JEALOUSY

The Floo spat them out with a familiar whoosh, sending Hermione off balance with a stumble. She straightened her robes, a wave of relief washing over her as the cool air of their familiar living room greeted her face. Sunlight streamed through the dusty window panes, illuminating the motes dancing in the hitherto unnoticed dust motes. Bookshelves overflowed with titles like old friends, and a half-finished potion bubbled cheerfully on the side table, a testament to their interrupted life.

"It's good to be home," she murmured, a genuine smile blossoming across her face as she deposited her suitcase with a thud.

Draco followed her out of the fireplace, his immaculate robes marred by a dusting of soot. He swept the room with a glance, a flicker of something indecipherable crossing his features before settling on a small, reluctant smile. "Indeed," he agreed, his voice softer than its usual imperious tone. "Though Italy was undeniably… enchanting."

Hermione chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Enchanting is one way to put it. It was refreshing to see a different side of you, Malfoy," she added, a playful glint in her hazel eyes.

Draco raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge flickering in his own steely gaze. "Oh? And which side might that be, darling Granger?"

"The side that doesn't feel the constant need to bicker," she replied with a smirk, stepping closer to him until a comfortable warmth filled the space between them. "The side that enjoys devouring gelato and exploring forgotten museums with childlike curiosity."

Draco let out a low chuckle, a sound that sent a shiver down Hermione's spine. He closed the gap between them, his hand hovering near hers. "I suppose it's easier to get along when you're not constantly surrounded by old grudges," he admitted, his voice laced with a hint of self-deprecation.

She met his gaze, her expression softening. "Yes, exactly," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Maybe we can find a way to keep that going here."

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching hers. Then, with a gentle smile, he took her hand. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through her, and as they stood there, hand in hand, a flicker of hope ignited in Hermione's chest. Maybe, just maybe, their forced marriage could blossom into something more. They had a long road ahead, filled with unknown possibilities, but for the first time, she wasn't afraid.

 As they settled back into their routine, Hermione couldn't help but wonder what the future held for them. But for now, she was content to take things one day at a time, hopeful that they could build something real out of their unexpected union.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was grateful for the quiet and familiarity of home. Crookshanks, her faithful ginger cat, greeted her with a soft meow as she entered the bedroom. She smiled warmly, setting down her suitcase and kneeling down to pet him.

"Hello, Crookshanks," she murmured, scratching behind his ear. "Did you miss me old champ?"

Crookshanks purred contentedly, rubbing against her hand. Hermione stood up and glanced around the bedroom, feeling a sense of relief to be back in her own space. The bed looked inviting, and she felt a wave of exhaustion from the journey wash over her.

She started to change into her pajamas, a comfortable set of cotton bottoms and a loose t-shirt. Crookshanks watched her intently, his green eyes curious.

"You're not the only one ready for bed," she said with a chuckle, picking him up and settling him on the bed. He curled up into a ball, purring loudly.

After a quick trip to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth, she returned to the bedroom. She turned off the lights except for a soft bedside lamp, casting a warm glow over the room. Climbing into bed, she pulled the covers up and settled against the pillows, feeling the weight of the day begin to lift.

Crooks stretched out beside her, and Hermione stroked his fur absentmindedly. As she closed her eyes, she let herself relax, the peacefulness of being home washing over her.

"Goodnight, Crooks," she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper.

and Goodnight Draco.

With a contented sigh, she let herself drift off to sleep, comforted by the presence of her loyal cat and the familiarity of home after their eventful honeymoon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione stirred in her sleep, her dreams dissolving into fractured shadows as a bloodcurdling scream tore through the silence. Her body jolted upright, heart hammering against her ribs, her breath coming in uneven gasps. But it wasn't her scream.

For a moment, she sat frozen in the darkness, listening. The low, guttural sound that followed—the kind of sound that did not belong in the waking world—sent a violent shudder through her. It was raw, unrestrained, and animalistic in its pain. Draco.

Beside her, Crookshanks hissed, fur bristling as he arched his back. Hermione threw off the covers, barely pausing to grab her robe before sprinting down the dimly lit corridor.

She didn't think.

She didn't think about what she would find. Didn't think about how this was Malfoy, and how Malfoy didn't scream like that. Didn't break like that.

But as she flung the door open, all those assumptions shattered.

He was thrashing violently, his body tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. His pale face, usually schooled into infuriating smugness, was twisted in raw terror, mouth parted in a silent, strangled cry. His fingers clawed at the air, his chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven gasps. He was drowning.

"My Lord!" The words ripped from his throat in a hoarse, panicked plea. "No! Not again—I didn't betray you—I didn't—please—"

Hermione's blood turned to ice.

The weight of those words sank into her bones like lead. This wasn't just a nightmare. This was a memory.

The name—the title—hung heavy in the air, suffocating.

She was moving before she could stop herself, dropping to her knees beside his bed.

"Draco!" Her voice was urgent but soft, like a tether pulling him away from the abyss. She reached out but didn't touch him, not yet, wary of the way he was lost in whatever horrors had gripped him. "Draco, wake up—please, wake up."

He convulsed once, violently, then suddenly—his eyes snapped open.

She had expected wild confusion, the haze of sleep and terror colliding. But the moment his gaze met hers, she saw something worse.

Recognition did not come instantly. For a single, soul-crushing moment, he wasn't looking at her.

He was looking at her—Bellatrix, maybe. Or another faceless figure from the war. Someone who had stood over him while he cowered beneath their wand.

His breath hitched sharply; he scrambled back against the headboard, as if she were the threat.

Her chest tightened, her heart aching at the way he recoiled—not out of arrogance, not in defiance—but in pure, unfiltered fear.

"It's alright, Draco," she said, deliberately keeping her voice steady, warm. No sudden movements. No loud sounds.

Still, his body remained taut, ready to fight or flee.

"You're safe," she reassured him, still making no move to touch him, even though every instinct told her to. Instead, she slowly, carefully extended her hand—but didn't reach for him. She left it open between them, an offering rather than an intrusion.

"You're here, with me. It was just a dream."

He was still breathing too fast, his hands curled into the sheets, as if bracing for another blow. His silver eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, were wide and unfocused, flickering between reality and the lingering grip of whatever horrors still clung to him.

Then, finally, her words seemed to land.

She saw the moment the tension in his shoulders cracked, his breath catching. His body was still rigid, but his gaze latched onto hers as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Voldemort is gone," she whispered, gentler this time.

He swallowed hard, the sound rough and ragged, barely audible over the remnants of his broken screams. His entire body trembled, his breath coming in short, unsteady gasps, and when he tried to speak, his voice cracked under the weight of it all. A choked sob tore from his throat, raw and involuntary, and he clamped his jaw shut as if ashamed of the sound.

"Hermione," he rasped, his voice hoarse, stripped bare of its usual composure. "It felt so real. So terrifyingly real." His silver eyes, wide and unfocused, flickered with the kind of fear that belonged to someone still trapped in the nightmare's grasp.

The memory still clung to him, thick and suffocating, dragging him under. He saw her there, his wife—beautiful, brilliant, and so heartbreakingly still. Blood pooling beneath her, her lifeless eyes staring into nothingness. He had reached for her, fingers clawing through thin air, but no matter how hard he tried, he could never quite touch her. A ghost reaching for a ghost. Helplessness coiled around his lungs, squeezing, suffocating.

His breath hitched. He had lost her. Again.

He forced his eyes open, but the terror didn't fade. It was still there, clinging to his skin, slithering down his spine, sinking its claws into his ribs. His gaze darted wildly around the dimly lit room before landing on her—real, alive, sitting at the edge of his bed, her hand outstretched but not quite touching him.

He flinched back violently, pressing himself against the headboard as if she might disappear if he moved too suddenly.

The breath in Hermione's chest stilled.

She'd seen Malfoy arrogant. She'd seen him cruel, smug, insufferable, and occasionally even charming—but she had never seen him like this. Wide-eyed and lost. Stripped of every mask, of every carefully constructed wall he had spent years fortifying. Raw. Exposed. Terrified.

The realization hit her all at once. This wasn't just a nightmare. It was a memory.

Her heart clenched painfully in her chest, but she kept her voice steady, deliberate, careful, like coaxing a skittish animal from the shadows. "Draco, you're safe," she said softly, her tone firm but warm.

He didn't respond.

His fingers were shaking, curled so tightly into the sheets that his knuckles had turned white. She recognized that grip. She'd held her own wand like that after the war—after Bellatrix, after the screams, after the blood.

She shifted slightly, careful not to startle him, and reached out again—but didn't touch him, not yet. Just a little closer.

"It's over," she whispered, watching him carefully for any sign that her words were getting through. "Voldemort is gone, Draco. You're here. With me."

Something in his expression cracked, a flicker of recognition beneath the panic.

He blinked. Once. Twice. His gaze finally locked onto hers, and the sharp, labored breaths he had been forcing into his lungs started to slow, just a little.

But then—his face twisted again. Guilt.

A fresh wave of anguish crashed over him, his body convulsing under its weight.

"I thought I lost you," he whispered, his voice shattered, broken.

She barely had time to process the words before he reached for her—his movements sudden, desperate.

She gasped as his trembling hand found hers, his fingers clutching onto her like she was the only real thing in a world made of nightmares. His grip was too tight, almost painful, but she didn't pull away.

She wouldn't.

Her heart ached at the way his fingers curled into her palm, like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline. Like he needed to feel her warmth to believe she was real.

She swallowed hard, ignoring the lump in her throat, and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm right here," she murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."

He let out a shuddering breath, his body still wracked with tremors. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to drown out the images still flashing in his mind.

She didn't need to ask what he had seen. She already knew.

And when he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

"It was… him."

Hermione didn't move. Didn't speak. Just waited.

"Voldemort," he continued, the name barely more than a breath. "He had you. I—I tried to stop it, but I couldn't. I was just… watching. I could see you, hear you screaming, but I couldn't do anything. I was useless."

He shuddered violently, his breathing uneven again. His fingers twitched against hers, tightening their grip.

She could see the war replaying behind his eyes.

Hermione hadn't been there when Malfoy Manor became a prison for the resistance. She hadn't seen what he had seen. But he had seen her. He had been there, in that grand hall, watching as Bellatrix Lestrange carved into her flesh, laughing as Hermione's screams reverberated off the walls.

She had never let herself think too much about what he must have felt that day.

But now… now she wondered.

"You weren't useless, Draco," she whispered.

"I should have done something," he rasped. "I should have—I should have stopped it—"

"You couldn't," she interrupted, her voice steady but gentle.

His eyes snapped up to hers, his expression torn between agony and disbelief.

"You were a prisoner, just like I was," she said, her voice soft yet unyielding. "You were just a boy, Draco. We all were."

He looked away, his jaw tightening, but she didn't let go of his hand.

After a long silence, she did something she never thought she'd do.

She lifted her free hand and cupped his cheek.

He went rigid beneath her touch, his breathing pausing entirely, as if the sensation was too foreign, too unfamiliar.

"Hermione…" he whispered, her name caught between a plea and disbelief.

Her thumb moved—just the barest stroke against his cheekbone.

It was nothing. And everything.

His breath finally left him in a shaky exhale, his eyelids fluttering shut for just a moment, as if grounding himself in her warmth.

"You woke up," she murmured, tilting her head ever so slightly, her forehead barely an inch from his. "You're safe now."

He opened his eyes again, and this time, she recognized something new in them.

Something fragile. Something reverent. Something like hope.

She smiled, just barely. "See? Not lost. I'm still here, dearie."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Yeah," he whispered, voice raw, but a little steadier this time. "You are."

He nodded, his breathing gradually slowing down. Hermione continued to stroke his arm soothingly, silently reassuring him that he was not alone. After a long moment of quiet comfort, she felt him shift closer, his hand reaching out to cup her cheek. The gesture was tentative, almost hesitant, yet filled with a newfound vulnerability.

Her heart ached for him. With a gentle smile, she turned her head to meet his touch. His fingers were warm against her skin, a stark contrast to the coldness of his nightmare.

"Thank you, Hermione," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "For everything."

"We'll get through this, together," she replied softly, her own voice thick with unspoken affection.

He held her gaze for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. In their depths, she saw a flicker of something new – a flicker of trust, of something more than just the wary civility of their forced marriage.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken emotions. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in. The movement was almost imperceptible, yet filled with a quiet yearning.

Her breath hitched in her throat. A million thoughts raced through her mind, yet none of them seemed important at that moment. All that mattered was the warmth radiating from his body, the vulnerability etched on his face, and the silent promise hanging in the air between them.

With a trembling breath, she closed the distance between them, and they shared a light kiss on the lips. It was a kiss filled with unspoken emotions – comfort, gratitude, and a nascent spark of something more. They held onto each other tightly, as if seeking solace and strength in each other's presence.

The kiss was brief, chaste, yet it felt like a turning point. As they pulled away, a blush crept up her neck, mirrored by a faint dusting of pink on his pale cheeks. They stared into each other's eyes, a silent understanding passing between them.

The night may have begun with terror, but in the quiet aftermath, they had found a new kind of connection, a connection forged in shared vulnerability and unspoken promises. And as they drifted back to sleep, hand in hand, a fragile hope flickered in the darkness, a promise of a future they would face together.

After a few minutes, he opened his eyes, the panic receding from his features. He looked at Hermione, gratitude and relief evident in his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered.

She smiled gently. "Anytime. I'm here for you, Draco."

He reached for her hand, holding it tightly. "I know," he replied softly.

They laid in silence for a while longer, finding solace in each other's presence.

Eventually, he leaned into her embrace, seeking comfort and finding it in her warmth. She held him close, wrapping her arms around him protectively.

As they stayed like that, Hermione felt a renewed sense of connection she them. Despite the nightmares and the shadows of their past, they had each other now. Together, they could face anything.

And as the night deepened around them, they found peace in each other's arms, knowing that they could overcome the darkness as long as they faced it together .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, Hermione slowly blinked awake, a comforting warmth pressed against her back as she woke. The familiar rise and fall of his breath was a soothing rhythm beside her ear. Relief washed over her as she saw the peaceful lines on his face, a stark contrast to the haunted look he wore earlier. She shifted slightly, careful not to disturb him, and turned her head to watch him sleep.

He stirred awake, sensing her movement. He blinked sleepily, his eyes meeting hers with a soft smile. "Good morning," he murmured, his voice husky with sleep.

"Good morning, Dearie," she replied, returning his smile. "How are you feeling?"

He sighed contentedly, tightening his embrace around her. "Better. Much better."

She traced gentle circles on his arm, her touch a silent reassurance. "I'm glad."

They lay there for a few moments in comfortable silence, simply enjoying the closeness and intimacy of the morning. The first rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains, casting a soft golden glow across the room. The air held a crispness that hinted at the approaching summer. Crooks, sensing that they were awake, jumped onto the bed and settled himself at their feet, purring loudly.

He chuckled softly, stroking the cat's fur. "Looks like he approves," he remarked, glancing at Hermione.

Hermione laughed softly, nodding. "Seems like it."

They lay there a little longer, basking in the warmth of the morning sun filtering through the curtains. He pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering there as he held her close. The weight of the nightmare had lifted, replaced by a fragile hope for the future, a future they would face together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a leisurely breakfast, Hermione found herself settled in the living room, a steaming cup of tea in hand and Crookshanks sprawled at her feet, purring like a spoiled prince. The penthouse was bathed in the soft glow of morning light, the kind that made everything seem almost peaceful—almost. She took a slow, deep breath, relishing the rare moment of calm after the nightmare that had been the previous night.

And then, like some divine punishment for ever thinking she could have a moment of peace, the Floo flared violently to life, spewing soot and chaos straight into her morning.

Ronald Weasley, in all his unwelcome glory, came stumbling out, looking like he had just lost a fight with his own coordination. He shook off the ash from his second-hand robes, barely glancing at the mess he had made as his eyes scanned the penthouse—and darkened considerably.

Hermione sighed, setting her cup down with a deliberate clink before slowly rising to her feet. "Ronald?" she said, her voice already exasperated. "What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

Ronald barely spared her an acknowledgment before continuing his shameless gawking, his gaze sweeping over the elegant decor with something between suspicion and resentment. His lip curled slightly, as if the very air of Malfoy's penthouse was offensive to his sensibilities.

"I needed to talk to you," he finally said, his tone a tense mix of determination and frustration.

She crossed her arms, already bracing herself for whatever this was. "Alright, let's talk. But why in the world didn't you send an owl first?" she asked, arching a brow.

He scoffed, clearly unimpressed by the very suggestion of basic etiquette. "I couldn't bloody wait."

And that was the exact moment she knew this was going to be one of those conversations.

"Oh, fantastic," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Alright then, Ronald, by all means—what's so urgent?"

His eyes snapped back to her, brimming with barely restrained anger. "I couldn't believe it when I heard. You actually went on a honeymoon with HIM?"

She let out a slow, measured exhale, because if she didn't, she was going to throw her teacup at his head.

"Ronald," she said, her patience already thinning, "please tell me you didn't come all the way here to whine about something that is literally none of your business."

His jaw clenched. "None of my—? 'Mione, this marriage isn't real! You don't have to play along like this!"

She barked out a short, humorless laugh. "Play along?" she repeated, her voice dripping with incredulity. "Ronald, in case you somehow missed the last few months of our lives, I was forced into this marriage, just like you were with Lavender. So unless you have a plan to miraculously overturn the Marriage Law, spare me the theatrics."**

He took a step closer, his voice dropping as though he thought he could somehow talk sense into her. "But it's Malfoy. After everything he and his family did—"

And that was it.

The last frayed thread of her patience snapped.

"That. Is. Enough, Ronald," she cut him off, her voice sharp enough to slice through stone. "Are you actually jealous? Is that what this is? You got stuck with Lavender, and now you can't stand the idea that someone else— someone better—might actually treat me with more respect than you ever did?"

His face went from red to scarlet, a mixture of anger and something dangerously close to embarrassment flickering behind his eyes.

"Maybe I am jealous," he snapped before he could stop himself. "Seeing you with him—it's just wrong!"

She blinked before letting out a slow, disbelieving laugh. "Oh, that is rich," she said, shaking her head, her voice laced with biting amusement. "You have the audacity to stand in my home— which, by the way, you entered uninvited—and act like you have any right to tell me what's 'wrong'? What exactly do you think is wrong, Ronald? The fact that I'm making the best of this situation instead of throwing a tantrum? Or the fact that you can't stand the idea that I'm moving on?"

He looked like he had just swallowed an entire lemon, whole.

He opened his mouth, but Hermione steamrolled right over whatever excuse he was about to offer.

"Because let me remind you of something, darling," she sneered, "we are not together anymore. We haven't been together in years. So I don't need you barging in here and playing the wounded party, as if you weren't snogging Lavender's face off before my side of the bed even went cold."

His jaw snapped shut so fast, she almost heard it click.

"That's not—!"

"Oh, but it is," she cut in with a mockingly sweet tone. "You weren't this concerned about my well-being when you ran right back to Lavender after we broke up. So why, exactly, do you care so much now?"

His ears were burning red. His hands balled into fists at his sides. And for the first time since he had stormed in, he looked unsure of what to say.

Hermione stood in the living room, her frustration boiling over as she faced Ron. "You should be stronger than me," she snapped. "You've been here longer than me. Don't you know that you're supposed to be the man? Do you know why we broke up?"

Ronald looked taken aback, his expression shifting from confusion to hurt. "What are you talking about?"

"You're not supposed to pale in comparison to who you think I am," she continued, her voice rising. "You always want to talk things through, but I don't care! I always had to comfort you when I was there, and what I needed from you was for you to be strong, to stroke my hair when I needed it."

He opened his mouth to respond, but dhe cut him off. "I've forgotten all of young love's joy because of YOU. I felt like a grown woman while you acted like a BITCH!"

"That's not fair," he protested, his face flushing with anger. "I did my best."

"Your best isn't good enough," she retorted. "You're supposed to be stronger than me. Why did you always put me in control? All I needed was for my man to live up to his role."

"I just think we need to talk things through," he said, his voice dropping.

Ronald looked hurt, but she pressed on. "You said you respected me and made me earn it, that I had so many lessons to learn. But you don't know what love is, Ronald. Get a grip! You sound like you're reading from some tired old script." 

He launched himself forward to grab Hermione's face, his face contorted with frustration.

"Remove your hand from my wife, or I'll remove it for you," Draco's voice cut through the tension like a knife, cold and deadly. He stepped into the room with a menacing glare, his presence commanding and fierce. "If you ever touch her again, I swear I will kill you. And not with magic—muggle style. You won't see it coming, and there will be no saving you."

Bullet through his skull sounds nice.

Ronald froze, his anger quickly giving way to fear as he met Draco's icy gaze. There was no doubt in his mind that he meant every word.

"This isn't over, Hermione," Ronald muttered, his voice trembling slightly as he backed away.

As he disappeared back through the Floo, Malfoy remained where he stood, his eyes still fixed on the spot where he had been. His expression was unyielding, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Finally, he turned to Hermione, his demeanor softening.

She took a shaky breath, her voice a mere whisper as she recounted Ron's anger and accusations. Each word is a fresh wound, reopening the ache in her heart. He listened intently, his jaw clenched with a barely contained fury.

"He... he didn't believe me. He thinks... he thinks it's all a game."- her voice barely a whisper.

A muscle twitches in his jaw. His hand tightens around hers, a silent vow of protection.

" You're safe with me. No one is ever going to hurt my wife," he said firmly. "No one. Not anymore."

The word "wife" hangs heavy in the air, a new reality settling around them. She looked into his eyes, seeking solace in their depths. He pulled her into a tight embrace, his arms a comforting haven. She buried her face in his shoulder, the conflicting emotions swirling within her.

She felt a shiver run down her spine at the intensity in his voice. She looked into Malfoy's eyes and saw the depth of his determination, a possessive fierceness that made her feel a mix of safety and unexpected dampness in her knickers. 

"Thank you, Draco," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "For everything."

He gave her hand one last kiss before pulling her into an embrace. "Always, darling. I'll always protect you."

As he held her close, he spoke softly into her ear, "I would like you to call me Draco if you feel comfortable with it. I love hearing my name from your gorgeous mouth."

She blushed, her heart racing at his words. "Alright, Draco ," she murmured, savoring the way his name felt on her lips. She had said his given name by accident a few times before, but in this moment, it felt deliberate, almost like a prayer.

His eyes softened as he held her, his hand gently stroking her back. "I love the sound of that," he admitted quietly, his voice filled with warmth.

And I love you, he felt it was the best thing that had ever left her swotty mouth, and he wanted to test what other delicious sounds she would make.

She tilted her head back to look at him, a small smile playing on her lips. " Draco ," she repeated softly, testing the name once more. It felt right, a word that held a newfound intimacy between them.

In that quiet moment, as they stood embraced in the dimly lit room, they both knew that their bond had deepened, strengthened by their shared trials and the growing affection they felt for each other.