"HIDE THIS?"
Draco winced. He thought that might be a sticking point, but did he really deserve to be screeched at?
Hermione was sitting beside him in her bed, tears still drying on her cheeks. It had nearly broken him, those tears, this amazing witch crying for him. She had saved his life, then healed him, and fed him, and looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, and when he'd asked her to stay with him those eyes had glowed with such happiness ... until he'd ruined it.
And now Hermione was glaring, which put paid to Draco's immediate plans. There should be hugging and kissing and shedding of clothes, not screeching and scowling. And it was all his fault.
"Why?" she asked. "Why do you want to hide us?"
"I would drag you down, you know that. I would be the vile seducer and you—"
Her eyes narrowed. "You're quoting that horrid Nott."
"He's right. I know you think I have a future, but I don't—"
"So this is just a fling, then? Like with Romilda? And you'll get tired of me—"
"I will not get tired of you," Draco ground out. Hermione's eyes popped at his words, and Draco shifted and placed his hands on either side of her body, looking into her face.
"You want to talk about this now?" he asked. "Fine. My public life is utter shit and I accept that. My family worked for the Dark Lord. I worked for the Dark Lord. I let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. I stood by while you were tortured—" Hermione opened her mouth to interrupt but subsided with a glare from him. "I tried to stop you all in the Room of Requirement. I did nothing during the battle except beg people not to kill me and then walk over to the Dark Lord's side. You were a hero. I was a villain."
He took a deep breath, trying to marshal his thoughts, and Hermione, mercifully, stayed silent.
"Now, obviously, I was a shit villain," he admitted. "You act like I'm a hero now, but I'm not much better at that either. But I'm trying. And I'll keep trying, I promise. But Hermione ..." He gave her a direct look, much like the ones he gave Vane with his instructions. He wanted this to sink in.
"Hermione, we can't be open about this. We can't hold hands and walk into the Great Hall. We can't dine out at Diagon Alley. I can't take you to see Mother so you can argue about Divination. Too many people know already and we can't help that, but rumors we can manage. An open relationship we can't." He looked down at his fists clenched on the red-patterned quilt, then at her again.
"I know what my future is," Draco said, "and it wouldn't be very heroic to make it your future, too."
He braced himself for more screeching, but Hermione just looked up at him. "Are you finished?" she asked.
"Yes," Draco said, sitting back again. Merlin, honest communication was exhausting. How did people live like this?
Hermione folded her hands like she was about to recite in class. "I don't agree with you, Draco Malfoy," she said. "But I've decided that we can discuss this another time."
Draco didn't know how to respond. "Another time" sounded both promising and terrifying.
"We will hide this for now," Hermione continued as if conferring a great favor. "But I'm preparing a list of reasons you're wrong. I can think of twelve off the top of my head."
"Fine," Draco said. As long as she kept him around, Hermione could make all the lists she wanted.
Hermione still looked rather severe. "You know, Draco, you didn't have to fly through an ice storm to tell me all this."
He shrugged. "I couldn't just sit there." I hate that room without you.
Hermione's face softened, and he realized he'd said that last sentence aloud. Then, in a sudden movement that nearly stopped Draco's heart, she rose to her knees and yanked her jumper over her head. Her curls bounced crazily. She leaned forward and kissed him softly.
"I don't want a hero," she murmured against his mouth. "I just want you."
"That's good," Draco murmured, his hands on her hips. "I can be me." He'd been wondering if she'd expect virtuous behavior all the time now. The very idea practically gave him a nosebleed.
He tugged at her denims, annoyed by the stiff material, but she wriggled out of them and allowed him to remove her bra. "What do you want, Draco?" she whispered, smoothing his hair back with a soft hand.
Draco didn't answer, too distracted by the bare breasts before him in full light, by that sprinkle of freckles on her collarbone that he'd noticed that first day in Divination.
"Do you want me to be quiet?" she asked, giving his now-erect cock a significant look. "I can be too busy to talk.'
"Alright," Draco said, trying not to frown. Something was off.
Her hand trailed down his torso. "What would you like me to do? Ask me."
"Well, you could—Oh, no no no ..."
"What?" Hermione asked innocently.
Draco was sitting up straight now, glaring. "NO. I am not participating in that mad study of Isobel's."
"Accio S.O.F.T." Hermione wiggled her fingers and a sheaf of parchment fluttered into the bed. "I just need ..."
"SOFT?" Draco asked and immediately regretted the question.
"S.O.F.T. Survey of Fellatio Techniques," Hermione said briskly, producing a Muggle pen. "Number one: How often do you proposition people for—"
"No! Stop that right now!" Draco was offended. This was a romantic moment! Granted, he didn't know much about romantic moments, but he knew they generally didn't include analytic rubrics. Was he the only one here with any self-control?
"I'll put down weekly," Hermione decided. "Now describe your level of sexual involvement with the witch or wizard—"
"Wizard?"
"Not that there's anything wrong with that."
Draco snatched up the parchments and tossed them out of the bed. "Now you listen to me," he told her sternly. "We are not filling out any forms. What we have is not part of some sodding study."
Hermione stared back, her honey-gold eyes all soft. Had he said something right again?
"You're right, Draco." She bit her lip. "I'm rather nervous."
Draco smirked, then slowly lay back against the pillows. "Well then," he said, "you'll just have to take the lead."
Her flush deepened, but she was a Gryffindor, after all, and began crawling up his body to straddle him. It was a familiar stance, but instead of hovering over him in a shadowy green room, she was bathed in sunlight, her skin and hair glowing against the bed's bright draperies. She placed her palms on either side of him.
"This is my bed," Hermione said in a deep voice. "Care to try some interesting activities in my bed?"
Draco rolled his eyes. He didn't sound like that at all.
"Oh, I don't know," he answered in a falsetto. "I need to put on something hideous and study Divination."
"Hush," Hermione said, and leaned forward for a warm, sweet kiss. Draco could feel those lovely breasts against his chest as he pulled her close, his hands running down her body. She was rocking against him, clearly less nervous now. Draco could hardly breathe, both from the kissing and his efforts to control himself. He'd come all over her immediately if he wasn't careful, and sudden flashes of memory from the night before the fire, his come streaked all over her body—on the black lace and pink ribbons—didn't help matters at all.
And Merlin, now she was touching him, her hand on his cock as she kissed his throat ... easy, Draco, easy ... what was wrong with him? Was he twelve? Was he even capable of shagging this woman without becoming silently hysterical?
Hermione slowed. "Are you alright?" she asked, raising her head.
"Yes." Oh ye gods, that wasn't a squeak was it? Oh fuck, now she looked concerned. Draco himself was getting a bit concerned, especially since his hand on her hip was trembling. He scowled down at it, willing it to stop, and it obeyed.
It was the room, he decided, all this awful brightness and cheeriness with no spells or shadows or sinister objects. No place to hide. Just warmth and safety and the whole day unspooled before them and fuck, his hand was shaking again. Stop that.
"Yes," Draco said again, a little better this time. He even managed a weak smirk and slid his now-steadier hand along her thigh and upward. This was better, he was in control ...
"I need you," Draco said suddenly. He froze in horror. Who said that?
Hermione slid her hands up to his face. "I need you, too, Draco, so much."
She kissed him, and a new warmth bloomed in his chest, steadying his nerves. He pulled her close again, his ready arousal filling his veins, and kissed her more deeply, rolling her onto her back and moving between her legs. His lips were at her throat now, he was buried in that flowery scent that had driven him mad for weeks and her knickers slid smoothly off with a single deft motion—a delicate wandless tearing spell, so useful in such circumstances.
Hermione gasped and began to pant as he slipped fingers inside her and he impulsively began their spell game by whispering Wingardium Leviosa into her ear. Her body might have risen slightly, but Draco was too distracted to be sure, and certainly Hermione didn't seem to mind. Her hands tightened on his shoulders and Draco felt the telltale stings of those lovely nails; he set his teeth on her throat in reprisal, which brought a long keen from the witch beneath him.
"Draco please," she breathed, over and over as he moved his fingers inside her, whispering the spell again and definitely this time she was rising, they were both rising, but neither cared, until she finally came, her cries ringing off the walls as they fell back to the bed with a tiny thump.
They blinked at each other, startled, and Draco smirked again. "It seems I have a new wand," he murmured, and bent to place his lips on her body. A quip about cores drifted into his mind and out again as he moved downward, refusing to be distracted.
She felt and tasted delicious, sweet and plump, and when she came again Draco let her sounds wash over him, all nerves or anxiety or even thought washed away ...
"Accio vinewood," Hermione gasped, and he heard the wand slap into her palm. Draco looked up to see the vinewood shaking slightly as she whispered the contraceptive spell and she cast it a second time, more steadily. She tossed it aside and they looked at each other eye to eye, silver and gold.
"Now, Draco," she said firmly.
His blood was pounding, he'd been obsessing over this moment since she arrived that second night, a shocking surprise in a tiny top and knickers.
She came back. To me.
Were you gentle, Granger?
No, she wasn't.
Thank Merlin.
Draco slid up her body like a striking snake, one hand tangled in her curls, his eyes on hers.
"Now," he said, his voice impossibly deep, and drove into her.
Hermione cried out, a guttural sound, and Draco froze, not because he thought he'd hurt her, because clearly he hadn't, but because he feared it would all end right there. Tears filled his eyes, which was horrifying, of course, and all he could do was bury his face in her hair and hope she didn't see. He thrust again and halted once more. Oh Merlin, he was blowing this.
He thrust a third time, and now his body was adjusting, he could control himself, at least enough to start up a rhythm. Hermione's legs were wrapped around him, her hands clutching his shoulders, digging into the skin, and she was keening again. The sound cut through Draco's tenuous control and he groaned.
"Fuck, Hermione, I'm going to ... quickly ..." He fumbled to touch her, and as he brushed her clit she cried out sharply. Her walls clamped down like a vise and Draco came so hard he was surprised his cock was still attached to his body. Then he collapsed on her, boneless and immeasurably relieved. At last. Oh gods.
"At last," she agreed.
Draco raised his head to look at her but for once he didn't curse his wayward tongue. She quite liked his tongue, after all. He expected her to launch a discussion—per her agenda, certainly he had positive things to say—but instead she burrowed into his arms and he found his nose in her hair as he had so many nights over the last few weeks. The familiar scent settled his body and nerves. At last.
***
Draco hadn't meant to fall asleep again, but then it had been a busy week. He was alone when he woke and at first he didn't know where he was. The gold embroidered lion stretched over him was his first clue, in addition to bright red bedding and all that obnoxious sunlight.
Lying back, Draco replayed the entire night and morning in his mind. The freezing nightmare of a broom ride, his certainty he was falling to his death. Waking in Hermione's room, unsure what to say or do. Seducing her back into bed, and declaring himself. Her outrage at his plans to hide them. She wasn't convinced, Draco was sure of it. She wouldn't reveal their something without his approval, but the subject was definitely not closed.
His gaze expanded to the entire room, and he saw a serving tray with tea and finger sandwiches, a thin spiral of steam rising from the teapot's spout. Draco slipped out of the bed, staggering slightly, and clutched a maple bedpost for support. He ignored the large green fluffy robe draped over the sofa and walked over to read the note on the tea tray.
This package arrived for you. Your owl is so darling and sweet.
H.
Draco blinked at the note, then tossed it aside and ripped open the package, ignoring Ollivander's scroll. Nice to see the wandmaker doing his job for once. But then he opened the slim box.
"You again," he snarled at the darkwood wand. "Forget it—you had your chance!"
He tossed the wand on the sofa, and immediately a small cabinet popped open. A half-filled bottle of firewhiskey floated out and landed on a table near him. And a mug shaped like a ... a penguin? ... floated over to join it.
Draco stared down at the wand. "You're offering me a drink? At ..." he looked at the gold clock on the mantle, "one o'clock in the afternoon?"
Cautiously he picked up the darkwood, then nearly dropped it as three ice cubes fell out of thin air into the mug. The bottle tilted and splashed the fiery liquid over the ice, the black-and-white mug floating over to him.
Draco gave the drink a tiny sip. A substandard brand, of course, but it would do. He glared at the wand. "You'll do as I say? No hesitation?"
The wand swiveled in his hand, pointing to the scroll. Draco set down the drink and actually read Ollivander's letter. Why, this made no sense—had he earned the wand's fealty by rejecting it?
"You are a seriously fucked-up wand," he said. "And I haven't forgiven you for Tennant. If I decide to Avada someone, I expect your full cooperation."
It felt good to possess an apparently working wand again, although Draco felt a strange ache in his chest when he thought of the harlequin. He finished his tea and ate two sandwiches before transfiguring himself some trousers, shirt and sundries from Vane's two worst dresses. (It had been difficult to choose and he still regretted sparing the purple one.) He scowled into the wardrobe mirror, still dissatisfied with the result. The black silk shirt missed its top buttons, the belt was too wide and the tips of his polished shoes too pointed. The darkwood wand swiveled in his hand, clearly ready to act.
"It's alright." Draco said. Adjusting already transfigured clothing was always a risk, possibly destabilizing the entire spell. If he overcompensated, his shirt could turn pink- and purple-striped without warning. The horror.
So he stepped away from the mirror and continued to test the darkwood wand by turning various room furnishings green and silver. Only a red-and-gold tapestry hanging near the door resisted; its gaudy patterns merely spun like a kaleidoscope's. Nettled, Draco Petrified Cranky, then lifted the spell and gave the cat his leftover bacon from breakfast. He was finishing up the finger sandwiches when a flash of bronze caught his eye.
Hermione's astrarium clock.
Draco sat down at her desk to inspect it more closely. It was truly an impressive timepiece, its polished planets glinting in the sunshine. He took turns tracking each wee planet, especially renegade Pluto spinning on its wide, tilted course. A cold, dark planet, he had read somewhere, either in Astronomy or Muggle Studies. The changeling of the Solar System. Doomed to follow an outlaw orbit, exiled from the source of light and heat ...
He didn't know how long he sat there, watching the silvery ball haunt the golden sun from afar, but eventually he tore himself away and settled on the sofa with a fresh firewhiskey. Cranky leaped up onto the cushions.
"Thank you for helping me," he said, patting the cat. "You're better than most animals."
Meanwhile, here was this ridiculous S.O.F.T. survey. Clearly the authors didn't know men at all. Draco summoned Hermione's Muggle pen and began flipping pages. He refused to fill it out—instead he used the blank lines for criticisms. It was stupid to try to apply any sort of standard to sexual acts, he wrote. Maybe women used the same techniques every time, but such an approach wasn't practical for men. Only idiots like Tennant did that. Each woman required a different technique, depending on the time, place and level of attractiveness. This survey's methodology was flawed, he scribbled on, any data would be tainted and those rubrics were laughable.
Huffing with annoyance, Draco set aside the stack of parchments and stretched out on the sofa, his feet hanging off the end. The room's lofty, pointed ceiling was painted red with gold stars, its rafters painted gold as well. There was even a golden chandelier. Its crystal droplets glittered in the sunshine and swayed lightly in an invisible draft near the ceiling. Did the wind ever stop blowing around here? Draco relaxed despite himself, listening to the tinkling of crystal, the rattling of windowpanes and the hollow breathing of the fireplace.
He kicked off his too-pointed shoes and stretched out further, allowing his right arm to fall. His fingers brushed hard leather and he looked down to see a tattered copy of Hogwarts: A History, which he'd absently pushed to the floor. An odd compulsion prompted him to sit up and open the tome, and yes, it was just as dreary and repetitive as he remembered. Cranky purred against him as Draco began writing lewd notes in the book's margins with the Muggle pen. The darkwood even helped improve some illustrations.
"You're actually not terrible," he told the wand. "I liked what you did with Godric Gryffindor's hair."
The task absorbed Draco for some time, and he was turning pages and admiring his finished work when the bedroom door opened. Hermione.
Merlin, the witch looked an absolute fright. A thick brown substance was smeared all over her face and jumper and her ponytail hardly deserved the name.
Draco expected an immediate explanation for her absence, if not a profuse apology and promise of some interesting favors. But Hermione just stared down at him slack-jawed, holding a wooden bucket and smelling like resin. The witch looked like she'd fallen down an empty well and clawed her way back out.
When Hermione finally spoke, her voice was weak. "You ... ah ..." She wrenched her eyes away to look around the room, than back at Draco. "Why are my curtains green?"
NEXT UP: Hermione sets some boundaries.