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It was Draco’s wedding day.

If she were honest with herself, Hermione had been counting to the last damned second. Exactly one year, three months, and four days since she made the single most catastrophic mistake of her life. She still remembered the echo of it, that sick thud in her chest the moment the words left her lips.

They had started dating quietly, in the middle of their eighth year. He had been patient with her, maddeningly so, as though he had known she would fall into his arms eventually. The secrecy had been mutual. After all, the notion of an ex-Death Eater and a war heroine together would have lit up the Prophet like a bonfire, each column dripping with scandal.

She hadn’t cared about scandal. But for once in her life, she had wanted peace, and with Draco she had found it, and she wanted it all to herself. They had been equals in wit, in will, in the thrill of every sparring match of words. The sex had been otherworldly, the kind that left her skin humming for days. He had looked at her like she was more than brilliant books and war medals — like she was something entirely his.

And then, as if swept by some fever, he proposed.

She hadn’t been ready. He had stood there with his conviction, with his certainty that she was it, while she had faltered. She had plans mapped neatly across the years: restoring her parents’ memories, earning her mastery, climbing the ranks of the Ministry, perhaps marriage somewhere down the line, followed by the long slog toward Minister for Magic. She had a 10-year plan so precise it could have been set in ink.

He told her she could still do it all, that he would wait, that being engaged didn’t mean she had to give up anything. But her mind had already started its familiar descent into overthinking, spiraling down those corridors of fear carved by the war. She knew what hasty choices could cost. One decision, one moment of weakness, could alter the course of everything. And she panicked.

They fought. They shouted. Her chest was tight, and she could barely breathe, and then she cut him off with two words.

“It’s over.”

The memory still stung. His face, red with anger, eyes flaring with hurt before shuttering closed, his voice like iron when he gave his reply:

“Okay, then.”

Now, sitting on her bed, she stared at the clipping from the Prophet she had kept tucked under her bed. The six-month-old newspaper, Astoria Greengrass, smiling sweetly, holding up an elegant engagement ring. Hermione traced the grainy ink with a trembling finger. Ginny had told her the wedding was today, and since last night, Hermione hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept. She had only stared at the ceiling until her eyes burned.

He had said he could wait. And she, in her foolish panic, had cut the thread of it with her own hands. The stupidest decision she had ever made.

In roughly eight hours, he would be married.

The thought shook her from her paralysis. She stood, tore through her wardrobe until her hand brushed against a worn box hidden at the very back. She drew it out, the cardboard edges softened with age. Inside were letters. His letters.

She pulled one free at random, one written after a fight — her first bout of jealousy, sharp and humiliating.

It’s always been you, Granger… and it will always be.
All the witches in the world will never come close.

I never GIFTED Tracy a book. I merely lent her one from the Malfoy archives.
It’s been two days. Please talk to me.

Missing you,
Draco

Her breath caught. Her lips twisted into a laugh, bitter and aching. Was it still true? Was it still her? Or had she become little more than a ghost in his past?

The door creaked open, breaking her reverie. Ginny stepped in, her sharp eyes immediately catching the letter in Hermione’s hand.

“How are you feeling?” Ginny asked gently.

“Like shit,” Hermione answered, her voice cracking as tears spilled hot against her palm.

Ginny leaned over, plucked the letter from her trembling fingers, and scanned it quickly. A soft, sorrowful smile tugged at her lips.

“Oh, Mione.” She slid beside her on the bed and wrapped her arms around her.

The floodgates broke. Hermione sobbed into her friend’s shoulder, body heaving as the words tumbled out. “I was so stupid, Ginny. He’s going to marry that perfect pureblood girl, and they’ll have perfect pureblood heirs, and I’ll just be… a footnote. A muggleborn footnote in his story.”

Ginny’s hold only tightened, warm and steady. Hermione hated how selfish she sounded, hated how it clawed at her, but she also knew Ginny would never judge her. Only Ginny and Draco had ever glimpsed the side of her that wasn’t polished for the public, the selfish side that bled through in the quiet moments.

She had given up everything during the war, torn herself hollow to keep Harry and Ron alive. Afterward, she had vowed to live for herself, to guard her dreams with both fists. She had done it too fiercely — so fiercely she had lost the one person she could not forget.

She had tried dating. Merlin knew she had. But every man she sat across from, she searched for Draco. In the way they stirred their tea, the way they tilted their heads, the cadence of their speech. None of them measured up. None of them was him. It was maddening. Sometimes she wondered if he, too, compared Astoria to her in those quiet moments.

“You know how you always tell me that one decision can change everything?” Ginny murmured.

Hermione sniffed, her throat raw. “Uh-huh.”

“Well, maybe it’s not too late.”

Hermione froze, pulling back to stare at her. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, Ginny, I am not gate-crashing a wedding.”

Ginny’s lips curved into a smirk. “It’s not gate-crashing if it hasn’t started yet.”

Hermione blinked at her, speechless, before collapsing into another hug.

“I’m only saying,” Ginny whispered, “that maybe you should talk to him. At least for closure. You’re drowning in regret, Mione.”

“For… closure,” Hermione echoed, the word foreign on her tongue.

Ginny nodded, her smirk deepening. “Or to steal him back?”

Hermione let out a shaky laugh through her tears.

Draco knew it was a terrible idea to drink before his wedding, but he had already drained half the glass, and the firewhiskey burned just enough to remind him that he was still breathing. Everything was perfect…or at least, it was supposed to be.

His mother had made sure of it. The Malfoy gardens were immaculately decorated, every hydrangea trimmed to precision, every silver accent gleaming in the April sun. Guests would arrive in a few hours, their eyes full of judgment masked as admiration, and everything was in place, perfectly planned.

So why did he feel as if he were standing in the wrong life?

He leaned against the balcony rail, staring at the endless rows of flowers, and in his mind, they blurred, rearranged themselves. Not hydrangeas. No, he imagined them as baby blue peonies. Not silver accents, but gold, gleaming warm and soft like… her eyes. Her bloody golden eyes that had ruined him. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. He needed to stop thinking about her. This was his wedding, for Merlin’s sake.

But how was he supposed to forget the way she had broken him with two simple words?

It’s over.

As if their love had been some silly fling, a schoolyard romance to be discarded. He let out a bitter chuckle and took another swig. He had told her he would wait. He would have waited forever if she had asked. But she brushed him off as though he were nothing. Pride and hurt had swallowed him whole that day, and so, as easily as she had thrown those words, he had thrown back his own.

Okay, then.

There had been hurt in her eyes, he knew it. The kind that mirrored his own. But his pride had been stronger than his reason. He had seen her flinch, and that petty and wounded part of him had wanted her to.

She had tried to reach him afterward. Multiple times in that miserable month. He had shut her out with cruel precision, evading her in corridors, ignoring her voice when she called after him. Every owl she sent, he burned without breaking the seal. His hands had trembled as the parchment curled and blackened, but he never let himself read. Never let himself hope. And eventually… she had stopped trying. Graduation came, and with it, silence.

He told himself he had forgotten her. He told himself it was necessary. But she was everywhere. In the smell of peaches. In the steam rising from his morning tea. In the ink stains that smudged his fingers after hours of writing. She haunted the most ordinary parts of his life, and he hated her for it. Hated that even in his anger, a small, pathetic part of him regretted it all.

The Prophet had been his only window into her life. Her triumphs were printed for all the world to admire. She had recovered her parents’ memories, begun her mastery in Runes, and dated other wizards. Salazar, the thought of it made his stomach churn even now. He had drunk himself senseless picturing some faceless man kissing her, holding her, giving her what she used to give him. The firewhiskey never burned enough to cauterize that wound.

So one night, in his desperation, he had gone to his mother. Told her he was ready. Ready to put it all behind him. To follow tradition.

He had dated, yes. Witches who were beautiful, pureblood, and acceptable in every possible way. But they were dull, every last one of them. None of them laughed like her. None of them argued until dawn, or kissed him like it was both war and surrender. None of them was her.

Then came Astoria. She was easy. She was kind, and she did not share the venomous ideals his father had lived and died by. She was funny, and she got along well with his friends. His mother adored her, which solved most of his problems. With Astoria, there was no fire to consume him, but there was no fire to destroy him either. It was safe.

And now, today, they were to be married. So why, why in Merlin’s name, did his chest feel like it was caving in with regret?

He sat down on the chaise, the firewhiskey clutched in one hand, when he felt it. A ripple in the wards. The Manor hummed through his blood now, every intrusion a pulse against his skin. Two magical signatures, pushing against the wards. He straightened immediately, wand in hand, and reached out with his magic to identify them.

One of them… impossible. It couldn’t be. He would never mistake her magic.

Then the sound came — leaves rustling below his balcony. He heard whispers.

“Ouch! My toes!” a female hissed. Weaslette?

“Sorry. Wait…move to the right. His room is there, I think.”

The breath caught in his throat. That voice. He hadn’t heard it in over a year, and yet it thundered through him as if she had just whispered it into his ear only yesterday.

What the fuck.

He moved back from the balcony, mind spinning. They had to be under Potter’s bloody cloak, the audacity of this witch. She was here. Here! On his wedding day!

Seconds later, a thud landed in his room. He spun sharply, and there she was. Hermione bloody Granger. Standing in his chambers, hair disheveled, face blotchy from crying, clutching a broom like it was her lifeline. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen, and yet somehow still radiant.

Even now, she looked beautiful.

Fuck.

“Draco…” she whispered. Hearing her say his name almost made him lose his balance.

“Granger… what the fuck are you doing here?” He wanted it sharp, cutting. What came out was softer, weaker.

“I… I don’t know.” She was fidgeting, twisting the hem of her jumper between her fingers like a nervous child.

“You do realise I’m getting married today?”

“I know.”

Her silence after was unbearable. He filled it with venom, clinging to the scraps of his pride. “If you’re here to send your well wishes, storming into my home like some bloody vigilante isn’t the way to do it.”

She flinched, startled, and for a fleeting, shameful moment, he felt satisfaction. Good.

“I… I’m sorry. I just…” She exhaled shakily, as if she were preparing a speech before the Wizengamot. “I need to get this out. You don’t have to talk.”

That surprised him. Still, he rolled his eyes, folding his arms, signalling he’d at least listen. Of course, this was some Gryffindor stunt. Some grand, last-minute gesture. She always had a flair for dramatics when it came to the things she cared about. Fine. He would listen. Then he would send her away. Because it was too late. Too fucking late.

Her eyes found his, those damned golden eyes that had undone him a thousand times.

“I regret it. I regret saying it was over.”

His jaw tightened until it ached.

“I regret it because it was never over for me.”

Merlin, no. Don’t.

“I’m so sorry for hurting you, Draco. I was selfish. I wasn’t ready. After the war, I had this ten-year plan. My parents, my mastery, the Ministry…” Her voice trembled. “But then you came. And you upended everything. You were this whirlwind I never expected, and I loved every second of it. For the first time, I felt like a normal girl, not some soldier tied to a prophecy, not someone people depended on for survival.”

He opened his mouth to interrupt, to stop this before it hollowed him out completely, but she raised her hand to silence him. The audacity.

“I wanted us to be a secret, not because I was ashamed, but because I wanted to keep you to myself. I was terrified that if we went public, they’d take you away. You’re a Malfoy, I’m a Muggleborn. Even if the war was over, I thought it was only a matter of time before tradition pulled you away from me.”

His heart lurched. And then she said it.

“That’s when I knew I was madly, deeply in love with you.”

He stilled, every muscle locked.

“And knowing that terrified me. Every day, I thought it was only a matter of time before I lost you. So when you proposed, I panicked. I spat out the worst decision of my life. I regretted it the moment it left my lips, but before I could take it back, you said ‘Okay.’ Just like that. Suddenly, my fears became real.”

Her voice cracked. “I know it’s too late. You’re happy now. But I couldn’t live with myself without trying. I thought this was my last chance.”

She reached into her pocket, her hand trembling, and stepped closer. Their fingers brushed as she pressed something into his palm, and the contact sent a jolt straight to his chest. He blinked down at it. A letter. His letter.

It’s always been you, Granger… and it will always be.
All the witches in the world will never come close.

I never GIFTED Tracy a book. I merely lent her one from the Malfoy archives.
It’s been two days. Please talk to me.

Missing you,
Draco

He remembered writing it after their first real fight. She had been jealous then. Hermione Granger, jealous…and he had relished it. He loved that fiery look in her eyes.

So why was she giving it back now?

He knew exactly why.

“Granger…” His voice broke before he could steel it.

“I regret hurting you that day, Draco. I’ve accepted the consequences of what I did. But I think… I’ll regret it even more if I don’t try one last time.”

The plea in her voice was not theatrical. It was not the kind of grand spectacle the Prophet would salivate over, nor the dramatic interruption to a wedding his more cynical self might have expected her to stage. No, this was something far quieter. It was fragile, raw, the sound of a heart folding in on itself. A private implosion, and Merlin help him, it carried something he had no right to expect but had always, always hoped for: the possibility of being chosen again.

Draco stared down at the parchment in his hand, the familiar slant of his own script mocking him. Every sardonic quip, every bite of resentment he wanted to say to armour himself collapsed into dust.

He wanted to be angry, to lash out at her, to tell her she was too late. He didn't expect the way his chest tightened as if his very bones wanted to lean into her words.

The contradiction was unbearable. He was Draco Malfoy, son of a disgraced name, heir to obligations, a man who had learned to keep his heart under lock and key. But he was also the boy who had once written these very words to her, words now trembling in his palm.

And here she was, throwing them back into his hands as though they had never stopped burning.

His throat worked, but the sound that emerged was more fragile than he liked. “Why now?”

It was more than a question. It was a plea he was too proud to voice. It asked if she had finally chosen him, not because he was convenient, not because she had run out of options, but because she truly believed he was worth breaking her perfect little plan for.

She swallowed, and he hated that he was hanging on the sound, waiting for the verdict.

“Because you’re marrying in a few hours,” she said, her voice splintering in places she could not hide, “and I couldn’t bear the thought of letting you walk away with that silence between us. Because I’m selfish, and I can’t help but still believe what you wrote in that letter is still true. That it will always be me. And if it still is… my delusions are still hoping you’d forgive me. That you’d come back to me.”

Draco shut his eyes for a moment, as if that could dull the ache of hearing his own words echoed back at him. It didn’t. If anything, it carved him open further.

She dragged in a deep, shuddering breath.

“Because I’m terrified that if I don’t try, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been.”

They were silent for a good minute, the words she had left hanging in the room still clawing at him, when a small rock struck Hermione squarely between the shoulders. She startled, then darted to the balcony.

“Mione!” came a whisper-shout. Weaslette, without a doubt. “Tell Malfoy to herd his stupid peacocks away. They don’t like me here, I swear, they know we’re intruders. They’re pecking me! Ouch—fuck!”

Hermione glanced back at him, biting her lip, guilt flickering in her eyes like a candle about to snuff out.

“Sorry,” she breathed. “I… I think we should go. I’ll wait for your answer, Draco. Whatever you choose, I’ll accept it.”

And then, in the most un-Granger-like fashion he had ever witnessed, she mounted the broom and swerved crookedly down from his balcony until the Weaslette caught up and took the reins. Together they disappeared into the sky.

A knock shattered the silence that followed.

“Draco?” His mother’s voice, calm, poised, inevitable.

Draco sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and turned from the empty balcony. He opened the door.

“Mother,” he said flatly.

“Is she still here?” Narcissa asked as she stepped in, already fussing with the folds of his robes.

He should have known she would feel the disturbance in the wards as surely as he had. For all he knew, she had been the one who sicced the bloody peacocks on the Weaslette.

“She’s gone,” Draco muttered. “Did you have to let the peacocks loose, Mother?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my dragon.” Her smirk was infuriatingly elegant. He rolled his eyes, too tired for her games.

“What’s on your mind, darling?” she asked.

Her.

How much he hated her for leaving, how much he loved her still, how much she unsettled every wall he had built. Her words still lingered, clinging to his lungs, thick and suffocating as smoke. Merlin, it was working.

His pride roared at him, reminding him of the unanswered owls he had burned to ash. His obligations pressed like chains against his ribs, reminding him that in hours he was meant to stand beside Astoria and perform the role expected of him. But his heart — his treacherous, reckless heart — was already leaning toward Granger.

Draco dropped onto his bed, running a hand down his face and through his hair. “Mother, I don’t know anymore…”

Narcissa glided closer, her voice soft and calculated. “So… I suggest you stay in the Black townhouse in France. You can call Deek to bring what you need. The weather is quite chilly this year, so do bring a coat.”

His head snapped up. That stunned him. “Mother… what are you saying?”

She scoffed lightly, elegant as always. “My dragon, we both know you're not going through with this wedding. You have approximately four hours. And I will need your friends’ help with the guests once they realise you've left. You'll need to stay away from here once the Prophet writes about this.”

The room tilted. He felt confused, relieved, and terrified. Everything was happening too fast. Could he really do it? Could he truly walk away, break the expectations binding him, risk his heart one more time on her?

“What if going to her is wrong, Mother? I can’t… I can’t risk getting hurt again.”

“Just like how she risked breaking into our wards — wards you never closed for her, by the way — and wooing you on the very day of your wedding?”

“I—”

“Darling,” Narcissa cut in, her voice velvet and steel, “I just want you happy. After everything our family has endured, do we not deserve a happy ending? You are my pride and joy, my dragon. Go and get your witch. Show her what it means to be loved by a Malfoy, and do not let her go.”

His throat closed. He looked into her eyes, saw the fierce love there, and the tears slipped before he could stop them. A chuckle broke from him, half-choked, half-disbelieving.

“Merlin, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Our family has always been made for drama anyway.” Narcissa laughed lightly, her composure never faltering.

“Astoria,” he murmured.

“Leave her a letter.”

“Daphne will kill me.”

“She will,” Narcissa agreed smoothly. “But she will understand. It was her idea to set the peacocks loose, by the way.”

That knocked the breath from him. Bloody hell.

“How many of you were listening in?”

“It was just Daphne and me at first. Blaise and Theo were about to enter, but we stopped them. In the end, yes, we all listened.”

As if summoned, Theo, Blaise, and Daphne stepped into the room.

“Hey, Drake,” Theo smirked, shameless.

“You’ve got around three hours and fifteen minutes left, mate,” Blaise added with infuriating calm.

And Daphne — Daphne was glaring daggers at him, her eyes sharp enough to pierce bone.

“Draco, I am going to fucking kill you for hurting my baby sister,” she said, voice low and trembling with fury. “But I also love you. And I won't be able to forgive myself if I force you two into a loveless marriage. She deserves someone who loves her wholeheartedly. You deserve that too.”

The guilt slammed into him. He stood, crossed the room in two strides, and pulled her into a hard embrace.

“I’m so sorry, Daphne. I tried. I promise, I did,” he murmured into her shoulder, his voice breaking against her steadiness.

“I know, D.” Her arms tightened around him. “Write Astoria something short now, then a proper letter after. We’ll take care of her. Right now, we’re here for you.”

He pulled back, looking at them all — Theo, Blaise, Daphne, his mother. His family. The ones who knew him, who saw through his masks, who were handing him the chance he had never believed he could take.

The decision was made. And yet his chest still ached with fear, with excitement, with the wild hope of what came next.

A crack of apparition split the silence, and Draco found her exactly where he half-expected she might be: on her bed, curled in the arms of the Weaslette.

“Ferret,” the Weaslette said, brow arched, unbothered as though she had been waiting all along. “About time.”

“Weaslette,” he fired back without heat, because even his disdain felt oddly dulled tonight.

Hermione sat up so suddenly it was as though she had seen a ghost, eyes wide, hair tumbling about her shoulders like it had never been touched by rest.

“I’ll just leave you two here to talk,” the Weaslette said softly. She pried Hermione’s desperate grip from her shirt with a patience Draco had not expected, then rose. A lazy flick of her wand on the way out, and the air thrummed with the telltale hush of a Silencio.

Draco rolled his eyes. Gryffindor theatrics, down to the last.

“Draco?” Hermione’s voice was fragile, tentative, laced with the disbelief of someone too afraid to hope. She stood, taking a half-step toward him.

“Wait.” His hand came up, sharp, commanding. “You’ve said your piece. It’s my turn now.”

She froze, arms coming around her waist as though bracing against a blow. The sight was almost enough to unravel him. Almost.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” His voice scraped out raw as he dragged his hand through already disheveled hair, restless and furious with the storm inside him.

Her lips parted, but he cut her off before she could shape the words.

“I loved you, Granger. I told you I’d wait for you. I didn’t mind waiting forever. But you ended it. Right there. You broke my heart.”

“I did—”

“You have no idea how hard it was to move on,” he snapped, the words laced with venom because it hurt too much to say them plainly. “I tried so fucking hard. I burned your letters, every last one of them. I threw away every gift you’d ever given me. I vanished entire wardrobes because your scent lingered in the fibres. Do you understand? You turned me into ash, and I had to scrape together the pieces of what was left.”

Her face crumpled, tears trembling at the edges. “I still sleep with your Quidditch jumper,” she whispered, taking one small step forward as though the admission might be a peace offering.

His chest clenched. Damn her.

“Now that I’ve finally decided to free myself from you,” he said with a hollow laugh, the sound sharp enough to cut glass, “you show up on my wedding day. You hand me one of my letters and ask if I still feel the same way I did then? Do you expect me to throw away everything I’ve tried to rebuild after you crushed me?”

Her tears fell freely now, and when she spoke, her voice was a confession carved open. “I have all of your letters…”

That undid him. It should have soothed, should have healed. Instead, it twisted deeper, because it meant she had held on all along while he had been torching every memory just to breathe.

“Of everything you said earlier,” he said slowly, his breath ragged, “you were right about one thing. You’re fucking selfish.”

She sobbed harder, nodding, eyes shining with guilt. “I am…”

His chest heaved. He was choking on everything he had buried, everything he had sworn he would not let her have again. But she had always been the exception, hadn’t she?

“You’re also right about something else…” His feet carried him forward before his pride could stop him. She looked up at him, trembling, waiting.

“It’s still you,” he said, voice breaking with the weight of it. “It wasn’t over for me either.”

That final step erased the distance, erased the months, erased every argument he had rehearsed in his head. His hands found her and pulled her to him, desperate.

Their lips crashed together, and the salt of her tears flooded his mouth. It should have been bitter, it should have ruined it, yet instead it was intoxicating. Her taste. The grief and longing mingled with the warmth of her lips was everything he had starved for. The kiss was clumsy and perfect all at once, all teeth and desperation, months of restraint detonating in the space between them.

He cupped her jaw with both hands, thumbs stroking her damp cheeks, tilting her face up as if she might vanish if he let go. Salazar, he had missed this — the soft hitch of her breath when his tongue swept against hers, the way she clung to him as if she were drowning and he was the only air left in the world.

He tore back for a single breath, lips grazing hers. “Tell me I can touch you,” he rasped, his voice low and raw.

Her answer was a plea, her eyes wide and wild. “Please, Draco. Yes.”

He groaned, the sound guttural, and pressed her back into the mattress. His body caged hers, his hands roaming as though he could map every inch of her in a single night. He gripped her sides, then slid down, skimming the curves of her waist, her hips. She arched into his touch, chasing him.

“Merlin,” he muttered against her throat, kissing and biting down the column of her neck. “I thought I’d forgotten. I never could.” His hands slid beneath her jumper, fingers splaying over her ribs, reverent and possessive. She shivered, gasped when his thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts, and clutched at his hair, tugging him closer.

He kissed lower, lower, over her sternum, her stomach, each touch a confession. When he reached her thighs, he gripped them hard, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, parting her with firm intent. He dragged her knickers down and tossed them aside with a low curse. “Fuck, Hermione.” His voice was thick with awe. “You’re so beautiful.”

Her thighs trembled when he kissed the inside of one, then the other, spreading her wider until she was open to him completely. He buried his face in her, tongue sliding through her folds with deliberate hunger. She cried out, back arching, one hand fisting in the sheets while the other tangled tight in his hair.

“Draco—oh Godric—”

He groaned against her, sucking her clit into his mouth, tasting her like he had been starving. His fingers slid into her, curling perfectly, dragging a broken sob from her lips. He moved slowly at first, savouring her gasps, then faster, harder, relentless. Her thighs closed around his head, but he only growled into her, devouring her cries.

“Please—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he muttered, voice muffled against her, the vibration pulling another sharp cry from her. He pushed her to the edge, unyielding, until she shattered. Her back arched, thighs trembling around his face, voice breaking on his name. He held her there, licking her through the waves of her climax, drinking in every twitch and cry until she went limp beneath him.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were wet, his hair a mess from her fists, and his chest heaved with ragged breaths. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and dragged himself up her body, kissing her again, letting her taste herself on his tongue. She moaned into him, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him down against her.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he growled into her ear, grinding his cock against her slick heat through his trousers.

Her nails raked down his back, pulling a hiss from him. “Then show me,” she whispered fiercely.

He freed himself with shaking hands, the tip of his cock brushing against her, and she gasped, her hips canting up to meet him. He hovered there, forehead pressed to hers, chest tight. “Tell me, Hermione,” he demanded hoarsely. “All those men you dated… did any of them measure up?”

Her eyes snapped open, dark with heat and something deeper. “No one,” she whispered, fierce and certain. Her hands cradled his face. “It was always you.”

He cursed under his breath and thrust into her in one hard, desperate stroke. She cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, her body clenching around him so tight it nearly undid him instantly. He stilled, forehead pressed to hers, jaw tight.

“Fuck, Hermione,” he breathed, and then he began to move.

Each thrust was deep, claiming, as though he meant to brand her from the inside out. She met him eagerly, moaning his name, legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, harder. Their bodies moved with wild precision, all-consuming, months of restraint and regret melting into sweat and skin.

“You feel that?” he ground out, teeth grazing her jaw as he thrust harder. “No one else. Only me.”

“Only you,” she gasped, her body shuddering beneath his. “Always you.”

He kissed her fiercely, swallowing her cries, his thrusts growing erratic as her walls clenched tight around him. She sobbed his name against his lips, nails raking down his back, until the world split open for both of them.

"Mine." He growled

He came undone inside her, holding her as though the world might rip her away again, his body shuddering with hers in a climax that felt less like release and more like surrender.

When they collapsed together, slick with sweat and trembling, he buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of peaches.

They kissed, slow and lazy, as if time itself had decided to be merciful. When they finally parted, they lay side by side, the mattress creaking softly beneath them, the silence full and content like the hush after a storm. He watched her like she was a rare constellation, each freckle and fretted hairline raked into focus. Fuck, she was beautiful.

“What happens now?” she asked, voice small and honest.

He let the question settle in his chest while he counted the consequences like coins.

“You attacked me on my wedding day,” he said finally, letting the absurdity sit between them. “Theo and Blaise are probably handling the guests. Mother is no doubt sending owls to the pureblood families. Daphne is consoling Astoria.”

Hermione’s hand tightened on the open edge of his shirt. The fabric slipped between her fingers. “They knew?”

He looked at her, and the memory of them on the balcony, her cheeks wet with tears and starlight, returned. “They were listening in when you came,” he said.

“Oh.” Relief and nerves tangled on her face. “And Astoria?”

“I left her a short letter,” he told her. He had scribbled the barest thing in ink that had trembled more than he would have liked to admit. “I’ll write a longer one soon.”

She swallowed, perched on the edge of decision. Hermione clutched his shirt, and he pulled her up until her chin tipped toward him. He kissed her full and deep, a kiss that made vows unnecessary.

Salazar, she had stolen him away from a respectable wedding, and yet she was the one who was suddenly possessive in the most infuriating, delightful way. He chuckled.

“Draco, what are we going to do? Your wedding. It's going to be all over the Prophet. Merlin.” Her breath hitched with a mixture of fear and a strange, excited tremor.

“Didn’t think that far, did you?” he said, amused, letting humor strip the panic bare. The corner of his mouth tilted. He loved that she admitted it so plainly.

“Not really,” she admitted, snuggling closer until her knee brushed his. He felt the burn of her skin against his, the soft indentation of her shoulder where his hand rested. He had missed this — every idle touch, every small, private architecture of her body that fit his hands like home.

“I'll be staying at the Black townhouse in Provins for a month or two,” he said, tasting the words as if they were both a plan and a promise. “At least until the news dies down. Come with me.”

She looked at him for a long moment, searching his face the way she had once searched books for the right citation, then nodded, the movement small and absolute. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed, and kissed her forehead with the kind of tenderness he never offered to society but always reserved for matters of the heart. It felt like home.

He did not know whether the decision was right. He did not think he could survive another heartache. Still, as he watched the witch curled against him, breathing slow and even, she looked like something worth stepping off the edge for. She looked like every risk he had ever been too proud to take but would take now if it meant keeping her.

He closed his eyes and let the future be uncertain. For once, the not knowing felt like a small mercy rather than a threat.