They woke together in the pale hush of dawn, the faintest light slipping through the curtains and painting the room in muted gold. For a long moment Draco did not move. He lay still on his side, his body angled toward her, his eyes fixed on the miracle beside him. Hermione. Curled beneath the blankets, her hair a wild halo across the pillow, her lips parted slightly as she breathed in quiet, steady rhythm. She looked untouched by the weight of the world, softer here than he had ever seen her, and he thought if he blinked she might vanish, like all the dreams that mocked him in the darkest hours of the night.
It felt like some undeserved gift had been placed in his arms. His chest loosened, the constant ache dulled, and for the first time in years his thoughts did not spiral into the familiar chaos. Instead he found himself memorizing the slope of her cheek, the faint crease between her brows that appeared even in sleep, the way her fingers twitched faintly against the sheets as though she dreamed of holding something just beyond her reach. She anchored him without even trying, her very presence quieting the storms that had long since become part of his marrow.
His heart ached with it. The kind of ache that came not from pain but from the unbearable sweetness of having something you had told yourself you could never have. She was here, in his bed, in his arms, and he could almost believe that meant she was his.
And yet as he watched her, darker thoughts crept in, crawling out from the corners of his mind like shadows eager to poison the light. This was the moment, was it not? This fragile dawn where she was defenseless, where he could act on the darker urges he had spent years locking away. He could bind her to him, physically, magically, make certain that she never had the chance to walk away again. He could knot her fate to his until she could no longer breathe without him. The thought slithered across his mind, sharp and intoxicating.
His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The image of her tied to his bed, forced into permanence, seared through him like fire. His chest constricted, torn between the desperate hunger to keep her and the revulsion of knowing how vile the thought truly was. His stomach twisted, shame rising hot in his throat until he thought he might choke on it. Sick. That was what he was. Sick and broken, to even let such an idea linger.
A groan left him, muffled as he shoved his face into the pillow beside hers, as though pressing himself into the linen could smother the madness before it took root. He inhaled the faint scent of her hair, parchment and lavender, something impossibly her, and the very act was torture. His obsessive heart screamed to cling, to claim, to never let go, but he forced the thought down with brutal finality.
She was not his to keep. She never would be. He could not cage her, no matter how deeply his bones ached with the terror of her absence. To lose her would ruin him, he knew that with terrifying certainty, but to hold her against her will would destroy her. And if he destroyed her, there would be nothing left of him worth saving.
So he stayed there, inches from her warmth, his breath unsteady, his hands curled into fists against the sheets, fighting the war between love and obsession in the silence of the morning.
Hermione stirred beside him, a soft sigh slipping from her lips as she shifted closer, her body instinctively seeking his warmth. Her hand brushed against his chest, the lightest touch, and he was jolted back into reality as if waking from a dangerous dream. He swallowed hard, blinking against the weight of the thoughts that still clung to him like shadows. She was here, in his arms, by choice. She had not run, she had not vanished, she was here with him, and that should have been enough.
He tightened his grip on her, pulling her flush against him, one arm wrapping around her waist as if he could anchor her to the very center of him. His face pressed into her hair, and her scent washed over him, warm and unmistakably hers. It was clean, soft, threaded through with something faintly sweet, and it wrapped around him like a spell. He breathed her in greedily, letting it fill the cracks in his chest until the ache became almost unbearable. How could he deserve this? How could someone who had been shaped by cruelty and regret be allowed something so unspoiled, so fiercely good?
She murmured something unintelligible in her sleep, her lips moving faintly against his collarbone, and her fingers curled against his chest as though she were holding onto him even in her dreams. The small sound made his throat tighten, and against his will a faint smile touched his lips. His heart swelled painfully, carrying with it a weight he could not name. She was not a fleeting infatuation, not some fragile distraction to keep the darkness away. She was the only thing that had ever truly illuminated it. She was his salvation, his fragile light in the thick of night, the only tether that kept him from unraveling completely.
"Mine," he whispered, the word so soft it was almost swallowed by the stillness of the room. It was not a claim. It was not a declaration meant for her ears. It was a plea whispered into the indifferent universe, a prayer he had no right to make.
The minutes bled into one another, the faintest glow of dawn creeping through the curtains, until the world beyond began to stir with the first breaths of morning. Still he did not move. He lay there, clutching her as though she were the only thing tethering him to a life he barely believed he deserved. And perhaps she was.
Her breathing shifted, hitched faintly, before her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. The little snores that had filled the room faded into a groggy, endearing groan, and she stirred against his chest, caught between sleep and waking. He felt the moment she began to shift properly in his arms, and though every part of him screamed to keep her there, he loosened his hold just enough, unwilling to let her feel caged. The ache of letting her move burned in his chest, sharp and unrelenting, yet he endured it, because the choice to stay had always been hers to make.
Her sudden exclamation startled him, sharp enough to cut through the last threads of drowsiness that clung to him. He blinked rapidly as she scrambled toward the bedside table, fumbling for the clock with a look of growing panic. The way her eyes widened in horror was followed by a strangled, "Fuuuuuck!" that made him jolt upright like he had been hexed.
"What's wrong? Oh gosh, what's wrong?" His voice cracked with panic, his mind immediately spiraling toward the worst possible scenarios. He pushed his hair out of his face, his heart hammering. "Did I do something? Did I— I swear I didn't touch you inappropriately, I was a good boy! I didn't—"
She flung the covers off and shot out of bed, leaving him sitting there like a stunned idiot. He opened his mouth to keep babbling, but before he could get another word out, she had bolted toward the bathroom. Her voice echoed back at him, sharp and exasperated. "Shut up already!"
He scrambled after her, his legs tangling in the sheets in his rush to follow. "Wait, wait! What are you—"
And then he froze in the doorway.
The sight before him rendered his brain useless. She was standing in his shower, completely naked, steam already spilling out around her and curling into the air. His jaw went slack, his words tangled somewhere in his throat.
"Right. Yes. Of course," he stammered, gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright. "Feel free. Use my bathroom. No problem at all."
"I'm late for work!" she shouted, her voice nearly drowned out by the sound of the water striking tile.
It took a moment for his brain to process. He frowned, tilting his head as if the angle would help him make sense of it. "But… you're here. Is this not technically your workplace?"
Her head snapped around, water dripping from her curls, and her glare cut through the steam like a blade. "You're not the only hopeless case in the country, Malfoy!"
His mouth snapped shut.
Before he could think of a clever reply, the water was off, and she was stepping out of the shower. Naked. Completely, gloriously, devastatingly naked. Droplets clung to her skin, sliding down her shoulders, her waist, the long lines of her thighs. The towel she grabbed was not used for modesty but instead slung over one shoulder like she was mocking him with how entirely unbothered she was.
"That's my… toothbrush," he said faintly when she picked it up without hesitation, brushing her teeth like she owned the place. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and he cursed himself.
She met his gaze in the mirror for half a second, her expression cool, before returning to her task. Utterly unconcerned. Utterly Hermione.
He leaned against the wall, muttering under his breath, "Disgusting," though his eyes betrayed him. His gaze dragged over her despite every warning in his mind, taking in the elegant curve of her back, the soft dip of her spine, the delicate arch of her neck. She was infuriating, and she was perfect, and he hated how his body reacted before he could muster the discipline to stop it.
"Stop staring," she said calmly, her tone like she was pointing out that the sky was blue. She had not even turned her head.
"I wasn't staring!" he snapped back far too quickly, his voice breaking on the last word, utterly destroying his own credibility.
She finished her routine with a neat flick of her wand, her hair drying instantly and tumbling down in effortless waves. Her skin seemed to glow, like she had just stepped out of the sun instead of his shower, and he had never hated and adored someone so much at the same time.
She closed the distance between them in a few measured steps. He could not move. He could not think. The damp heat of her skin brushed against his, every nerve in his body catching fire at the contact.
"I'm going now," she said, her voice deceptively cool, though her eyes betrayed a spark of mischief. Her gaze dropped, unhurried, toward the very obvious bulge in his pajama bottoms. Her lips curved, slow and deliberate, into a smirk that made his ears burn. "But you should do something about that erection. It's… abnormal."
His face went crimson, his mouth working soundlessly as if words might eventually appear if he opened and closed it enough.
She leaned forward with unhurried intent, every movement precise enough to unravel him. Her bare chest pressed against his, warm skin on skin, and the contact alone was enough to make his breath falter. Her lips hovered near his ear, so close he could feel the ghost of her breath against his skin. He went rigid, every muscle tight, as though the smallest movement might shatter the moment entirely.
Her hands moved then, slow and deliberate, sliding down the planes of his torso. Each brush of her fingers was maddening in its restraint, calculated to make him lose what little composure he had left. When her fingertips finally ghosted over his arousal, he sucked in a sharp, desperate breath, his body jerking like he had been struck by a jolt of lightning. He did not dare move. He did not even dare blink, terrified that if he did, she might vanish like a dream he was not meant to have.
"Be a good boy today," she whispered, her voice wrapping around him like silk soaked in fire, sweet and devastating in equal measure. The words alone were enough to undo him.
And then she was gone. Just like that, she pulled away, calm and composed, as though she had not just set his entire body alight. She reached for her bag without so much as a glance in his direction and walked to the door. The click of the latch as it shut behind her left him standing there in the silence, abandoned in the wreckage of his own desire.
He stood frozen, dazed beyond measure, the heat of her touch still lingering like a curse etched into his skin. His chest rose and fell in unsteady bursts, his pulse racing. He was painfully hard, every nerve in his body screaming for more, and yet she had left him like this, completely undone.
It was then, with dawning horror, that he realized the truth. He was so far gone, so thoroughly wrecked by her, that he was almost certain he had just come in his pants.
•••
Draco felt like a teenager all over again, awkward and desperate, his body betraying him at every turn. The entire day had passed in a suffocating haze of frustration and shame. He had tried to distract himself with books, with food, with pacing the length of his flat until the floorboards seemed ready to give way beneath him, but nothing worked. Every thought circled back to her.
Wanking brought no relief, only a bitter taste of humiliation. He came too quickly, too violently, with her name caught on his lips like a prayer he had no right to speak. And when it was over, when his body sagged in sweaty defeat, the guilt returned sharper than before. He scrubbed at himself with trembling hands, furious at his own weakness, yet even then her face refused to leave his mind. Hermione. Bright, infuriating, untouchable Hermione. She was everywhere, in every corner of his imagination, in every stolen breath.
She was perfect. He was nothing. A failure, a coward, scum. A pathetic excuse for a man who had spent years trying to convince the world that he was untouchable, when in truth he had never been more vulnerable. And still he wanted her, needed her, in ways that grew darker with every passing hour.
The memory of that morning replayed in his head with cruel precision. The casual way she had stood in his shower, droplets of water slipping over her skin like molten glass. The smirk on her lips when she noticed his arousal, the flicker of amusement in her eyes as if she had known exactly what she was doing to him. And then her touch, her fingers ghosting over him with deliberate cruelty, leaving him burning from the inside out. He could still feel it, the phantom press of her body against his, the whisper of her voice telling him to be a good boy.
Each time he replayed it, the fantasy spiraled deeper into dangerous territory. He imagined her crawling back into his bed, straddling his hips, claiming him with the same casual dominance she carried into every room. He imagined binding her wrists in silk, holding her beneath him while she whispered those same words in his ear. He imagined keeping her here, never letting her leave again, not even for work.
The thoughts sickened him, but they were intoxicating all the same. He hated himself for it, hated the way his mind betrayed him over and over, hated that his body responded with hunger that refused to be sated. He was consumed, burned alive from within by the impossible desire for a woman who could never truly be his.
By the time evening rolled around, Draco was a wreck. He had scrubbed every surface of his flat until his hands ached, washed the same set of dishes twice, and even rearranged the books on his shelves by height and color just to avoid thinking about her. It hadn't worked. His mind returned to her with the precision of a curse, pulling him back to that morning again and again until his body felt strung too tight, like a bow on the verge of snapping.
So when the knock came, his heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He stumbled across the room, tripping over his own discarded shoes in his rush to reach the door. When he pulled it open, there she was, framed in the hallway light, curls tumbling loose over her shoulders and eyes alight with something mischievous. No Crookshanks in sight, thank every merciful star. He didn't think he could bear the cat's smug glare tonight, not when his self-control was already hanging by a thread.
She stepped past him with the kind of confidence that suggested she owned the place, a box balanced casually in her arms. "Good evening," she said, as though nothing in the world was out of place. "I brought you something."
Draco swallowed, hard. His palms were suddenly slick with sweat. "H-Hello," he managed, the word catching in his throat like splintered wood. His voice cracked, betraying him entirely, and heat rushed up his neck to stain his cheeks. He felt like a schoolboy again, all awkward limbs and stammered words. Pathetic, his mind hissed. Just pathetic.
She set the box down on his counter, her smirk widening as though she could see right through him. Lifting the lid, she revealed a modest but elegant cake, crowned with delicate swirls of cream and a single candle waiting to be lit. "You can blow it out tomorrow morning," she said, her tone deceptively casual, "to celebrate your last day."
"Thank you," he whispered, so soft it barely reached the space between them. His throat was tight, every word a struggle.
She tilted her head, her expression sharpening with suspicion. "What's wrong with you?" she asked, her voice direct but not unkind. "Cat got your tongue? You're acting even stranger than usual. Did something happen?"
Panic surged through him, his pulse hammering against his ribs. Something had happened, of course. She had happened. She was standing in his kitchen with that self-assured little smirk, and all he could see was the ghost of water dripping down her bare skin, the curve of her spine, the press of her hand against him. Her scent clung to his memory, sharp and maddening. He tried to steady himself, to focus on the present moment, but the thoughts crashed against him like waves, relentless and merciless.
His mouth moved before his brain could intervene. "Are we not going to talk about your morning performance?" The words tumbled out, clumsy and loud in the quiet of the flat.
Silence followed, the kind that stretched and pulsed with unbearable weight. His face flamed red, so hot it almost burned, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor and vanish.
Hermione's lips curved into a sly smile, her eyes glittering with amusement. She stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until the space between them crackled with tension. "Oh, trust me," she murmured, her voice low and honeyed, "my morning performances are far more pleasurable than that, lover boy."
His jaw dropped, the blood rushing to his face so quickly he thought he might actually combust. He could feel the heat climbing from his neck to the very tips of his ears, staining him crimson. He scrambled for words, any words at all, but his mind was nothing but static. She was standing there, arms loose at her sides, confidence radiating from every inch of her, and that smug little twist of her mouth told him she knew exactly what she was doing to him. It left him helpless, incoherent, stripped of the sharp retorts he usually wielded like weapons.
She smirked, the curve of her lips wicked, as though his humiliation were the sweetest entertainment she'd had in weeks. "What's the matter, Malfoy? Speechless?" she teased, leaning her hip against the counter as though she owned the place. "That's a first."
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a strangled sound that barely qualified as speech. Her soft laugh followed, melodic and cruel at the same time, and it sliced through him with surgical precision. He wanted to vanish, to melt into the floor and spare himself the sight of her amusement, but he could not look away. Every time his eyes flicked to her, those images assaulted him again—her skin glistening in the steam, the towel slipping carelessly from her shoulder, the ghost of her fingers brushing over him. And she knew. Merlin help him, she knew.
She began to walk toward him, each step measured, deliberate, until she was far too close. Her presence filled his lungs, her scent clinging to him, drowning him. "Well?" she prompted softly, though her eyes burned with mischief. "Are you going to stand here like a blushing schoolboy, or do you plan to form a single intelligent sentence?"
He cleared his throat so hard it hurt, desperate to sound composed. "I—uh, I just meant… this morning…" The words slipped out mangled and half-formed, betraying his nerves. He winced, already cursing himself.
She sighed and rolled her eyes with an exaggerated patience, folding her arms across her chest. "Honestly, Malfoy, you're hopeless." Turning sharply on her heel, she headed for the sofa, her curls bouncing as she moved. "Do try to articulate something before the evening ends."
He stared after her, his pulse pounding like a war drum. He felt shattered, hollowed out, like he had been struck head-on by something unstoppable. She was not just a woman. She was a force of nature, a storm barreling through his carefully constructed walls, leaving ruin in her wake. Against Hermione Granger, he had no defenses. He had never stood a chance, and he knew it.
And yet, even as she lowered herself onto the sofa, his tongue betrayed him again. "So, you left me without a goodbye this morning."
She stopped mid-motion, glancing over her shoulder with one brow arched. The smirk tugging at her lips was already a dagger. "Touching your cock wasn't enough of a goodbye?"
His jaw dropped so violently his teeth clicked together. His cheeks burned scarlet, and he spluttered like he had been doused in cold water. She had said it so casually, with no hesitation, as though she had not reduced him to rubble that morning.
"Th-that's not what I meant!" His voice cracked pitifully, forcing him to clear his throat and start again. "Although, for the record, it was more than enough to make the rest of my day an absolute misery."
Her smirk deepened, her eyes glittering as she shifted, deliberately slow, to lean against the armrest of the sofa. She crossed her arms, her stance relaxed, her expression the very picture of smug amusement. She was enjoying this, savoring every twitch of his humiliation.
"Do elaborate, Malfoy," she drawled. "How exactly did I ruin your precious day?"
He groaned, dragging his hands through his hair until it stood on end. The words tumbled out louder than he intended, wild and desperate. "Do you have any idea how many times I had to… relieve myself today? Four. Four bloody times. And every single one was because of you!"
Her laugh came instantly, bursting out of her in a rush of delight she could not contain. It was rich, genuine, and merciless. She pressed a hand to her mouth, but it did nothing to stifle the sound. Her eyes shone with tears of laughter as she shook her head at him, and the sound wrapped around him like both music and torture.
"Four times? Really? I didn't realize I had that kind of effect on you." Her voice was dripping with amusement, and when she stepped closer, he instinctively took a step back, his pride and mortification crashing into each other in a battle he knew he was losing.
"It's not funny!" he snapped, though his voice betrayed him with a crack that made his cheeks burn even hotter. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be haunted by you? To—" He stopped short, realizing just how close he was to spilling the kind of thoughts that would strip him bare in front of her. Thoughts he had locked away all day, the ones that had consumed him until he could hardly breathe.
"Haunted, hmm?" she repeated, her tone playful but her eyes sharp and unrelenting. "You make it sound like I'm some sort of ghost haunting your pathetic little existence."
"You are!" His voice rose, his frustration bleeding through every word. "You're in my head constantly. I can't think straight, I can't breathe properly, and Merlin help me, I can't even look at a bloody shower without—" He cut himself off again, dragging a hand across his face in sheer frustration, wishing the floor would open and swallow him whole.
She raised an eyebrow, taking another step closer until only a few feet separated them. The air between them felt charged, hot and dangerous.
"Without what, Malfoy?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, low and silken, wrapping around him like a trap. "Without picturing me? Naked? Teasing you? Driving you out of your mind?"
His throat was dry, and when he swallowed it felt like sandpaper. "You're insufferable, you know that?"
"And yet here you are, confessing all your dirty little secrets to me." Her grin widened, slow and wicked, her gaze devouring the way his composure continued to crumble. "It's almost endearing, in a twisted sort of way."
A strangled sound escaped him, half laugh and half groan, and his fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles turned white. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
She tilted her head, smirk never wavering, her calmness only deepening his frustration.
"Oh, immensely," she murmured, her voice thick with amusement and confidence. "But don't worry. You're not the first man to lose control around me. And I can promise you, you won't be the last."
Her words burned like fire, scorching through him until he felt something break. His restraint, his shame, his pride—every bit of control he had been clawing at all day snapped in an instant. His hand shot out before he could think better of it, fingers wrapping roughly around her arm. He pulled her closer, hard enough that he knew his grip would leave a mark, a bruise in the shape of his hand.
For a split second, silence stretched between them. He was breathing hard, his pulse racing so fast it was dizzying, and the weight of what he had just done hit him in a rush. But he did not let go. Not yet.
Her eyes flicked down to where his fingers dug into her skin, then slowly lifted to meet his again. She did not flinch, did not look afraid. If anything, her expression sharpened, her smirk slipping into something darker, something unreadable.
Her response was immediate, sharp, and entirely expected. The crack of her palm against his face echoed through the room. His head snapped to the side from the force, his pale skin already flushing where she had struck him. But he did not recoil, did not curse her, did not even try to push her away. Instead, he let the sting settle into his skin and smiled, slow and dark, a smile that looked like sin itself. It was the kind of smile that carried danger in its corners, and it only made her scoff, rolling her eyes in irritation.
"At least you are touching me," he muttered, almost too softly for her to hear, his tone laced with something unsteady, something far more dangerous than a joke.
"Are you mental?" she hissed, yanking her arm out of his grip. She barely managed to take half a step back before he moved, fast and unrelenting.
He closed the distance with predatory precision, pressing her against the wall with his weight and height towering over her. His arms braced on either side of her head, trapping her in, while his face hovered just close enough for her to feel his breath ghost across her lips. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating, and still she did not shrink away.
"What made you think," he growled, his voice low and vibrating with fury, "that you would ever allow another man to touch you? There is no other man. There never will be. There is only me."
She tilted her chin up, her gaze meeting his without hesitation. Her composure remained intact, cool and almost amused. He was fire, wild and consuming, and she stood before him as though she were carved from ice.
"I need to speak to your therapist again," she said dryly, as if his fury was no more concerning than a child's tantrum.
His eyes darkened, shadows flickering across the sharp lines of his face. His chest rose and fell in harsh bursts, and when he spoke, his voice came like a shout torn from the very pit of his stomach. "You are not going anywhere. Do you hear me? You are mine. You always were. You always will be. Don't you understand?"
Her lashes flickered, but her expression stayed maddeningly calm. "Do I need to be concerned?" she asked, her voice steady, unnervingly measured. "Is this some kind of episode, Malfoy? Should I call someone before you work yourself into a full breakdown?"
The casual cruelty of her words only made his chest tighten. She was not afraid. She had never been afraid, and it drove him half-mad. His restraint cracked, and he leaned in closer, so close his lips nearly brushed her ear. His voice dropped to a harsh, guttural whisper, words pulled raw from obsession.
"What do I want? I want you. I want every piece of you, every thought, every look, every breath. I want to lock you away where no one else can see you, where no one can even speak your name. I want to make certain that no one touches you, no one looks at you, no one even dreams of you the way I do."
Her brow arched, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her lips. She did not falter, not even when his words came like a vow. "So what is the plan then?" she asked, her voice a blade coated in silk. "Fuck me? Lock me up? Parade a scandalous Mudblood baby in front of your family? Tell me, Malfoy, what exactly is your grand endgame?"
The sharpness of her words sliced into him, but instead of pulling him back, they only shoved him further over the edge. His hand moved before he could stop it, his fingers gripping her chin and tilting her face upward, forcing her to meet his gaze. His grip was not gentle. His thumb pressed hard enough against her jaw that she would feel it long after he let go.
"Tomorrow," he said, his voice steady with conviction that felt almost holy, "I will be free. And when that happens, my love, I will hunt you down. I will find you, and you will be mine. There is no hiding from me. Not now. Not ever."
Her eyes did not waver, her expression calm and unyielding. Instead of fear, he found defiance staring back at him. She gave him a look that was daring, sharp as flint, and the sheer audacity of it made a shiver run down his spine.
"Oh, I am not hiding, Malfoy," she said softly, her words carrying the weight of a challenge. "The question is not whether you will find me. The question is whether you can handle me when you do."
The quiet confidence in her tone struck him harder than any hex. She was not afraid of him. She never had been. She was playing him, provoking him, twisting his obsession tighter and tighter around her finger. And Merlin help him, he loved her for it.