Draco awoke with a start, the room around him dark, as a feather-light touch ghosted over his left nipple. Immediately, his cock twitched and hardened as he turned to look at the witch lying next to him on the bed, a sly smile gracing her features. Hermione's curls were strewn about her wildly, disheveled and completely undone as they lay across the pillow. Draco was certain she had never looked more beautiful, or more wild. "Hey," she said softly, as her finger traveled lightly from his chest and up to his neck, where she pressed gently at his pulse point. Draco's cocked twitched again, hardening further.
"Hi," he whispered back. "Can't sleep?"
Hermione grinned at him. "Something like that," she said teasingly.
Draco looked at her for a moment before rolling over in the bed and pulling her into his arms. He buried his face in her hair, taking in the scent of her curls before he found her ear. He nipped the lobe gently before whispering seductively into the curve of her ear, "What are you doing, Hermione?"
Hermione swirled the pads of her fingertips across the expanse of his chest. "I just had a thought," she murmured. "We fell asleep before we could go for round two."
"Oh?" he asked softly.
"Mmm," Hermione agreed, fingers rising to his lips, where Draco pulled one into his mouth, biting it lightly. In an instant, she was on him, flipping him and straddling him in one graceful movement.
Grace, he mused, was not a trait he had ever associated with Hermione, but in this instance, with her delightfully naked above him, she was. Draco's hands rose to grip her hips of their own accord.
Her curls fell in a curtain over their heads as she leaned forward and took Draco's lips with hers. "What do you think?" she whispered against his lips.
Draco kissed her once more, tucking a curl behind her ear so he could get a better look at her. "I'd say I'm amenable."
She smirked down at him. "Ever the aristocrat, even in this compromising position," she mused.
"I'll just lie back and think of England," Draco replied solemnly.
Hermione giggled at him—fucking giggled—before leaning down once more to kiss him—deeper, slower. He returned her intensity, kissing her with everything that he had, everything he could give. Draco's hands drifted from her hips and up to her breasts, where he palmed them. Her tongue paused in his mouth for just a moment, before she pushed in deeper, asking for more. Obliging, Draco found her nipples, and began to tease her with his fingertips, just as she had done to wake him.
Her lips left his, and her head dropped to his shoulder, and she began to kiss affectionately up the length of Draco's neck, making him shudder against her. "Lie back and think of England, huh?" she asked hoarsely.
"Such is my burden to bear," Draco replied.
"Foolish," she murmured against his neck, her teeth teasing the sensitive flesh.
"Mmm," he agreed, far too lost in the ministrations of her tongue on his throat.
Hermione grasped his cock and gave him a few quick strokes before she was sliding on to him. Surprised, Draco groaned, his hands instantly flying to her hips again, his fingers digging into her skin. She moaned lowly as she sank down on him, until she was flush with his hips, taking every inch of him.
Draco closed his eyes, grappling with his self-control. Hermine seemed to sense this and did not move. Once more she leaned forward and began to pepper his face with kisses. Draco's fingers released their hold iron-tight grip on her hips, and Hermione began to move, rolling her hips, taking him deep, as her hands braced on his chest. She rose up on her heels, and slammed down onto him with a loud moan.
Above him, she was too far away. He needed more of her.
more more more
Shifting below her, Draco rose up to meet her, wrapping his arms around her waist and back, holding her close as she rode him. Groaning, Draco found her lips once more, kissing her once, then twice. He pulled back slightly to look at her, and their eyes met and locked on each other. What he found in Hermione's eyes was astounding. They were blown wide, darkened with lust, and in her depths he found everything—lust, pleasure, affection, trust—Hermione leaned forward, closing the small gap and kissed him, moaning into his mouth.
It was more hurried, less meticulous, as Hermione ground herself against him. He suspected she had been considering this for a long time before she decided to wake him—she had been wet and waiting for him, and he could already feel her clenching around him, nearing orgasm.
Draco found himself correct when, after a few light touches to her clit, Hermione came apart on top of him, gasping and stifling a moan, burying her teeth into Draco's shoulder.
It was too much for Draco, and he guided her hips down onto him twice more and he was coming apart, too.
Hermione was limp against him as he held her in his arms. With a sigh, Draco laid back down, pulling Hermione down with him. Hermione made no attempt to move, seemingly content to lay across Draco's chest.
"You're incredible, you know that?" he said softly, after a brief period of silence.
She did not answer, but she pressed a gentle kiss to his abdomen.
Absently, Draco stroked her mass of curls and the curve of her spine as they laid in the dark, feeling as her sweat began to dry across her back. "You make me not want to be numb anymore," Draco said, unsure of where the confession, or even the realization, had come from.
"Hmm?" Hermione said absently.
"Do you remember that potion I asked about?" he asked quietly.
Hermione shifted then, looking up at him sharply. "How could I forget?"
"It was foolish really," he mused.
"You do have a propensity for foolishness," Hermione agreed, albeit fondly.
"I told you I wished I was dead, or at the very least numb. And I—I just—it seems so strange now, when I think about it. I've lived in the gray for so long that I forgot that the world was composed of colors. You make me see the colors again, Hermione," Draco said softly. "It's like everything is bright, and shiny, and brand new, and when everything sparkles so, how could I ever want to be numb?"
Hermione considered him with what he could only deem as pure affection on her face. She rested her palm on his cheek, and Draco leaned into it, relishing the affection. "For me, Draco, you sparkle," she replied. Draco closed his eyes and relaxed into her touch. "You are a series of stars in the night sky, shining ever so brightly."
"You see me," he said.
"I see you," she agreed. Her expression grew furrowed then, and she bit her lip. "Oh! That reminds me of something!"
Hermione jumped from the bed, and Draco instantly missed her body against his. She walked swiftly across the room to her drawers, her arse jiggling delightfully as she walked. A quick image came to Draco—Hermione, on her hands and knees before him as he fucked her from behind, his hands palming her delectable arse—Draco pushed his thoughts away; there would be time for that later.
Hermione returned with a familiar looking basket, full of little vials full of a vibrant pink liquid. "I promised you these," she started.
"What are those?"
"It's a Depression Draught. Not one of the standard ones—it's a pretty obscure one, actually. I found it when I was doing research for your mother. I started brewing these weeks ago, before you decided to send your mother to St. Mungo's. But I made them, for you and for her," Hermione said. "Just take one once a week."
Draco nodded dumbly. It seemed so long ago that she had offered to make a potion for him—in a different lifetime, it seemed. Back when everything was muted by alcohol and despair. But now? There was color, and there was a purpose, and it seemed—happiness. Draco accepted the basket, with a muttered, "Thank you," not wanting Hermione's hard work to go to waste.
She beamed at him before returning to him in bed. With a sigh, she was once more in his arms, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. Her hand found his and she intertwined their fingers, resting them atop his sternum. "You make me happy, you know," she murmured. "I'm sure you question that."
"I do," he confessed.
"Of course you do," she murmured.
"I question everything, Hermione. I have to, otherwise how will I ever know what is a lie and what is truth?"
Hermione sighed against his chest. "Not everything is as complicated as the War was," she said softly. "Some things are easier than that. This is easier than that."
Draco hummed noncommittedly.
She shifted so she met his eyes. "What was it like for you—the War?" she asked.
Draco exhaled deeply. "It was hard, Hermione. It was really fucking hard."
Hermione did not answer. Instead, she watched him carefully, waiting for him to continue.
"I got the Mark on my 16th birthday," Draco began uneasily. "It was my birthday present."
"Did it hurt?" she asked softly, a hand going to his left forearm, her fingers soothing against the ugly Mark that scarred his arm.
"Like you wouldn't believe. The sadistic bastard intentionally made the process as painful as possible. It was a way to tell the true believers from the weaklings. Weaker people have died from the pain of taking the Mark, did you know that?"
Hermione shook her head. "You weren't a true believer," she pointed out softly.
Draco nodded. "I was not. But I was not weak. I would not be weak. I had to be strong. So I took the Mark. It was indescribable, Hermione. I'd never been in so much pain. I would've taken a Crucio a hundred times over. And if you faint, from the pain, he simply Rennervates you. I was in bed for a week, unconscious, after he finished with me.
Hermione's arms wrapped around him protectively—comfortingly.
Draco gulped. "I got my first mission soon after."
"Dumbledore?" she asked quietly.
He nodded. "Yes. It was a suicide mission, I knew that. My father failed, so he offered my freedom as his punishment. That was never intended to be his punishment—my death was supposed to be his punishment," Draco scoffed. "I was 16 years old, Hermione, and I woke up every day wondering if it would be the day I would die." Draco's voice broke.
Hermione pulled him closer.
"I was terrified, every day. Terrified that he'd kill me, or he'd kill my mother. I spent the whole year trying to fix those blasted vanishing cabinets. Some days, I wondered if I should use myself as a test subject—better to have my neck snapped by a cabinet than tortured to death by Voldemort. I knew it was wrong. Every day, I woke up and knew what I was doing was wrong—but what choice did I have?"
"None. You had none," Hermione said fiercely.
"Dumbledore knew," Draco said sadly. "He knew my task all year, and he never tried to help me. Not until the last second—when it was much too late. All I wanted was to be safe—to keep my mother safe, and I killed myself—I killed pieces of my soul—every day for a year, and he never once thought to help me? That's when I lost my faith, Hermione."
"I wish he had helped you," Hermione murmured.
"After that I was resigned. I was trapped, and there was no way out. It only got worse, after. He killed people on my dining room table, as we ate. Countless bodies—Muggles, Muggle-borns, half-bloods, it didn't matter—I've seen horrible things, Hermione," he whispered, "and I just stood there."
"Draco—" Hermione began.
"I used to have nightmares about it. The murders, the torture, the rapes. I could hear the screams in my dreams. And I always just stand there, useless—a coward," he interrupted.
"You would've gotten yourself killed," she insisted.
"But at least I would've done the right thing." He turned to her. "I wish I had done the right thing with you."
Hermione softened then, her hand resting on his cheek. "You did do the right thing, Draco. There wasn't anything you could've done."
"I could've tried—"
"No," she insisted. "No."
"I never wanted to see you hurt, Hermione. Not like that. I said cruel things to you, but I never wanted you hurt."
"You warned us a the Quidditch World Cup," Hermione said quietly.
"I didn't want you hurt." His eyes drifted to the scar on her arm: Mudblood, it read. He flinched involuntarily.
"I'm not ashamed of it, you know,"
Draco wrapped his own arms around Hermione, pulling her protectively into his chest. "Good."
They were quiet then; spent. Her fingers continued to rub comfortingly at his Mark. He'd never had anyone touch it before, save for the time she had healed him. This was different—more intimate. The Mark was the very worst part of himself—visible, marring his skin—and still she chose comfort instead of hatred or disgust. It was horrible; ugly, and she didn't see it.
She saw him.
Instead, she saw him.
Draco was reluctant to let Hermione leave that morning, begging her to return to bed as she hurried around her room, getting ready for work, as he staunchly refused to move or to get dressed.
"I already took off yesterday, Draco," she scolded, "I can't miss another day."
"I want you with me, where I know you'll be safe," he said softly.
She whipped around to face him as she fastened the back of an earring. "Ron?"
Draco nodded, averting his eyes.
With a sigh, Hermione sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for his hand. "The first thing I do when I get there is change my wards, all right?" she reassured.
"Still—" he began.
Hermione squeezed his hand, interrupting him. "I can take of myself, Draco. You needn't worry about me so much."
"You're mine," he insisted. "of course I'm going to worry."
She smiled at him. "I'm just going to work, Draco."
Draco frowned.
Hermione sighed deeply. "The first thing I do will be re-warding the shop, and I promise not to put myself in any mortal peril. I won't even brew anything especially dangerous today. How's that?" she asked.
"Better," he said hesitantly. "You brew dangerous potions?"
"Stay here, I can pop over for lunch!" she said brightly, ignoring his question.
"Here?" he asked, gesturing to her flat.
She nodded. "Yes, have a shower, mess with the telly a bit, and I'll pop over for lunch. To assure you I have not been brutally murdered, of course."
"You're all right with that?" Draco asked.
Hermione shrugged. "I told you. I trust you."
Again, he smiled at her.
She smiled back. "A plan?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, surging forward to kiss her cheek, "a plan."
Her smile widened, and she left the bed, continuing to get ready for work. Draco leaned back against her pillows, content just to watch how she existed. After she had applied a bit of concealer beneath her eyes—a long night, Draco thought smugly—she turned back to him, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. "I'll be fine, Draco," she promised. "I'll see you at lunch."
Draco nodded. "Have a good day," he called, as she slipped through the door frame.
It was all so normal. So intimate. So right.
He missed her already.
After lounging about in her bed for a bit, Draco took a long, hot shower, toweling himself off before dressing and then making himself a cup of weak tea in Hermione's kitchen—he was shit at making tea, he thought, as he took a sip.
Taking Hermione's advice, Draco sat in front of the telewhat and picked up the oblong object that Hermione had taught him changed "channels"—whatever those were—and hit the red button at the top like she had taught him. Instantly, there was a man talking about the weather—"It's going to be a dreary day in London!" —boring—Draco pressed a button, and the scene flipped—a very boring-looking game involving a ball and a cane—another button—more weather. Irritated, Draco hit the little red button again. Why did Muggles talk about the weather so much?
Rising from Hermione's couch, Draco explored her living room. It had been more thoroughly decorated in the weeks that she had been living here, and Draco found himself curious. Pictures lined the walls, the fireplace. They sat upon coffee tables and empty space of bookshelves—what little space there was. Mostly, it was pictures of Hermione with Potter and Weasley. Many pictures of Hermione and Potter. One picture of Hermione and Weasley staring deeply into each other's eyes that made him particularly nauseous. Pictures of Hermione and the She-Weasel. Pictures of Hermione and the whole Weasley clan.
If Draco didn't know any better, he would've sworn she was a Weasley.
He came across one picture: a shot of Hermione with the entire Weasley family—an older one, featuring both twins—and Potter. They smiled brightly; arms wrapped around each other. They looked happy.
Draco furrowed his brow, noticing something sticking out behind the framed photo. Moving the frame, another picture fell face-down upon the mantle. Delicately, he picked it up. The edges of it were well worn; creased in places. Draco stared down at the photo; it was still, unlike the others—a Muggle photograph, then. A man and a woman he did not recognize. A woman, with curly brown hair, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Hermione's nose. A man, with wide brown eyes. Hermione's eyes.
Draco looked around the room. No other photographs; just this one, hidden behind another.
He could feel himself trembling. She never mentioned her parents. Never. Where were they? Were they dead?
Draco dropped to the couch, photo still in hand. Hermione had her mother's hair and freckles, but also her slender neck, her thin shoulders. She had her father's ears, his lips. He stared at the photograph for a long time, picking apart their appearances, every bit of them that existed in Hermione.
He barely heard when she barreled through the door, a brown takeaway bag in her hand. "Draco," she called breathlessly. She saw him sitting on the couch, holding the wrinkled photograph in his hands, and she instantly paled. "Draco."
His eyes flickered to hers. "Hermione," he said quietly. "What happened to your parents?"
"What?" she asked quietly.
"Your parents. Where are they?" Draco asked.
"Australia."
Draco was relieved. "They're alive?" he asked gratefully.
"Yes," Hermione replied, her eyes wet.
"Why were you hiding this then?" he asked softly, motioning to the photograph.
"You found it?" she choked.
Draco nodded. "I was looking at your pictures—I wanted to see your life."
Hermione came to him then, dropping gracelessly to the couch next to him. "I—that's not my life."
Draco stilled. They're Muggles. Of course she won't talk about them with you—of course she'll hide them. "Oh, I see," he said quietly.
She saw the expression that crossed his face, and instantly reached for his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. "No, not that. Not that. Not because—I didn't—Draco—" Hermione sighed deeply, closing her eyes. Suddenly, she looked exhausted, and Draco wanted to wrap her in his arms and carry her to bed. "Do you know why I took you on as a client?" she asked quietly.
"Because you can't help yourself," Draco responded immediately, harsher than he'd intended. She flinched and he immediately reached for her.
"Partially, I suppose. I was drawn to your mother's case because of her memory loss—her confusion—her loss of time."
"I know, I saw it in your eyes the first time I mentioned it," Draco replied. She met his eyes, serious and forlorn. Draco furrowed his brow in confusion. "What is it, Hermione?"
Hermione took a deep breath, seeming to steady herself. "The reason I took you on as a client is because I'm fascinated with memory loss—memory restoration. Obsessed with it, even. Beyond obsessed, I'd say."
Draco's stomach dropped at her words. "What happened to your parents, Hermione?" he repeated.
She looked away from him then, unable to meet his eye. "I obliviated them. Before the war."
Draco felt sick. "What?" he asked.
"They don't know who I am—who they are—to keep them safe."
He stared at her in abject horror. "Hermione—" he began, his words failing.
"It was necessary," she defended, unnecessarily.
Draco nodded. "There was a group," he began quietly, "they were tasked with finding them and killing them." Draco stared down at his hands, which were trembling faintly. He wanted a drink.
"Were you in it?" Hermione asked.
Draco shook his head forcefully. "No, I'd already proved how worthless I was by then. There was no way I would have been tasked with something deemed so important."
Hermione nodded, staring down at her own hands. When she looked back up at him, her eyes shone with unshed tears. Draco reached for her face, gently cupping her cheek and pulling her to him. "It's good to finally know—that it had a purpose—I always wondered if I'd done it for nothing—" she cut herself off.
"You saved them, Hermione," Draco said softly.
She nodded into his hand. "Then it was worth it," she said it resolutely. Pulling away from him, Hermione rubbed furiously at her eyes before leaning forward and opening the bag of takeaway. "Are you hungry?"
Truthfully, Draco was the opposite of hungry now, but he nodded back to Hermione, whose mood seemed to have shifted completely. "Hermione—" he began unevenly.
Hermione placed the sandwich she had been unwrapping on the coffee table before turning back to him. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions," she began coolly, "and one day I will answer all of them. But right now, I don't want to talk about it anymore."
Draco nodded quickly. "Of course, I'm sorry—"
She was back at the task at hand, swiftly unwrapping sandwiches. "Roast beef or ham?" she interrupted.
Draco sighed. "Roast beef, I guess."
Hermione handed him the sandwich with a small smile.
Dutifully, Draco ate it, even as it turned to ash in his mouth.
Draco could not sleep that night—the first time since he had started spending the nights with Hermione. She was naked and asleep on his chest, a small hand on his abdomen. Staring down at her, Draco let out a sigh, pulling her closer into his body.
It had been an odd day for them, with Draco openly discussing the war and finding out what had happened to her parents.
The situation with his mother suddenly made much more sense—the little glint of interest that had flashed in Hermione's eyes when she first learned of the condition. Her obsessive researching, her refusal to give up even when Draco himself had lost hope.
Was she still researching his mother's memory loss in her spare time? Knowing Hermione, Draco was almost certain that she was still researching; still hoping to come across a new bit of valuable information. Even now, with Narcissa safely locked in the walls of St. Mungo's, Hermione probably soldiered on, hoping against hope that there was something—anything—that could help her. She had promised she wouldn't quit, after all.
She hadn't even asked him for payment. Of course there had to be an ulterior motive behind her willingness to help him for free.
A hand gently grazed his cheek, and Draco was snapped out of his thoughts.
"I can hear you thinking from here," said Hermione sleepily. "It's late."
"Sorry, I can't sleep," he murmured against her fingertips.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked softly.
Draco sighed before responding, "Are you still researching for my mother?"
Hermione stilled next to him. "Yes."
"Hermione—" Draco began.
"I'm not going to stop," she whispered fervently. "I could still find something."
"Who are you trying to help?" he asked quietly.
Hermione looked up at him sharply. "You. I'm trying to help you—and her, your mother."
"Me? Or your parents?" he ventured.
"Why can't it be both?" Hermione asked sadly.
Draco pulled her fully into his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head. She nuzzled against him, seeking comfort. "It can be," he replied. "It can be both."
"I don't even have anything to remember them by," she said quietly. "There wasn't time—and then I couldn't go back—I was too afraid of what I'd find. So all I have of them, really, is that picture you found, an old jumper of my dad's and my mom's meatball recipe." She laughed then, a bitter sound. "Imagine, a whole life with them and that's all I have left."
Draco waited, instantly recalling the night he had placed his mother in St. Mungo's—she had been wearing a man's jumper and had made meatballs.
"That's what I do when I get sad, when I miss them. I put on my dad's jumper and I make meatballs. I visit them sometimes, in Australia, just to make sure they're all right. The last time I went was right after you first came to me, actually. Their names are Monica and Wendell Wilkins. They seem happy enough. I'm always too afraid to approach them, so I can only see from afar. But they seem happy," Hermione said wistfully.
Draco squeezed her shoulders. "I'm sorry," he said softly.
"It could be worse, though. I could've done nothing, and then they would've died. I might not be their daughter anymore, but at least they're alive and happy. If I had died, they wouldn't have even known—so really, it is better this way," she said fiercely.
"Even if it is for the better, you're still allowed to feel sad about it, Hermione. You don't have to carry it around with you as if it doesn't bother you. Just because it worked out to the best possible outcome, doesn't mean you didn't lose something. You can be sad about it, at least with me," Draco replied.
"I just feel like I lost less in the War than everyone else, so I don't have the right to feel sad about it," she lamented.
"That's not how grief works, Hermione. We all lost something in the War, whether or not it was a person, or if it was even death. We all lost. All of us."
"When did you get so wise?" Hermione asked, nuzzling against his chest.
Draco chuckled at that. "I did a lot of thinking after the War—a lot of reading. A lot of philosophy, trying to make sense of it all."
"And?"
Draco kissed the top of her head. "It still doesn't make any sense to me."
Hermione sighed. "Me neither." After a moment, she spoke again, "Thank you for today."
"For what?" Draco asked, his brow furrowed.
"We don't really talk about the War—my friends and I. We kind of all pretend like it didn't happen—like it didn't eat our childhoods. I've tried to, because sometimes I feel like I need to talk about it—or at least pieces of it. I certainly don't talk about my parents with anyone. I've tried—but I've always been shut down. It was nice to talk. To hear you talk."
"You can talk to me anytime you want, Hermione. I promise I'll listen," Draco vowed.
She turned over in his arms so she could face him. "Thank you," she said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.
Wrapping Hermione in his arms once more, and finally he was able to drift off into a peaceful sleep, his mind having been assuaged.