark.

“Fuck!”, he swears again, louder this time.

“I thought they taught you to mind your manners.”

Hermione’s voice is quiet. It takes Draco’s brain and eyes a few seconds to adjust to their environment. Then he makes out her outline, crammed into the settee by the dark window. She mutters a Lumos that brings the reading lamp by her side to life. Her loosened hair casts ghostly shadows onto her face. Her heels lie on the floor by her feet like a pair of unloved lap dogs.

“Hermione-”

“Neville has a point, you know.” She stares out the window as she speaks. “The Hermione he knows would have never dressed up like this. Most of the time. Funny thing is, I don’t even know why I never did. Apart from that one time – do you remember the ball during the Tri-Wizarding Tournament? That was so strange, it felt so strange. And I think for a while, it felt really good, but then it ruined everything. So I guess I just went back to normal, odd word, isn’t it? The normal Hermione who was just… safe? Can a person be safe? And now all of that has changed and it must seem strange. It must seem strange that, all of a sudden, and at the same time, Draco Malfoy is there, too, as a… ”

She falls silent again. Draco is at a loss for words.

“Why are you here, Draco?”

She looks at him, now. Her eyes are swollen but there are no tears in them, just a look that is searching for answers so intently Draco can feel it borrow through his chest.

“I needed to see whether you are alright.”, he says. He meant to add a joke but it remains stuck in his throat.

“No. Why are you here,” She draws her knees up to her chest. “in my life.”

“Because” He takes a step towards her. It does not feel right to have this conversation like this, her hunched figure closed off in a chair three meters away from him. “we work well together.”

She hums and turns towards the window again.

“Because you were the first one who gave me a second chance, an honest one.”, he continues. Small steps, he tells himself. “I just want you to have one, too. Because you deserve it. You deserve to choose who Hermione Granger is.”

Her gaze briefly flickers in his direction. Draco takes a breath. His fingers are shaking, he can feel it, he can feel the tightness in his chest and the ghost of cold sweat on his temples. Draco realizes that he is afraid. He does not leave himself the time to think about what of.

“No matter which Hermione that is. And you deserve to choose who is part of your life. So” His voice cracks. “let me know.”

He cannot get himself to say ‘I will go if you want me to.’. The words play on repeat in his head but his mouth simply will not form them.

“I don’t want you gone, Draco.”, Hermione says. “I just want to know… why? Why are we doing this?”

Draco takes the last step that brings him right to her chair. He lowers himself into a squat, tries to catch her eyes. She shuts them. He clenches his hand into fists to stop them from shaking.

“Does it matter?”

“I think so.”

Suddenly, Draco thinks that he understands. Perhaps not completely and almost certainly because he is projecting but this is his best shot.

“I don’t.”

At that, she opens her eyes.

“You make it sound like we need an excuse. We really don’t. You don’t. You don’t need an excuse to change. You can be whoever you want to be.” Draco knows that he is talking to himself as much as he talks to Hermione. It does not make the words come any easier. “We can just be this. We can help each other. We can joke and laugh and have sex. You are allowed to have success,” He swallows. “and you are allowed to have fun.”

“Success. Fun.”, she echoes. It sounds hollow. “Sure. Yeah. Let’s leave it at that.”

“It’s not a bad thing.”, he says. His hand moves towards her face but he stops himself from touching her. “It works.”

“Yeah, it works.”, she says and smiles at him. She even makes the corners of her eyes crinkle. He taught her that, how to make a fake smile believable. “It all works.”

Chapter Text

There is no accounting for the winding paths of magic. I believe the quote has been attributed to Morgan le Fay. Mother used to say the same about love, and Morgana herself knows, my mother’s insights about the crushing power of love are hard to match. Needless to say, she was the first to know what was, in the end, utterly inevitable.

Draco has- tragically, accidentally, and definitely not purposefully – forgotten about Hermione’s invitation to his mother’s gala a dozen times. A week before the event, Narcissa Malfoy nee Black loses her patience and has her invitation delivered the old-fashioned way. The moment Draco sees his mother’s favorite house-elf in his kitchen, he knows that he has lost this battle.

“Oh, who is that?”, Hermione asks when she comes into the kitchen, hair still wet from the shower. She wears his bathrobe. It is long enough to cover her ankles.

“Trissy has an invitation for Miss Granger, Miss.”, the elf announces before Draco gets a chance to open his mouth. He blames it on a lack of caffeine and the early morning hours. “Mistress Malfoy would be most honored to receive Miss Granger at her gala, Miss.”

Trissy hands over a heavy, cream-colored envelope. It states Hermione’s full name in lavishly curved, black letters. Draco decides to make tea instead of facing the disaster head-on.

“Well, thank you, Trissy.” Draco can feel Hermione watching him as she takes the invitation from his mother’s house elf. “Tell Misses Malfoy that I will be glad to be there.”

Trissy makes a pleased, squeaky sound and is gone with the distinct plop of apparition.

“Now, you can either try to come up with an excellent excuse”, Hermione says to Draco’s back. “or you can explain to me why you do not want me to go.”

“It’s complicated.”, Draco replies because it feels like it describes it all. This situation, their situation, the entire bloody mess that one too-honest-to-be-good Gryffindor has left behind.

“Obviously.”, Hermione sighs and snatches the teacup out of Draco’s hands. “So: explain.”

Draco manages to get away with a vague explanation that heavily relies on invoking trauma without directly mentioning it. He tries to convince himself of that explanation. It almost works for both of them. The silence that broods between them as they walk up the stairs to the new Malfoy Manor betrays their doubts.

“Miss Granger, what a pleasure!”

Narcissa Malfoy is an imposing figure to be greeted by, no matter how friendly her words are. She has recovered well from it all, on the outside, Draco thinks. Her robes are cream and menthol, breezy, bright, not a hint of darkness on her.

“The pleasure is all mine, Misses Malfoy.”

Hermione does not bow her head, as most people are inclined to do. Instead, she stretches out her plain hand. Draco holds his breath when his mother’s diamond-adorned fingers wrap around it. The two women have a silent conversation, eye to eye, for a moment that stretches an eternity in Draco’s universe.

“Draco, Darling,” And then that moment is gone. “please take Miss Granger inside.”

“Mother.”, Draco replies, the formal way, bows the formal way, and does as he has been told. It feels awkward, wrong even, to make a display out of it in front of Hermione. But then he has not given anyone a reason to believe that Hermione should be treated any other way, the informal way that is strictly reserved for friends and family.

“Your mother has changed.”, Hermione remarks as they walk through the near-empty gallery.

Draco hums in response. He watches Hermione’s gaze flick between the few portraits that have made their way to the new Malfoy home. There were only so few deceased Malfoys and Blacks who were able to hold their tongues.

“I don’t mean the dress.”, she clarifies right as the door to the ballroom opens.

Draco raises an eyebrow at that. Before he can think about what exactly caused Hermione’s comment, he gets quite literally dragged away by one insufferable Blaise Zabini who claims to not have seen him in years.

“It’s been seven months and you were the one who went to Paris to – I don’t even want to know.”, Draco huffs and looks back to Hermione.

“Ah, but you do.”, Blaise winks at him, then follows his gaze and grins. “Alors, let her be for a bit, hm? I know you know she will be fine. From what I hear, it’s the rest of the room who should be warned about her.”

“Of course she will be fine.”, Draco hisses. It does not come out as sharply as he had intended. The look in his mother’s eyes, when Hermione shook her hand, is too fresh on his mind for that. “That does not mean that I drop her the second we get here.”

Blaise barks out a laugh. “You make it sound like she was your date for the evening.”

He looks at Draco intently as he says that. Draco can feel a blush creep up on his cheeks but he wills it down.

“Of course not.”, he drawls. Old habits die hard. “Mother invited her, the head of the department of Magical Creatures. It would have been improper not to. I offered to apparate her, of course, seeing that she has not been here before.”

“That is a lot of ‘of course’ and a lot of explanation for someone who is of course not your date.”

At that, Draco stills. He knows, the moment he does so, that it is a dead giveaway. He tries to rescue the situation nonetheless. “So? Since when do you care about my vocabulary?”

Blaise just hums and takes two glasses from a tray floating by. He hands one to Draco but does not let go as the other takes it by the stem.

“Since you showed up with her at your mother’s doorstep.”, he clarifies. He still holds Draco by the champagne glass, eyes locked on his face. “And since said mother has taken an unusual interest in her.”

At that, he lets go of the glass and nods towards the windows. There they stand, between a potted palm and a lavish bouquet, two imposing women in cream and crimson. They smile at each other, two perfectly amicable smiles, chatting along, while their eyes keep searching for something that the conversation will never touch. Draco swallows.

“It is a good connection to make.”, he mumbles. “Mom always wanted to get her influence on the ministry back.”

“Huh.” Blaise raises an eyebrow at him. “Sure, you can tell me this is all about influence. Very fitting, very Slytherin, very Malfoy.”

Draco sighs deeply and drinks. He knows this is not the end of it. It never ends with Blaise. He just goes on, and on, and on, until he gets to the truth of it. It is also very Slytherin and very much the result of a childhood embedded in lies.

“We all know that the obvious answer is never the correct one.”, Blaise says.

For ten long seconds, Draco thinks that he will add something. But Blaise just looks at him, twirling the champagne glass between his fingers. A smile creeps up on his face, one that Draco deeply dislikes.

“I believe you wanted to tell me about Paris?”, Draco makes a meek attempt at changing the subject.

“Ah…” Blaise’s grin widens. It is insufferably bright and self-indulgent. “Tu l’aimes¹.”

“Very funny, Blaise. Of course I like her.”

“Of course.”, Blaise parrots. His grin dissolves into a smile. “You sleep with her.”

Draco instinctively wants to shush him but he realizes that it would be another giveaway. It is a rather open secret that his friendship with Hermione could very well be a little more. The emphasis lies on little. A little is fine. He does not need to give Blaise a reason to believe in something bigger than little.

“So?”, he tries.

Blaise gives him another intense look. Then, to Draco’s surprise, he shrugs his shoulders.

“So, I think we should find someone to dance.”, he declares and his smile transforms into something wider yet shallower. “Unless you would like to take me for a spin.”

Draco laughs to loosen the tension in his shoulders and because he remembers the first, and last, time he and Blaise danced together. It had been an utter disaster even though or perhaps even because both pride themselves on being excellent dancers – who both very much intended to lead.

Draco feels Blaise watching him as he twirls his dance partners through the middle of the ballroom. He knows that Blaise is waiting for him to find Hermione, with his eyes or otherwise. He has no intention of giving him the satisfaction. It does not help that Hermione manages to catch his eyes nonetheless. So he keeps dancing, it is his very best excuse to stay away from her. He knows she will not set foot on the dance floor and he is known for dancing for hours. It has always reminded him of flying, the one-two-three, one-two-three, turn after turn, that leaves your head spinning just enough that you lose yourself but not quite your balance.

Hermione, meanwhile, does what she has become known for: engaging the room in a conversation they had not even known they could be interested in. Draco catches sight of her talking to Theodore Nott, whose inventions always found their way into Hermione’s possession shortly after their announcement, to one of the Kirman sisters, who had replaced Rita Skeeter at the Prophet, and to a handful of others who shied away from official Ministry gatherings. Draco would have been rather pleased with that were it not for the quiet but consistent presence of his mother. He cannot quite make out whether she has talked to Hermione, too, how much so. He does, however, know that there is something to her steady presence and that he needs to get to the bottom of it.

He excuses himself from the dance floor the moment he catches Narcissa heading for one of the doors. Blaise’s eyes follow his sudden escape but he does not care. Narcissa leaves the door that leads to the kitchen open for him. He closes it behind them.

“Maman.²”, he starts even though he does not know how to continue. He just wants her to know that this can be an honest conversation.

“She is very clever.”, Narcissa says when she turns towards him. There is a tender smile on her face, one Draco has almost forgotten. “She is also very aware of what she is doing. It reminds me of someone.”

She places two fingers on his cheek, no more, and then she waits. Draco’s tongue lies heavy in his mouth. Suddenly, he feels like a child again. It is a horrifying feeling, tender, warm, and full of vulnerability.

“No, she is just herself.”, he says. And then, with all the courage he can muster: “I hope.”

“Ah, I think so.”, Narcissa’s smile widens. It is rare, that smile, which is not exactly pleasant but slightly crooked, toothy, and honest. “She reminds me of myself.”

“Oh.” Draco breathes out and only then realizes that he has held his breath.

“I don’t think you could have changed her even if you wanted to.”, Narcissa continues. “Even though I can see your handwriting all over her robes.”

She lets go of his cheeks and brushes a strand of hair behind his ears.

“Just like I am afraid Miss Granger will not be able to stop this insufferable smoking habit of yours.”

Draco blushes, stuck feeling like a ten-year-old version of himself. His mother was not supposed to know about it.

“Now, I am going to tell the elves to have the pastries sent out. And you will tell me her favorite so I can let you bring her one of those.”

She has already turned when Draco mutters “profiteroles” with a fond certainty that leaves a warm but very firm lump in his throat.

Hermione eats profiterole the way ten-year-old Draco wanted to but was not allowed to. She removes the top, eats it first, then licks off the top of the cream filling before popping the bottom bit into her mouth. She does it even in front of the posh crowd, even in her silky dressing robes. It makes him smile.

“Don’t think this makes up for you ignoring me the entire evening.”, she scolds him, quietly enough to be masked by the music for anyone else around them. “I don’t care what Blaise Zabini thinks. You are allowed to have fun, no?”

He almost bursts out in laughter right there and then. Or tears, he thinks it might be tears just as well. How his own words have come back to haunt him.

“Of course.”, he replies when the urge of having an emotional breakdown has passed. “Did you have fun,” He pauses and the look on her face changes into something far more intense than mocking joy. “tonight?”

“I think I had something much better.”, she says. “An epiphany of sorts. You?”

Now Draco does laugh, even though it is just a short bark, and he can feel a tear in the corner of his eye. He blinks it away.

“Yes. You could call it that.”

“What did you and my mother talk about?”, he asks her, much later while the sun begins to rise and her head still rests on his chest.

“What makes you think that we talked?”, she asks in return. Her fingers trace one of the scars on his chest.

“You said you had an epiphany.”, he clarifies. “Of sorts.”

“Remember when I said your mother has changed?”

He hums the confirmation into the crown of her hair. It never smells of anything much, just like Hermione does and tonight a little bit like candles and puff pastry. He likes that about her, the absence of additions – no perfume, no jewelry, never, no matter how much he comments on it.

“There was also one thing that has not changed.”, she continues. She tilts her head to look at him. “The way she looks at you.”

Draco smiles at that. It is a sweet thing to say. He does not understand it. Hermione sighs, then slaps her hand down on his chest the same way she would on a desk when she tries to make an important point. It is painful enough to make Draco flinch.

“Merlin, we are both quite daft, aren’t we?” Draco remains silent. She pinches his nipple, harder than she would just to tease him. “It is okay to have fun. And more than fun.”

Draco swallows hard. There is a stubborn emptiness in his head that he is not used to. Hermione Granger has done it again, she has left him quite speechless. She pauses once more. Her stare demands him to finish her monologue. He cannot. She scrambles up to lean on her elbows. She looks down at him and takes a deep breath.

“It is okay to have bloody feelings.”

The words fall from her lips and they tremble. A chill spreads through Draco’s body that makes every minute hair on it stand up. She still stares at him, eyes wide, something like anger in them but also so much more that Draco cannot decipher. For a moment, he thinks she will slap him in the face. Then she just turns away from him.

“You look at me the same way.”, she mumbles, quiet enough to be a whisper. “I thought it meant something.”

At that, something breaks inside him. The feeling is so clear, he swears he can hear the sound of it echo through the bedroom. He desperately wants to say something. ‘I know I do.’ or ‘I hope I do.’ or most of all ‘I want it to mean something.’. He opens his mouth but he is afraid that every sound that comes out of it will be wrong.

So he does the only thing that seems right: He wraps his arms around her and holds her tight. He holds her until he can feel her body relax, inch by inch, until he is sure that she will not run away. He holds her tight as she falls asleep in his arms. He holds her as he makes a promise to himself: Tomorrow, he will be able to say it.

“I want it to mean something.”

I never liked love stories with a happy ending. They always feel constructed, predictable. And despite the surprise on most people’s faces, I think we were predictable, too. Somehow, I cannot get myself to care.

FIN

¹Tu l’aimes: French. This is usually translated as ‘You love her/him’ but it can literally also mean ‘You like her/him’. Which meaning comes to mind depends on the context. There is also an amazing YouTube short on this double-meaning “French makes no sense: Je t’aime.” Go check it out, especially if you grew up in a multi-cultural city and a bunch of languages around you like I did.

²Maman: French for ‘mom’ or ‘mommy’. Often translated as the latter because of the similarity but it really rather is like ‘mom’, a term that is also frequently used by adults and is less of an endearment and more of a standard way of addressing your mother.