Chapter Text
“More Pad Thai?”
Hermione shakes her head and pushes the box away from her. “I cannot eat another bite.”
They’re sitting on the living room floor of the flat, backs against the couch. On the coffee table in front of them are containers from no less than five restaurants and a chippy.
“Delivery may be the greatest Muggle invention short of cinemas,” Draco says, and Hermione has to smile.
“Keep going like this and people will start to confuse you with Arthur Weasley,” she grins, and then laughs out loud at his horrified expression. He is just too easy to mark.
“You take that back, witch,” Draco says and she shakes her head. Like she would ever.
“I want to show you something.” He looks up at her, half amused, half annoyed, and something warm flutters open inside of Hermione’s chest and suddenly it’s— easy. And it’s time. She snags her purse and from its depths she pulls out the small cherrywood box and sets it down in front of them.
Draco is silent for a moment and then asks quietly, “What is this?”
“This is—” Her voice cuts out and she huffs in frustration. “It’s the furniture from my parents’ house. Some of it. Well, most of my old room, and the living room, and some other stuff I just couldn’t bring myself to—” Her voice cuts out again, and she can feel him take her hand.
“It’s all right.” His voice is low and earnest and she can’t look at him, keeps staring at the box instead.
“I don’t know why I keep it,” she hears herself say. “I can’t do anything with it. I can’t bear to open it up and look, and I can’t bear to not have it near me either. It’s so stupid.” Draco’s fingers squeeze hers hard, and at that she does look up. He’s looking at her with that open expression again, listening without judgement, and she wishes she could show the whole Wizarding world this version of Draco, and shut up the naysayers once and for all. She sighs. “The only thing I’ve ever taken out was the–”
“Teapot,” Draco cuts her off, eyes shining. “I remember the teapot. That was the first night we—”
“Yeah,” Hermione says and grins. “It’s a good teapot.”
He grins right back at her. “It was a good night, too. Minus me nearly going mental.”
“It was.” She’s suddenly short of breath.
And then something shifts in the air of the room, in their looks, in the way they start to lean towards each other, and then Draco’s grin turns sly, spreads across his face as he licks his lips and looks her up and down, and then he pounces .
With a squeal Hermione falls back and they wrestle across the room because apparently Draco is no better than an 8-year-old, and they’re laughing and tickling each other until Hermione can no longer breathe, but then suddenly Draco has her pinned underneath him and it’s no longer so funny. He’s heavy and solid as he swoops down to kiss her and Hermione arches up and notices at that moment that Draco— is hard .
She stills completely, and so does he.
All that can be heard are his harsh, panting breaths and she looks at him, really looks at him— eyes blown black, mouth open, expression ravenous, and fuck if he isn’t the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. She pulls him down into a bruising kiss and thrusts her pelvis upwards and a low, helpless moan escapes him as his left hand scrambles to untuck her shirt. His hand is warm when he finally gets it on her skin and brushes it up her side to cup her breast hard and she gasps because Merlin it feels so good.
So much better than good.
Draco above her stops to look at her and she can almost see herself in his hungry gaze and it takes her breath away. To be looked at like that. Nobody’s ever looked at her like that.
“Hey,” she whispers, and he swallows hard and just stares at her. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he grinds out. “It just suddenly occurred to me that a very specific fantasy of mine is coming true.”
“A very specific—” Her voice falters. Draco has fantasised about her? Draco has fantasised about her?
“Hermione,” he whispers and starts to kiss her jawline down her neck to her collarbone and she shudders from the sheer pleasure of it. “There’s not a boy in Hogwarts who hasn’t had that fantasy. Not after you went to that Yule ball with Krum in that bloody dress.” He looks up and brushes his lips across hers. “I used to sit in Potions class and there you were with all your swottiness and your cursed perfection and I’d hate everything about you and then you’d get that look of sheer concentration and focus and all I’d be able to think about was how you looked in that stupid dress. And then I’d hate you even more. Even though half the time I had to stay sitting down in class, if you know what I mean.“
“I had no idea.” Hermione feels blind-sided. Her entire world is sliding off its hinges.
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t going to share that with the class.” He smirks and then bends down to nuzzle her neck. “Although it got me through some pretty tough times. Not that I was ever going to admit it. And quite possibly it made me hate you even more.” His lips are soft against her skin, his voice a whisper in her ear. Like he’s confessing something so private, even the air around them is not allowed to share in it. “But Merlin, I’ve had this fantasy in my head for so long, I’m going to ask you to pinch me. Make sure I’m not dreaming.”
Hermione doesn’t pinch him. Her world is spinning out of control, but right now, she doesn’t care. This, this is what she wants, this exact out-of-control feeling, this wild, wanton, untethered freedom bubbling up inside her, and Draco’s body pressed against her in all the right places. She fists her hand in his hair and forces him to look up and then sees his expression. So open. She sits up, loves how he just moves with her, and then leans forward to kiss him with all the conviction she has and says, “Take me to bed. Take me right now.”
Draco doesn’t hesitate. He picks her up and she wraps her legs around him, attacks every exposed part of his skin as he carries her through a door and throws her down on a mattress, and then it’s nothing but pulling at fabric and fumbling with clasps and hot, wet, hard,
push
push
push
Oh, Merlin.
Yeah.
—
Sunshine on his face wakes him up. Sunshine and the smell of her hair, the heat of her body, stretched against his. His hand languidly strokes up and down her side, fingers whispering against her soft skin as her eyes open slowly and she stretches like a contented cat. When she finally turns to look at him, her eyes soft and her smile warm and lovely, he suddenly feels the urge to cry.
Not that he’s going to.
But to feel such peace after a decade of being nothing but a raw, open wound is---
“Draco?” Her voice is a whisper. “Are you all right?”
Damn his face and the expression it’s probably wearing. Damn her for shattering his carefully crafted neutral. No, not damn her. Be grateful, even if it takes some getting used to. Emotion has always been his weakness.
Maybe it’s time to make peace with that .
She shifts, props herself up on one elbow and the loss of warmth next to him is nearly unbearable. She looks at him for a long time, brows furrowed, searching, and then sits up, clutching the sheet to her chest.
“Is this not what you wanted?” She sounds uncertain, not at all like the confident witch who bested both his ego and his self loathing time and time again and never ever backed down before his ridiculous notions of penance and punishment, not once.
No, what she’s really asking is, Am I not what you wanted?
It’s right there, all over her own fantastically expressive face.
With a groan he launches up and wraps his arms around her and pulls her in, because he cannot let that expression stay on her face a moment longer, not after all this, not after everything ; he has to bury his nose in her hair and kiss the warm skin of her neck and hold her as close to him as humanly possible.
“You absolute idiot,” he says and kisses her long and soft and achingly slow until he can feel her tense muscles melt against him. Then he looks up and grasps her chin, turns her face towards him so she can see all of him, every last ill-fitting bit that’s not worthy of her, but somehow got her all the same, and he looks her straight in the eye and says, “Hermione. This is all I ever wanted.”
—
Two days later finds them in Shacklebolt’s office, together with Potter and a very tall, thin witch who introduces herself as Minerva Skinner, Head of the DMLE and in charge of keeping track of seditious elements.
“Minerva,” Hermione says pensively, and the woman grins.
“I was named after my aunt,” she says. “Whom all of you have met, I think.”
Draco feels very strange in this room where he’s surrendered his wand and started his sentence and, more recently, defended his actions against a newly-risen evil. He’s sitting next to Hermione, but it seems far away. They haven’t been out of contact once in the last 48 hours, and it feels wrong not to be touching some part of her for comfort.
Salazar’s balls, he has become a fucking sap . If his Slytherins could see him now. But then she catches his eye and smiles at him so brightly, he forgets all about decorum and smiles back. It makes him feel good. Fuck decorum.
“We have a problem,” Shacklebolt says.
Skinner nods. “More than one, I should say.” Shacklebolt waves his hand at her and she continues. “The first and most obvious being that pureblood sentiment seems to once again be on the rise, masquerading as anti-creature sentiment. At least for now. It won’t take long for that to reveal its true colours though, I should say.” She looks at Potter and Hermione, and then her eyes meet Draco’s. He feels the irrational urge to duck. Her gaze is piercing and uncompromising and cuts right down to the bottom of what’s left of his soul. No wonder this woman is in charge of keeping the peace. “They also appear to have a secret militant arm, which you all were good enough to expose, and I thank you for that.” Draco almost laughs out loud. They were ambushed and injured and Hermione was nearly kidnapped. ‘Good enough to expose’, indeed. But— there is something to be said for Skinner’s calm, objective summation. It is the opposite of panic and fear and there is something inherently reassuring about that. “I know we’re missing four culprits, but I am confident in the assumption that we caught the mastermind and her main henchman, and I also thank you for that.” This last part she directs at Potter, who shrugs.
“It was a team effort,” he says quietly, and Skinner smiles thinly.
“So it was,” she says.
“Did you find out anything about the Trelawney sister? Or about SFTSOC’s plans? Or their members?” Hermione’s voice is steady and professional, but Draco can tell the small tremor beneath it. He has to resist the urge to take her hand.
“A little,” Shacklebolt answers. “She’s not talking, but we made enquiries. It turns out Charybdis is actually the product of a dalliance her father had with an as-of-yet unidentified witch. This witch is very likely a pureblood, judging by Charybdis’ rhetoric, and every effort is being made to find out who she is. We know next to nothing about Carrow’s involvement, or who the other attackers were in your flat—” he nods at Draco— “or how much funding, support, and political might is already tied up in this scheme. Or what their plans are exactly.”
Skinner nods. “This is a potential mess, and from what I can tell the tentacles are already reaching for public opinion and legislation, so it’s going to get very ugly very soon.”
“What exactly do you want from us?” Draco hears himself say. Like he’s ever going to be part of an ‘us’.
“Good question,” Skinner says thoughtfully. “The first thing I’d like to do is make you an Auror, Mr Malfoy.”
Potter chokes and spends a good ten seconds coughing. Hermione beams. There’s no other word for it. Shacklebolt raises a laconic eyebrow and the Head of the DMLE just looks at him without expression. And all Draco can say is, “Why?”
“You would be an exceptional asset.” Skinner nods at him. “First of all, you successfully warded off an attack of skilled wizards after not having practised magic in a decade. Skilled wizards which outnumbered you three to one, no less. I don’t know if you realise just how impressive that is, but let me tell you, it shows an unusual amount of talent.”
Draco feels like he’s being examined like a prospective potion ingredient. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. “I didn’t do it alone,” he mumbles. “Hermione was there.”
Hermione huffs. “I did nothing except get caught in a full-body bind.” She looks at the Head Auror. “It was all him.”
“That’s not true,” Draco says. It feels like all his clothes are suddenly too small for him.
The tall witch smiles. “Noted,” she says. “But there’s more. You have invaluable inside knowledge of some very powerful wizarding families. You know their predilections, rituals, habits, desires. You could be the most valuable asset we’ve ever had.”
“Except for Theo,” Harry says.
Draco’s head snaps up. “ Theo ? Theo Nott ? Is an Auror? ”
Harry grins. “Yeah. Came to me years ago, originally to apologise for vomiting on my shoes.” Draco snorts, and Harry’s grin widens. “Well, actually he just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to punish him ex post facto.”
“That’s more like it. And good for you for throwing all that Latin at me. Have you been waiting for this since I translated ‘Acacius’?”
“Not at all.” Harry’s grin turns into a smirk. “There’s a ridiculous amount of Latin at the DMLE. You’ll be able to be the completely insufferable twat you are.” Harry’s smirk really is the most annoying thing in the world. “As I was saying, Theo and I started talking and then had a few beers and next thing I know he’s applied for the Auror program.” Draco stares, nonplussed. Theo is a bloody Auror. “He’s quite good, actually. There’s at least a dozen pureblood strongholds we couldn’t have dismantled without him.”
“So what do you say?” Skinner looks at him expectantly and suddenly Draco feels cold and empty. He can’t answer and can’t look at her. This is where he’ll be weighed and measured and found wanting.
From far away he hears Hermione’s voice. “Can you give us the room, please?”
Shacklebolt answers, “Of course,” and then clothes rustle and a door closes and Hermione kneels before him and takes his hand. He can’t really feel it, just watches it happen.
“Draco.” Her voice is soft and warm and he wonders what will be once he’s said his piece. “What are you thinking?”
“When I was up on that tower,” he rasps and then clears his throat and doesn’t explain which tower, because she knows. “And I’d just disarmed Dumbledore and—” Deep breath. He can say this. He can be honest for once in his miserable life. “I didn’t know Dumbledore was dying and that there was a grand plan and that Harry was there under his blasted cloak and I was just—- so fucking scared. All I could see was Dumbledore, and all I could feel was how much I hated him, how much I had always hated him, and he looked at me and it was kind . He was fucking kind to me, like the benevolent, condescending fathead he was, and it made me so angry, but still I couldn’t finish it, and that made me even angrier, until I couldn’t tell the rage from the fear and yet I still couldn’t do it.” He can’t look at Hermione. Might never be able to look at her again. “My mother was being tortured back at the Manor and my own life was hanging in the balance, and still, I couldn’t .” He looks at his hands. Soft and spoiled and useless. “I’m not saying I should have killed Dumbledore. That’s not what I mean. It’s just— when it comes right down to it, I think a coward is all I am. You don’t need that in this fight. Or any other fight.” And there it is. Finally. He’s finally said it.
Hermione is silent for a long time. When she finally speaks, her voice is low. She takes his other hand firmly in hers and squeezes them both and then says, “You think not committing murder makes you a coward?” The phrasing brings Draco up short, but she doesn’t wait for his brain to catch up. “I think there’s a special kind of darkness you have to carry inside you to be able to take another person’s life.” She pulls his hands up, but doesn’t force him to look at her. He’s unspeakably grateful for it. “And don’t get me wrong, Draco Malfoy, you have darkness inside you. You have darkness to spare. You were the worst kind of sadistic, entitled bully I’ve ever met when we were kids.”
There’s a weight pushing down on Draco’s lungs, a rock of pure pressure, making it hard to breathe. Here it comes. Well. It had to come someday. He nods. “I was.”
From very far beyond the corner of his eyes he can see Hermione smile. Why?
“Draco,” she says. “Can you not see? Can you not see that no matter what, that kind of darkness, that kind of evil, is not in your heart? Has never been in your heart?” She leans forward and presses her forehead against his. “And do you not see how you have changed? Each time you look at your past self you’re scrupulously honest and then you discount the person you’ve become.” She bends down further and kisses him, soft and lovely. “I would go into any battle with you. No matter what. You are not a coward. You are a decent fucking human being, and I’ll put my life into your hands any day. Any day.” Her fingers squeeze his to the point of pain. “So stop with the bloody recrimination and the penance and all that other bullshit. You’re a good man, Draco Malfoy. And if you can’t believe it yourself, you’ll just have to believe me.”
There is nothing he can say to that. Nothing at all. He keeps looking down because something inside him is breaking open, something that has been closed and sealed and locked and painful , and he has no words because water has started to run down his cheeks, searing hot and absolutely unstoppable until it finally breaks out of him in a sob and she pulls back.
“Draco?” She says, and her voice is warm and fond and everything he wants, and when she cups his cheek he turns into her palm as if he can hide there and lick his wounds until all of them are healed. And then she leans forward to kiss him while he’s bloody bawling and the relief he feels so great it is going to crush him and it just comes out.
“I love you.” He can’t look at her, but he also can’t take it back. Won’t take it back. “I love you so much.”
She is quiet, very quiet, while he keeps his eyes glued to his knees and blinks the tears away and thinks about whether silence can break you. And then her hand slides down his cheek and grips his chin and forces it up, forces him to look at her, to look at her face, that same face that reflects every emotion before she even has it, and there it is.
There it is.
The answer to the only question that matters.
She smiles and it almost doesn’t hurt anymore, smiles and then wraps her arms around him like bands of iron that will never let go, that will never weaken or falter or let him fall, and then she whispers, “Idiot. I love you, too.”
—
Twenty minutes later Hermione watches Draco as he puts the perfect amount of sneer into his acceptance of Auror Skinner’s offer, as he smirks at Harry to let him know exactly what’s in store for him once Draco passes the exam, as he manages to nod at Shacklebolt with just the barest hint of condescension. It’s like watching a play.
But far be it from her to judge anyone’s coping mechanism.
Draco’s right hand is curled into a tight fist and she knows it’s because he’s physically restraining himself from reaching for her and she smiles. He’s going to be amazing. He’s going to surprise them all, Harry and Skinner and Shacklebolt and every last naysayer. And he’s going to challenge her and annoy her and keep up with every last complex concept and analysis, and he’ll give as good as he gets, and she can’t wait to spend years and years and years sparring every which way with him.
There is so much baggage to unpack between his family and hers, his demons and hers, there are decisions to be made, and yet another rising foe to vanquish, but Hermione is not afraid. Shacklebolt is outlining the first course of action against SFTSOC and everyone is listening intently and Hermione simply reaches out to take Draco’s hand because they’re in this together and she doesn’t care who knows it.
Harry grins at her and Skinner raises an exquisitely arched eyebrow and Shacklebolt loses his train of thought for a moment. The tips of Draco’s ears turn bright red, but he looks around the room in perfect nonchalance and Hermione has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Shacklebolt clears his throat, mumbles, “What was I saying?” and then goes on as if nothing happened. Hermione squeezes Draco’s fingers, settles down to listen, and tries not to look like a woman who just wants to go home to have her partner tear all her clothes off.
Well. Not too much, at any rate.
Judging from the looks she gets from every last person in the room, she doesn’t succeed.