Chapter 3

Malfoy was a man defined—down to the very marrow of his bones—by control. By discipline. By the clean, sharp lines of his routine and the absolute mastery he held over his own impulses, his own emotions, his own everything. He had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of restraint, of compartmentalizing his thoughts and feelings so that nothing ever spilled out where it shouldn't, so that no one ever saw what boiled beneath the surface. His life was neat, polished, curated to perfection. But Granger… Granger had marched into his life like a fucking wrecking ball in combat boots and lipstick, demolishing every carefully constructed wall he'd ever built with nothing but her voice, her defiance, her smirking mouth and maddening presence. She hadn't just gotten under his skin—she'd redecorated his mind, leaving her fingerprints on every inch of him, and it was driving him slowly, violently insane.

She was in his head from the second he opened his eyes in the morning to the moment he collapsed into bed at night, and even then—even then—she was there in the dark corners of his dreams, all soft curves and sharp teeth, haunting him with that impossible combination of innocence and provocation that made him wake up in a cold sweat, jaw clenched, pulse racing, desire and fury tangled into one messy, unmanageable knot in his chest.

He was so over this shit.

It didn't matter where he was or what he was doing—whether he was reading, writing, attempting to concentrate on some idiotic memo from the Ministry, or pretending to care about a meeting with one of the estate's advisors—she was there. Not physically, not always, but in the way his thoughts constantly circled back to her. Her voice, her laughter, the look on her face when she knew she'd gotten to him. That damned smirk. That dangerous glint in her eye. That strut she had perfected like she'd studied every way to dismantle his sanity and decided to execute it with surgical precision. The image of her walking through his Manor, completely and unapologetically naked, lingered in his mind like a curse. Like a brand seared into his memory. Every blink, every breath, brought it back—taunting him, mocking him, reminding him how utterly powerless he was in the face of her.

There wasn't a single thought in his head that didn't have Hermione Granger stamped across it in bright red ink.

He caught himself drifting in the middle of conversations, zoning out entirely during meetings as her voice echoed in his skull, as her image danced across his mind like a fever dream. He'd stare blankly at documents, at quills, at the stupid antique clock in his study, wondering—Was she in the garden again? Had she found a new sundress to torture him with? Was she laying in the sun, reading some infernal book, looking like temptation itself just to see how much more he could take before he snapped like a wand under pressure?

With a low growl of frustration, Draco shoved aside the pile of paperwork on his desk, the neat stacks scattering across the surface like his thoughts. His office—once a sanctuary of logic and order—had transformed into a cell, and she was the warden. He couldn't focus. He couldn't breathe without thinking of her. She had wormed her way into every part of his life with alarming ease, as if just being Hermione fucking Granger was enough to destabilize everything he'd spent years reinforcing.

He pushed back from his desk with such force the chair scraped loudly against the floor, the sound sharp and grating in the silence of the room. Pacing didn't help—he'd tried it a dozen times—but standing still felt like drowning, so he walked. Through the hallways, through the cavernous echo chambers of the Manor that now felt too small, too suffocating, like the walls themselves were whispering Granger in his ears.

She was an unsolvable puzzle, maddening in her contradictions. Too clever by half. Too bold. Too confident in her body, in her mind, in her ability to affect him. And she was right—that was the worst part. She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew every look, every smirk, every goddamn word was a carefully placed dagger between his ribs, and she delighted in twisting them, slowly, teasingly, until he wanted to scream.

He wasn't used to this—this lack of control, this helpless frustration, this overwhelming need to assert dominance, to take back power, to take her and remind her who she was playing with. But every time he thought he had her where he wanted her, she turned the tables with a flutter of her lashes or a single raised brow, and he was left standing in the wreckage of his self-control while she walked away without so much as a hair out of place.

And it was the memory of that morning that finally broke him—her, naked, unhurried, wandering through the Manor like it belonged to her, like he belonged to her. She hadn't just been unclothed. She had been weaponized. Radiant. Dangerous. Utterly self-possessed. She had looked him in the eye and dared him to do something, anything—and he'd frozen like a coward.

Because it wasn't just about her body, though that alone could have undone him.

It was the confidence. The power. The way she wielded her vulnerability like armor, like seduction and defiance rolled into one and dressed in absolutely nothing. It had unmade him in a single moment, and he hadn't recovered since.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, raking a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging hard enough to dislodge the perfect part he usually maintained. "I can't keep doing this."

But the words rang hollow, even to him.

Because he already was doing it. He was caught in her gravity, orbiting her like some doomed star, and no matter how hard he tried to wrench himself free, he kept spiraling back. It was madness. They were supposed to be civil. Cordial. Barely tolerant of each other, bound by law, not desire. They were supposed to coexist, not combust. And yet here he was—raging with emotion, consumed by her in every sense, needing her presence like air and cursing her absence like a wound that wouldn't heal.

He hated it. Hated the power she had over him. Hated the idea of her laughing somewhere just out of sight, knowing she had reduced him to this.

But worse than the hatred was the hunger.

The craving.

The desire that simmered just beneath his fury, dangerous and dark and rising like a tide he couldn't stop.

And that—more than anything—was what terrified him.

It wasn't just that Granger was insufferable, though she excelled at it with the grace of someone born to provoke—it wasn't merely her relentless capacity to undermine him, to twist his words into knots, to challenge him with every breath she took as if disagreement was a game she had long ago mastered and decided to play exclusively with him. It was deeper than annoyance, more consuming than simple frustration. The truth, the undeniable, maddening truth, was that he wanted her—desperately, ravenously, with a hunger that made his hands shake and his chest ache and his entire sense of self splinter into something he no longer recognized. And that realization—sharp as a blade and just as cruel—filled him with a fury that bordered on self-loathing. Because wanting her meant losing. And Draco Malfoy did not lose.

He had tried, tried so hard, to deny it—to box it up, shove it into some locked corner of his mind and pretend it didn't exist—but it was a useless endeavor. Every time she walked into a room, his body betrayed him; his pulse surged like he was caught in the middle of a duel, like he'd been hexed. Every time her lips curled into that wicked, knowing smile, his chest tightened with something raw and electric, something that felt like anticipation but carried the sharp sting of inevitability. And every time she said something sharp, something clever, something laced with innuendo—or worse, when she did nothing at all but walk past him with that maddening grace—he felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, teetering toward a fall he knew he wouldn't survive and still couldn't step back from.

She was a menace. A full-blown, world-ending, self-satisfied menace wrapped in wild curls and weaponized confidence, and somehow, impossibly, she had infiltrated every corner of his consciousness. She was there in the quiet, in the chaos, in the moments between breath and thought. He found himself scanning rooms for her, listening for the cadence of her voice, craving the infuriating spark of her attention even though he knew it always ended the same way—with him storming out, scowling, fists clenched, blood thrumming with something he refused to name.

"This is bloody ridiculous," he muttered under his breath, stopping abruptly in front of one of the tall, arched windows that overlooked the garden—her garden now, really, because she had claimed it with her presence, and now even the roses felt like an extension of her. His own reflection stared back at him in the glass, pale and taut and wearing a scowl that looked more like desperation than anger. He looked like a man unraveling. And in truth, he was.

What the hell is wrong with me? How had he let it get this far, let her get this far? He was Draco Malfoy, heir to a legacy of stoicism and power, a man raised on the gospel of control. But none of that mattered anymore, not when she looked at him like she saw past every carefully composed façade. Not when she laughed like she wasn't afraid of him. Not when she made him feel everything he had spent a lifetime trying not to feel.

He should have pulled back. Should have fortified the distance between them, erected new walls, doubled down on apathy. He should have reinforced the rules, reminded them both that this marriage wasn't real, wasn't anything more than a political arrangement wrapped in Ministry red tape. But the mere thought of not seeing her, of stripping her from his days like she was some indulgence he could afford to erase—it made his stomach twist in ways that felt far too much like grief.

"Damn her," he whispered, the words barely audible, his forehead leaning against the cool glass as if it might somehow numb the heat in his veins. He closed his eyes, but the darkness brought no relief—because she was there too, smiling behind his lids, taunting him with her ease, her brightness, her unbearable rightness. Her eyes, her voice, the soft curve of her mouth—all of it carved into him like a curse he couldn't lift.

It wasn't about peace. He didn't want her to leave him alone anymore. He didn't want her to stop. He didn't want her to back off and let him recover, because the truth was…

He wanted her.

Wholly. Fiercely. Shamelessly. In every conceivable way a man could want a woman—her body, her fire, her mind, her defiance, her laughter, her mouth—he wanted all of it. He wanted to consume her and be consumed in return, and that terrified him more than anything else ever had.

Because wanting her meant surrender. It meant vulnerability. It meant handing her the keys to every locked room inside himself and hoping she didn't set the whole place on fire. It meant risking everything.

And somehow—Merlin help him—he knew she already had.

He opened his eyes slowly, his breath shaky, the weight of the truth pressing down on his chest like a boulder. She had won. She had won. Not with spells or clever manipulation, but with existence. With her mere presence. With her refusal to be anything less than fully herself. He was utterly conquered.

With a heavy, resigned sigh, he pushed off the window and started moving again—not with the aimless fury that had driven his pacing before, but with grim determination. This wasn't about distraction anymore. This wasn't about avoidance or denial. He needed to see her. He had to see her. He needed to confront whatever the hell was happening between them before it destroyed what little composure he had left.

Whether it ended in an argument, in another round of verbal sparring, in silence or in something messier, something far more physical—he didn't know. But he couldn't run from it anymore.

Because she had taken root in him like a weed in the cracks of a marble floor, and no amount of scowling or pacing or lying to himself was going to change that.

She was there.

And he was never getting her out.

~~~

He had apparated into the house with every intention of fixing things, of smoothing over whatever fresh disaster had planted this ever-growing wedge between them, but the moment he landed in the foyer, he was met with the kind of silence that wasn't just absence of sound but presence of anger—thick, heavy, airless silence, the kind that makes every breath feel earned. The kitchen light was on, casting that soft amber glow she always said made the house feel less like a tomb and more like a home, but whatever warmth it lent to the room didn't extend to its only occupant. Hermione Granger—his wife in name and tormentor in practice—sat at the kitchen island, her back straight, her shoulders stiff, her spine a perfect line of tension. She wasn't reading or scribbling notes or checking the Prophet or even pretending to work. No, she was silently destroying a bar of chocolate with the kind of vengeance usually reserved for Death Eaters and idiotic Ministry officials. And not just any chocolate, but the dark, bitter kind she only touched when she was seconds away from losing her temper in catastrophic fashion.

Draco swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the stems of the roses, the cellophane crinkling like thunder in the stillness as he took a cautious step forward, every instinct in him screaming to proceed with caution. This wasn't the time for wit, and it definitely wasn't the time for ego, but he tried anyway—because humor was his armor, and he didn't know how to walk into the line of fire without it.

"Good evening, princess," he said softly, voice lowered to a purr of false ease, laced with the kind of teasing he usually used to coax a reluctant smirk from her lips. But there was nothing—no reaction, no flicker, not even a flinch. Just the sound of her breathing and the sharp snap of chocolate breaking under pressure. She didn't turn. Didn't move. Her shoulders only tightened further, and when she finally spoke, her voice was flat and cold, a blade slipped beneath the ribs. "Do. Not. Talk. To. Me."

He froze, the blood in his veins turning to ice at her tone, at the brittle edge in her voice that told him this wasn't a small thing, wasn't something a clever comment and a kiss on the cheek could fix. Shit. He racked his brain in a panic, heart thudding against his ribs as he tried to reverse-engineer her anger, scanning every interaction from the past few days—had he said something flippant? Had he missed something important? Had he forgotten a date or crossed some unspoken boundary?

"What have I done?" he asked carefully, inching forward, his voice quiet now, uncertain, almost afraid of the answer. She still didn't look at him. Didn't move. She just snapped off another square of chocolate and shoved it in her mouth with all the grace of a woman trying not to start screaming.

Her answer came without hesitation, and it hit him like a curse cast straight to the chest. "Existing."

The word was small. Simple. But the weight behind it crushed him.

He stared, stunned, mouth slightly parted, watching her like she was a stranger wearing Hermione's skin. His hands—those same hands that had held her, touched her, worshipped her when she let him—were now trembling, the roses drooping as if they understood they were no longer welcome. For the first time in a long time, he felt like a child—unwanted, confused, standing on the wrong side of a locked door.

He exhaled shakily, setting the roses down on the counter with a quiet thud, the gesture more defeat than offering. "Gods, please, Granger," he tried again, his voice thickening with something dangerously close to panic, because she still wouldn't look at him. "Please—just tell me what I did. I want to fix it. Whatever it is, I'm sorry. I'll grovel. I'll do whatever the hell it takes. Just—" his voice cracked, and he cursed himself for the sound of it, for how close it was to breaking. "Just talk to me. Please."

She finally glanced up at him, only for the briefest second, but the look in her eyes nearly undid him. Anger, yes, but also something else—hurt, betrayal, maybe even disappointment. He didn't know which one was worse. "Just let me be," she said flatly, her voice hollow, and with that, she stood, every movement sharp and elegant, hopping off the stool and beginning to walk away like the conversation—and he—meant absolutely nothing.

But he wasn't going to let it go. Not this time. Not when everything between them felt like it was fraying at the edges. He didn't know what he'd done, didn't know what he was walking into, but he knew that if she walked out of that room now, something inside him would crack wide open. He couldn't bear the distance anymore—not the physical space, not the emotional chasm that had been widening with each unresolved argument and every silent night in bed facing opposite directions.

"Wait," he said, stepping forward again, desperation bleeding into every line of his posture, his voice no longer soft, but pleading, raw. "Please, Hermione. Just—don't walk away from me."

And in his mind, one thought circled, relentless, cold: Had she already started to let him go?

Because if she had—if this was what it looked like when she gave up—then he didn't care how many flowers it took, how many apologies he had to choke out. He would beg. He would grovel. He would fall to his knees if she asked him to.

Because losing her?

That wasn't something he could survive.

With a muttered curse that barely escaped through gritted teeth, he moved after her, his footsteps quickening with every second that passed, the echo of them loud against the Manor's pristine floors, each step an attempt to keep pace with her as she stalked away like she was trying to outrun the entire conversation. She was already nearly out of the kitchen, her back rigid, her curls bouncing angrily as she stormed toward the living room, and he knew—knew deep in his gut—that if she walked out without saying anything, without looking back, it would feel like she was walking out of more than just the room. So he followed, because he had to. Because the idea of letting her slip away into another corner of the house—into another silence he didn't know how to fix—was unbearable.

"Look, princess," he said, his voice dropping into that quieter register he only ever used with her, still edged with the raw frustration that had been coiling tighter and tighter in his chest all evening, but gentler now—pleading, in a way that was barely concealed beneath the sarcasm he used as armor. "I brought flowers for our… fucked-up anniversary." He winced slightly as the words left his mouth, the honesty of it landing with a dull thud in the air between them, but there was no sense pretending it was anything else. Their marriage wasn't hearts and petals and candlelit dinners—it was tension and sarcasm and explosive chemistry and too many words left unsaid—but he had remembered, and he had tried, and that had to count for something. "Tell me what you want, love, and I'll give it to you. Anything. Just tell me what the hell to do."

She paused then—just for a second—and for the briefest, breath-stealing moment, hope flickered in his chest. Her hand came to rest on the doorframe leading into the hallway, fingers curling around the wood like she was bracing herself, and he swore the air between them shifted, like maybe—just maybe—she was going to turn around, throw something at him, yell at him, anything that would break the silence and let him in. But then she sighed, a soft, tired sound that felt more like resignation than anger, and shook her head without looking back.

"I want you to leave me alone."

The words didn't land like a punch; they landed like a blade sliding slow and deep between his ribs, quiet and final, the kind of pain that burned slow rather than quick. He stopped moving, his breath catching in his throat as he watched her walk away again, her silhouette swallowed by the long shadows of the corridor, her steps steady and determined like she was walking into battle—or out of one.

Leave her alone?

That's what she wanted? After everything, she wanted him to just give up, to stop trying, to let her disappear into the quiet like she hadn't just gutted him with four words?

No.

Absolutely not.

Not when he knew she was hurting, not when he could feel the weight of something simmering beneath her sharpness, something heavier than anger. Not when he knew her well enough to understand that when she pushed people away, it usually meant she needed them closer. And especially not when it was him she was pushing—because whether she wanted to admit it or not, whether he wanted to admit it or not, they were in this together. Bound by law, maybe, but kept by something infinitely more dangerous.

With another low curse, he ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging through the strands in pure exasperation before he moved again, quieter now, but no less determined. His bare feet made little sound as he followed her, his steps fueled by something between panic and stubbornness, every inch of him screaming that this wasn't over—not by a long shot.

"Princess," he called after her again, softer this time, the word fraying at the edges with something that sounded suspiciously like vulnerability as he stepped into their shared bedroom. She was already there, standing beside the bed, yanking back the covers with sharp, efficient movements, her posture all sharp angles and silent fury. She didn't look at him. Didn't acknowledge him. But her silence was louder than any scream.

"Princess, please," he tried again, stepping closer, the desperation creeping back into his voice despite his best efforts. "I don't know what I've done to make you this upset, and I know I'm an insufferable arse, but I can't fix something you won't even tell me about. I—"

And then she turned, suddenly, and stormed past him, her bare feet thudding hard against the floor as she marched straight to the en-suite, but not before shouting over her shoulder with the kind of explosive, soul-shattering force that rendered him speechless for the first time in years:

"I HAVE MY PERIOD. LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!"

For one long, stunned moment, he just stood there in the center of their bedroom, utterly, completely gobsmacked. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, but no sound came out. He blinked. Twice. Her period? That's what this was about? Not something he'd done or forgotten or accidentally ruined—but that? He felt like someone had smacked him upside the head with a stack of potion books.

And he didn't know whether to laugh or run.

There were few things Draco Malfoy feared in this world. He had faced war, bloodshed, interrogation, and betrayal. He'd stared down Aurors and stood in front of Wizengamot panels and dealt with the shame of his family name. But this? A furious Hermione Granger on her period?

Merlin help him.

Because no amount of roses or apologies or carefully chosen words was going to help him now.

He blinked a few times, long and slow, his eyes wide and stunned as the weight of her last words finally settled in, knocking the breath clean out of his chest with a silent, invisible punch. He let out a sharp exhale, one he hadn't even realized he'd been holding in, and then—without dignity, without grace, without the usual composure that made him Draco Bloody Malfoy—he bolted. Panic gripped him like a fist as he spun on his heel and took off down the hallway at full speed, his bare feet thudding against the polished marble floors, the sleeves of his expensive button-down shirt flapping wildly with each desperate stride. He had no plan, no grand strategy, no Slytherin-worthy scheme to save face. All he knew was that he was out of his depth and absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for the hormonal minefield that was a furious Hermione Granger on her period.

He skidded into the kitchen like a man fleeing a battlefield, his heart thudding and his breath coming quick as his eyes darted around in search of salvation. "Elf—uh—Nelli!" he called, voice a pitch higher than normal, grateful when the small house-elf appeared with a soft pop, blinking up at him with her enormous eyes full of curiosity and—Merlin help him—kindness. He needed kindness right now. He needed a goddamn miracle.

"Yes, Master Draco?" Nelli chirped sweetly, her tiny hands folded over her apron as she tilted her head, immediately noticing the pale, frantic look in his eyes, the way he kept running a hand through his already-mussed hair like it might give him answers. "What can Nelli do for you?"

"I—uh—fuck," he muttered under his breath, suddenly very aware of how ridiculous he looked. He tried again, squaring his shoulders and grasping for some semblance of calm. "Hermione—Mrs. Malfoy, I mean—she's… she's, um, she's bleeding." He paused. Winced. "I mean, she's on her—you know—that time of the month, and I—shit, this is awkward—I don't know what to do."

The admission fell from his lips in one long, breathless tumble, and his cheeks flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with exertion. Draco Malfoy did not get flustered. He did not blush. And yet, here he was—burning red and sweating through the collar of his shirt—because he didn't know how to help his own bloody wife through something as ordinary and routine as a period.

But Nelli, bless her, didn't so much as blink at the awkwardness. If anything, her ears perked up with understanding and her eyes sparkled with fond amusement. "Oh, that," she said kindly, giving him a reassuring nod. "Master need not worry. Nelli will take care of Mrs. Malfoy. Does she need her usual blend of ginger-honey tea? Or perhaps the calming peppermint kind she likes when her tummy hurts? And I can bring extra blankets and her fuzzy socks—the purple ones with the little stars—she always asks for those."

He stared at the elf, completely floored by how calm and competent she sounded. "You… you know what to do?" he asked, his voice full of awe and more than a hint of desperation. "You've done this before?"

Nelli's smile widened like he'd just asked her the most obvious question in the world. "Oh yes, Master. Mrs. Malfoy is very particular during her moon cycle, but Nelli knows just how to care for her. Tea, warmth, quiet, and chocolate. Always chocolate. Maybe a soothing potion if the cramps are bad. And Master," she added gently, "should speak to her softly and leave her be for a little while, yes? Let her rest and feel better."

Draco nodded, dazed, as if she'd just laid out the map to a secret treasure. Chocolate. Tea. Blankets. Potions. Socks. Soft voice. Right. Yes. That all made sense. It sounded doable. Achievable. Hell, he could even thrive under a to-do list. "Right. Yes. Okay. I'll get the chocolate. Do the tea and the rest—please. Quickly."

And with that, he pivoted and made a beeline for the pantry, throwing the door open and practically diving into the shelves like a man possessed. He knew Hermione kept her stash somewhere back here—dark chocolate, honey fudge, that ridiculous imported cocoa she claimed made her feel "like a person again." His hands fumbled through tins and boxes until he finally struck gold: two thick bars of her favorite dark chocolate and a tin of her emergency fudge wrapped in pink ribbon. He clutched them like precious jewels, exhaling slowly as the panic began to fade—just a little.

Standing there, surrounded by jars of spices and dry goods, he took one final breath, trying to mentally prepare himself for what came next. He was a man who had walked into courtrooms and faced life-altering accusations. He had stood in front of his father and lied to his face. He had faced down Aurors, rival Death Eaters, and the crushing weight of a legacy he never asked for.

But this?

This was the battlefield now.

Hermione. Blankets. Tea. And thirty-one roses sitting quietly on the counter, waiting for her to notice.

And if he survived the night without crying or getting hexed, he was counting it as a victory.

An hour later—after what felt like years of pacing, planning, and second-guessing every single decision he'd made since setting foot in the house—Draco found himself standing in front of her bedroom door, his heart inexplicably thudding a little too hard in his chest, a strange, unfamiliar nervousness twisting in his stomach like he was about to walk into a duel he hadn't trained for. The roses he'd brought earlier still sat on the kitchen counter, forgotten casualties in the scramble to gather everything he hoped would make her feel even the tiniest bit better. They had seemed like such a good idea at the time—romantic, symbolic, dramatic in all the right ways—but now? Now he was armed with things that felt more tangible, more human. Things she might actually need.

In his hands, he balanced a carefully arranged tray with the kind of focus normally reserved for potion-making: a steaming cup of her favorite tea, the scent of ginger and honey curling into the air like a peace offering in vapor form; a folded, luxurious cashmere blanket draped over one arm, soft enough to melt even her frostiest glares; a neatly stacked pile of dark chocolate and honey fudge resting beside the tea; and, tucked snugly into his pocket like a secret weapon, a small vial of pain-relief potion that he'd triple-checked with Nelli to make sure was the exact kind Hermione preferred.

He knocked—gently this time, cautiously, like the door itself might bite him if he startled it. The tension that had briefly eased while he was organizing the tray instantly returned, coiling tight between his shoulder blades as he waited, every second of silence louder than the last.

Then came the reply—a muffled, groggy voice from the other side, strained and unmistakably irritated. "Go away."

Draco sighed, quietly resting his forehead against the cool wood for a brief, grounding moment before speaking again. "I'm not leaving, Hermione," he said gently, choosing his words carefully, forcing the usual sharpness out of his voice. "I brought… reinforcements." When no reply came, he took another breath, then slowly tested the handle, half-expecting it to be locked and hexed. It wasn't. It clicked open with an eerie sort of permission, and that was enough for him to ease the door open and step inside like a man braving a storm.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting golden shadows across the walls. The air smelled faintly of lavender and parchment, and the quiet was thick. Hermione was curled up on the bed, a solitary, blanket-swaddled shape in the middle of the oversized mattress. Her hair—normally wild in a way he privately found enchanting—was a frizzy, chaotic halo around her head. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a grim line, and the moment he saw her, something inside his chest shifted—tightened—a strange, automatic protectiveness stirring in him like a reflex he didn't know he had.

"What… what are you doing?" she croaked weakly, barely lifting her head, eyes narrowing at him as he crossed the room slowly, trying not to startle her.

He set the tray down gently on the bedside table, his movements deliberate and quiet, then offered her a tentative smile that he wasn't sure reached his eyes. "I brought you tea. And chocolate. And a blanket, because Nelli said you always get cold." He hesitated, then reached into his pocket, pulling out the small vial and holding it up like a peace treaty. "And this. For the cramps. Apparently, it's your favorite one."

Hermione blinked at him from where she lay, her eyes moving from the tea to the chocolate to the blanket to the potion and finally to his face. She looked like she couldn't quite process what was happening, like her brain was trying to catch up with her body, which had already decided to stop being furious for just a moment.

"You did all that?" she asked slowly, her voice quieter now, the earlier venom gone, replaced by something that sounded almost like wonder.

Draco scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, avoiding her gaze. "I didn't know what else to do," he admitted, his voice unusually raw. "You scared the hell out of me earlier. And I just… I didn't want to do nothing. I wanted to help."

Her expression softened at that, ever so slightly, the edges of her frown beginning to melt. She reached for the tea, her fingers brushing against his as she lifted the cup, and that small, brief contact was enough to make something shift inside him again—something he didn't have a name for. "Thank you," she said, her tone so quiet he barely heard it, but it hit him harder than any insult ever had.

He watched her as she took a slow, careful sip, and there it was—the smallest sign of relief spreading across her face as the warmth seeped into her, her shoulders beginning to loosen, her breath coming just a little easier. The tension he hadn't realized he was holding in his chest loosened with her, and he let out a breath that felt like a victory.

"Please take the potion too, love," he said softly, reaching again for the vial. His voice was low, thick with concern, the kind he'd never said out loud until now. "You'll feel better faster, I promise."

Hermione shifted beneath the layers of blankets, her eyes fluttering closed as she mumbled, "Can't reach it," her hand barely moving from where it was tucked under her cheek.

His lips twitched despite himself. She was the brightest witch of their age, a woman who could cast three spells at once while reciting the ingredients of a potion from memory—and yet, in this moment, she was a sleepy, irritable puddle of blankets who couldn't be bothered to lift her arm. Stubborn, impossible, beautiful witch.

"Here, baby," he murmured, leaning over and brushing a few curls from her forehead with surprising tenderness. He held the potion up to her lips, his other hand steady beneath her chin. "Drink it, please."

She sighed again, too exhausted to argue, and tilted her head back slightly, letting him tip the vial gently. She swallowed, grimaced slightly at the taste, then sank back into the pillows like she was made of nothing but air and fatigue.

He watched her carefully, waiting for the flicker of ease to return to her face, and when it did—when her brow unknotted, and her mouth softened, and she let out a tiny breath of something resembling comfort—he smiled.

"Good girl," he whispered, brushing a thumb over her hair before pulling his hand back, unsure if he was allowed to linger longer.

Hermione huffed quietly, eyes opening just enough to glare at him with half-hearted exasperation. "You don't have to be nice to me, Malfoy," she mumbled, her voice still hoarse, still worn, but softer now. "I'm not in the mood for your charm."

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, as he sat on the edge of the bed, his silver eyes twinkling with fond amusement. "I'm not charming you," he said with a mock-serious tone, tilting his head. "I'm just trying to prevent you from cursing me in my sleep."

Hermione didn't answer right away, but her lips twitched, just faintly, as she tucked the blanket tighter around her body.

And Draco Malfoy, who had once believed that control was everything, found himself sitting beside his wife with tea, chocolate, and a single whispered "good girl," realizing there were softer kinds of victories—and this one felt like the kind he didn't want to stop earning.

Draco leaned back slightly, shifting his weight until he was propped up more comfortably on one elbow beside her on the bed, the blankets rustling softly beneath him, his silver eyes fixed on her with something unusually gentle lurking behind their usual sharp gleam. "What else will help make you comfy?" he asked, his voice dropping into a tone that was quieter, more sincere than she was used to—genuine, almost hesitant, as if he were still testing the waters of what it meant to care for her out loud and without armor.

Hermione hesitated, the question hanging in the air between them like a fragile thread. She bit her bottom lip, her eyes flicking away from his as she considered it, clearly warring with herself about whether she should even bother mentioning what was on her mind. Finally, she mumbled, "I have movies… somewhere," her voice small, uncertain, and her gaze slid over to the cluttered corner of the room where a compact DVD player rested awkwardly on a narrow shelf, half-buried beneath books and the stray tangle of cords she hadn't quite gotten around to organizing.

Draco blinked once, then again, confusion flickering across his face as if she'd just spoken in Parseltongue. "Movies?" he repeated, drawing the word out slowly, cautiously, like it might bite him.

Hermione gave a tired little nod, the smallest flicker of amusement softening the corners of her mouth as she began to explain. "They're Muggle moving pictures. Stories on discs that you put into a little machine. They're usually about an hour and a half long. You just watch, and they tell you a story. No spells, no books, just… watching. It helps pass the time when you feel like crap." Her voice was quiet but steady, like she wasn't sure why she was bothering to explain but also couldn't stop herself. She didn't expect him to understand, didn't even expect him to care, but she told him anyway.

His brow furrowed, his confusion only deepening. "Okay… so which one do you like?" he asked, his tone cautious but open, and she could see him trying—really trying—to keep up.

But before she could answer, before she could even remember which of her comfort films was closest to reach, her face twisted slightly in a grimace and she shook her head. "It doesn't matter," she muttered, voice tinged with frustration. "My DVD player isn't working right now. The batteries are dead. So I can't watch anything."

Draco stared at her like she'd just told him the moon had fallen out of the sky. "Batteries?" he echoed slowly, clearly trying to connect the dots between her emotional distress and this foreign object that sounded like it belonged in a broomstick manual but wasn't magical at all. Whatever batteries were, they had rendered his wife's favorite source of comfort completely useless, and that, apparently, was unacceptable. He didn't know what the hell a DVD player actually did, and he sure as shit didn't understand how something powered by little Muggle sticks could replace a book or a spell, but the moment she said she couldn't use it, something stubborn sparked to life in his chest.

"That's alright," he said quickly, perhaps too quickly, confidence swelling in his voice despite the fact that he had no idea what he was agreeing to. "I can fix it. I can make you feel better."

Hermione blinked up at him, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement, her brows drawing together as she studied his face. "You don't have to do that, Draco," she said gently, like she was trying to let him off the hook. "It's fine. Really."

But Draco Malfoy had never in his life taken well to the words you don't have to. He straightened up with renewed determination, his spine rigid with purpose, his tone sharpened with resolve. 

"No," he said, pointing vaguely toward the shelf as if it had just insulted her. "I will go to that Muggle store—the one with all the odd things—what's it called? Oh, right. The market." His mouth twisted slightly around the word like it tasted strange. "I'll buy batteries for your DVD player.?"

Hermione stared at him, mouth slightly open, like she wasn't entirely sure if he was being serious—but she could see it in his eyes, the stubborn fire that said he absolutely was. He was going to battle for her over batteries. He didn't understand how or why this mattered, but it mattered to her, and that was enough.

Before she could say anything—before she could remind him he didn't even know what size or brand or type of batteries to buy—he stood abruptly, nearly knocking over the tray of chocolate in the process, already halfway to the door with a sense of righteous mission.

"Just wait here," he said over his shoulder, his voice firm, commanding, laced with a hint of melodramatic urgency as though he were embarking on a high-risk reconnaissance mission. "I'll be back before you know it."

And with that, he turned on the spot and vanished—a loud crack echoing through the bedroom as he apparated without a second thought, straight into the confusing, chaotic heart of London and, presumably, his very first encounter with a Muggle corner store.

Hermione blinked at the empty space he left behind.

Then, slowly, her mouth curled into a smile she couldn't suppress if she tried. "Merlin help the cashier," she whispered to no one, and reached for another square of chocolate as she waited for the inevitable disaster—and his triumphant return.

~~~

His entrance into the bustling streets of London was, predictably, an immediate and unrelenting nightmare. The moment he apparated onto the chilly, wet sidewalk near a row of glowing shops, a sharp gust of wind slapped him in the face like a personal insult, reminding him—rather rudely—that he had left without a coat, a plan, or any functioning knowledge of how Muggles navigated their bizarre little world. He shivered, glaring at the streetlamp as if it were personally to blame, and tried to look inconspicuous, which was difficult considering he was still wearing bespoke trousers and wizarding boots that definitely weren't meant for urban pavement.

He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders back, and muttered under his breath, "I am Draco Malfoy. I've survived the Dark Lord, public disgrace, and Granger naked in my hallway. I can survive a Muggle errand." Then, squinting at the glowing storefronts, he spotted a large sign glowing in garish neon letters that read "Supermarket" in bold, confident font. This, he decided, had to be the place. Where else would Muggles gather their obscure, battery-powered nonsense?

He strode toward it with a confidence he absolutely did not feel and stepped inside—only to be assaulted by a wall of stimuli so aggressive it nearly knocked him back through the automatic doors. The overhead music blared with an upbeat tempo that made no sense, a tinny pop tune about "booty" or possibly "groceries"—he couldn't be sure—while carts squealed across the tile, children screamed in one aisle, and a teenager with purple hair was shouting something into a tiny box held against their face.

He stood in the entrance like a man frozen in time, blinking under the fluorescent lights, already regretting every decision that had led him to this hellscape.

But he pressed forward—cautiously—trying to walk with purpose as he passed rows of strange food items with names like "Cheese Strings" and "Pop-Tarts," none of which looked remotely edible. He turned down one aisle, then another, becoming increasingly lost in the labyrinth of cereal boxes and discount soap. At one point, he found himself staring at an enormous rack of oddly shaped cushions labeled toilet seats and wondered for a moment if this was where dignity came to die.

Finally, after nearly colliding with a pyramid of plastic milk jugs, he found what looked like a section labeled "Batteries." He squinted. Yes. Success.

Until, of course, he realized the nightmare was just beginning.

There were dozens of them—rows upon rows of tiny metallic packets labeled with cryptic combinations of letters and numbers: AA, AAA, C, D, 9V, and one that looked like it powered a Ministry surveillance orb. He picked up one that read CR2032 and held it up to the light like it might reveal some secret prophecy. "What the bloody hell are you for?" he muttered, flipping it over like it might start talking. "A time-turner? A damn wand charger?"

Growing increasingly flustered, he grabbed a few more—one in each hand, trying to guess what sort of logic Granger might have used when choosing hers. Why did Muggles make this so difficult? Why wasn't there just a standard one? Or a bloody label that said For DVD Players, you idiot.

At that exact moment, a kindly-looking middle-aged woman with reading glasses and a basket full of soup tins rounded the corner, pausing when she saw him standing there, aristocratically baffled and holding six packs of batteries like he'd summoned them with a spell and didn't know what to do next.

Swallowing his pride like a stone, Draco reached out with the faintest sigh and tapped a woman on the shoulder—one who looked just Muggle enough to know her way around whatever barbaric power source this DVD contraption required. "Excuse me," he said smoothly, each syllable dipped in the kind of aristocratic refinement that usually made people shut up and listen. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for batteries. For a, ah… DVD player?"

She turned, eyes going wide the moment she heard his voice—and then wider when she saw the rest of him. Her gaze didn't just flick over him; it lingered, like she was mentally undressing him right there between the snack aisle and the cold medicine. She practically purred. "Oh, don't worry, love. You can bother me anytime," she said, lips curling into what might've once been a seductive smile but now looked more like a cat sizing up its prey. "Here, you'll want these." She plucked a pack of AA batteries from the rack and held them out with a wink, her fingers grazing his in a way that felt far too familiar for someone he'd just met.

Draco stared at her. Then blinked. Slowly. His mouth curled into something that was not quite a smile—more a sneer dressed up in politeness. "Thank you," he said flatly, taking the batteries with the same expression he reserved for touching something sticky. "I appreciate your assistance. Truly. It's not every day one meets a woman whose perfume is louder than the shop's sound system."

Her expression faltered slightly, but she recovered with another flirtatious giggle. "Well, you know… you've got that posh look, like you don't do this sort of thing often. You need a hand figuring out anything else, gorgeous?"

Draco gave her a look so dry it could've dehydrated a cactus. "Tempting. But unfortunately, I've already met my daily quota for unsolicited advances and poorly blended foundation."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"No, no, I'm sure it's charming under the right fluorescent lighting," he said with mock sincerity, his voice velvet over ice. "But I'm rather taken, I'm afraid. My wife—gorgeous, brilliant, utterly terrifying when provoked—would kill me if I so much as accepted flirtation from someone whose lip liner is currently making a break for her chin."

Her jaw dropped a little, and he gave her a tight, insincere smile. "But truly, thank you for your help. I'm sure someone out there appreciates your… persistence. Probably a man with less taste and lower standards. Best of luck finding him."

With that, he turned on his heel with the elegance of someone born to command a ballroom, not a fluorescent-lit aisle of cheap toiletries and discount snacks, and stalked off toward the register. The moment he was out of earshot, he muttered, "Sweet Circe, she flirted like she was auditioning for a Muggle dating show. I've fought Dementors with better social cues."

As he handed the cashier his money and snatched up the plastic bag like it had personally insulted his lineage, he added under his breath, "Hermione better marry me all over again when I get back, because this—this was battlefield courage."

And with that, he vanished into the London night with a crack, the batteries in hand and his patience worn paper thin.

~~~

By the time he finally apparated back to the manor, the familiar crunch of gravel beneath his boots grounding him in a world that at least made some sense, Draco felt a strange and not entirely unpleasant mix of bone-deep relief, simmering pride, and the distinct aftertaste of victorious exhaustion—like he had just returned from a successful diplomatic mission to a foreign land where the natives communicated through indecipherable symbols and sold poison disguised as snacks. His hair was windblown, his boots slightly damp, his nerves frazzled from fluorescent lighting and unwanted flirtation, but in his hand he held a triumph in blister-pack plastic: a set of AA batteries, the key to his wife's happiness—or at the very least, to restoring her ability to watch those strange Muggle moving pictures she adored when in the grips of hormonal misery. He had survived the harsh terrain of London, braved the perils of a Muggle supermarket, endured unsolicited advances from a woman who smelled like bubblegum vodka and broken dreams, and now he returned, not empty-handed like some defeated husband, but armed with reinforcements.

He made his way to her bedroom, his steps slower now, quieter, almost reverent as he approached the door, the weight of the moment settling around him like a warm cloak. He lifted his hand and knocked softly—no dramatic flair this time, just a gentle, cautious tap, as if knocking too loudly might shatter the fragile peace he was attempting to restore

Inside, the room was dimly lit with that same golden glow from earlier, casting soft shadows across the blankets where she still lay curled up, a cocoon of warmth and frustration. Her head turned toward the door, her eyes fluttering open as he stepped inside, and for a moment, all he could do was look at her—messy-haired, pale-cheeked, still swaddled in the fortress of her blankets, but undeniably beautiful in that raw, vulnerable way that made his chest ache with something dangerously close to devotion.

Her gaze drifted to his hand, and upon seeing the prize he carried, a single brow lifted in surprised amusement. "You actually did it?" she asked, voice dry but tinged with curiosity, and—dare he hope—a hint of admiration.

He lifted the batteries with a self-satisfied smirk that bordered on theatrical. "Of course I did," he replied, a touch smug as he walked toward her. "I told you I'd make it better, didn't I? I said I'd fix it. And I did. Because unlike some people, I don't give up just because something runs on—what did you call it?—Muggle electricity and spite."

He dropped to a crouch beside the shelf that held the little DVD machine, staring at it as if it might open itself out of sheer respect for his effort. It didn't. Instead, it blinked a red light at him, unimpressed.

From the bed, Hermione propped herself up on one elbow, watching him with a lazy, knowing smirk as she sipped the last of her tea. "You don't know how it works, do you?"

He glanced back at her, his glare immediate and defensive. "I can figure it out," he grumbled, though the way he held the remote upside down betrayed just how much of a lie that really was. He poked at a few buttons—volume, eject, something labeled source that changed the screen to no signal—before finally flipping the device over like a Neanderthal discovering fire. At last, after a solid thirty seconds of silently panicking and pretending he wasn't, he located the battery compartment on the back of the remote. He slid it open with a muttered, "Finally," shoved the new batteries in with triumph bordering on vengeance, and clicked the power button.

The screen flickered. The menu appeared. The device whirred to life.

He rose to his full height like a victorious general, dusting his hands on his trousers. "There. Fixed," he announced, clearly waiting for applause, or perhaps a medal. "Turns out I'm a natural."

Hermione grinned, wide and genuine this time, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well done, Malfoy. You're practically a Muggle now."

He wrinkled his nose, a shudder of offense rippling through him. "Absolutely not," he declared, handing her the remote like it was a cursed artifact. "I did not go through a fluorescent-lit gauntlet of uncultured chaos and cheap perfume just to be compared to a Muggle. I did it for you. Let the record show."

Draco stood in the doorway, his posture stiff but unmistakably guilty, as if the weight of some great cosmic crime had been hanging off his shoulders since he'd returned from his harrowing Muggle expedition. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, jaw set, eyes darting anywhere but Hermione's face, which was currently buried under several layers of blankets. He cleared his throat once, then again, louder this time, until finally she shifted, peeking out from beneath her cashmere cocoon with one unimpressed eye.

"I need to confess something," he blurted, hands dropping to his sides in a dramatic gesture that suggested the kind of emotional agony typically reserved for murder trials or the cancellation of Quidditch finals. His voice was tight, urgent, like the words had been bubbling up inside of him and were now spilling out faster than he could wrangle them.

Hermione blinked slowly, clearly unimpressed. "Oh Lord, what is it?" she muttered, already sounding exhausted, not from whatever this confession might be but from the sheer theatrics of it all. She tucked the blanket up to her chin as if bracing herself for impact.

Draco exhaled sharply and began pacing at the foot of the bed like a man preparing for his own execution. "There was a woman," he started, his tone ominous and heavy with dread. "A horrific woman. Absolutely vile. She flirted with me. In the store. Boldly. Shamelessly. I was holding batteries and she looked at me like I was the bloody cover model for a Muggle cologne ad."

Hermione snorted quietly, which only made him talk faster.

"But I assure you," he continued, throwing a hand dramatically over his heart, "I didn't reciprocate her advances. Not even a flicker. I was polite—too polite, probably—but I assure you, there was no smiling, no banter, no wandering eyes, no casual eyebrow raises. I was like a statue. An extremely handsome, emotionally unavailable statue."

Hermione rolled over onto her side to face him properly now, resting her cheek against her pillow as she stared at him with a mixture of amusement and confusion. "Malfoy…" she said slowly, voice dry and laced with irony, "You know that you are handsome, right?"

Draco faltered mid-step, caught off guard. He blinked at her. "Well… thank you," he said after a moment, clearly uncertain if this was a trap. He lifted his chin slightly, his voice going softer, almost sincere. "That's… actually really nice to hear."

She arched one brow at him, not missing a beat. "That wasn't a compliment," she deadpanned, the corners of her mouth twitching with wicked amusement. "It's a fact, Malfoy. An unfortunate, statistically verified truth. I'm sure her knickers were soaked the moment she saw someone that looked like you holding batteries like a confused Regency prince in a Muggle wasteland."

Draco recoiled as if she'd hit him with a Stinging Hex, one hand flying to his chest. "Granger!" he gasped, scandalized.

"What?" she said, voice as innocent as sin, sipping from her tea with maddening calm. "You walk into a shop with cheekbones like those and the tragic pout of a misunderstood villain in a paperback romance—of course she flirted. I'm surprised she didn't ask you to rearrange the produce aisle shirtless."

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You're enjoying this."

"Deeply," she said sweetly. "Did you tell her you were married?"

"Yes!" he snapped, pacing again. "I told her, quite pointedly, that my wife was more gorgeous than she would ever be, that her perfume was an assault on my senses, and that her lip liner had declared war on her face."

Hermione choked on a laugh, sitting up straighter. "You did not."

"I did. I was offended," he said, wounded pride clinging to every syllable. "As if I, Draco Malfoy, would be tempted by a woman who thinks fake tan is a personality trait. As if I'd ever even look at anyone else."

She smiled, soft and crooked, her eyes now warm where before there had only been teasing. "Well," she murmured, "I appreciate the loyalty. Even if your delivery sounds like a monologue from a tragic soap opera."

With a huff and a smirk that betrayed far more affection than he was willing to admit aloud, he climbed into the bed beside her and muttered, "Next time I go to a Muggle store, I'm wearing a sign that says Taken and Traumatized."

She leaned her head against his shoulder and grinned. "Don't worry. They'll smell the trauma a mile away."

She took the remote with a smirk, clearly not moved by his dramatics. "Alright then, hero," she said, voice softening just slightly. "Which movie do you want to watch?"

He blinked at her. "I thought you were choosing."

She hesitated, her expression shifting just a bit, something softer settling in behind her eyes. "Something comforting," she murmured, more to herself than to him, and as she clicked through the options, eventually selecting a film that involved far too much singing and not nearly enough plot, Draco climbed onto the bed beside her with none of his usual hesitation. He sat close, but not too close—just enough that their shoulders brushed, just enough that he could feel her warmth beneath the blankets and hear the quiet exhale of her breath as the opening scene played.

And as the film unfolded on the screen, with its absurd music and its even more absurd plot, Draco found that he didn't mind it nearly as much as he thought he would. Because beside him, Hermione was settling into the pillows, her head tipping slightly toward him, the tension in her shoulders slowly melting away. Her breathing slowed. Her hand brushed his once, unintentionally. And he let it stay there.

He didn't understand the appeal of Muggle movies, not really. He didn't care about the characters or the dialogue or why everyone seemed to burst into song for no reason. But watching her face soften, her brow unfurrow, her lips twitch at a joke—that, he understood. That, he cared about.

And in that quiet, flickering moment, the ridiculous batteries buzzing dutifully in their compartment and Hermione's head slowly drifting to lean against his shoulder, Draco Malfoy realized something with a clarity that caught him off guard.

He had done something right.

And for once, that was enough.

Draco sat perched stiffly on the edge of the bed, shoulders slightly hunched as if unsure how to relax in such an unfamiliar domestic setting, his gaze fixed—half with confusion, half with reluctant fascination—on the glowing television screen across the room where a small, absurdly blue creature with enormous ears and an indecipherable accent was currently wreaking havoc on what appeared to be a lush tropical island. The creature, who vaguely resembled a French bulldog if one had been crossbred with a gremlin and pumped full of sugar and chaos, was enthusiastically rambling about something called Ohana, a word Draco didn't fully comprehend but which, judging by the swelling music and heartfelt expressions of the cartoon characters around it, seemed to be some sort of sacred Muggle code for 'family.' He didn't understand most of what was going on in the film—there were aliens and surfboards and a lot of unnecessary crying—but he did find himself oddly entertained by the blue creature's antics, its bug-eyed enthusiasm, and the way it occasionally made guttural noises that reminded him of a Frenchie trying to sneeze and bark at the same time. French bulldogs had always amused him in a way he could never fully explain; something about their perpetually offended expressions and ridiculous stubby legs made them look like disgruntled aristocrats who'd been turned into pets, and this alien—this ridiculous blue menace—carried the same chaotic charm.

But it wasn't the movie that truly held his attention.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at the other side of the bed, and found himself smiling without even meaning to. Hermione had curled herself into the most elaborate blanket cocoon he'd ever seen, swaddled so tightly in layers of soft knit and fleece that only the faint outline of her nose and the wild cascade of her curls were visible above the mound of fabric. She had quite literally disappeared beneath the covers, her entire body buried except for the faintest glimpse of her face, and from within that soft fortress, soft little snores were rising, rhythmic and unbothered. Her breathing was slow, even, the tension that had clung to her all day now completely gone, and for the first time since morning, Draco felt the rigid coil of stress in his chest finally begin to loosen.

He released a quiet breath, slow and careful, as though afraid that even the sound of his exhale might wake her and ruin the fragile calm. He shifted slowly, leaning back until his shoulders pressed into the headboard, arms folding loosely over his chest, one ankle resting over the other as he settled into a position that allowed him to simultaneously keep one eye on the movie and the other on the sleeping witch beside him. It was strange, how this moment—so simple, so utterly domestic—felt like a kind of victory. Hermione, who had spent the last twenty-four hours in a hormonal haze of rage and pain, who had nearly hexed him just for breathing too loudly, was finally asleep, her cramps soothed, her mood softened, and she was here. With him. In his bed. Their bed. It shouldn't have meant something—it shouldn't have settled so warmly in his chest—but it did.

He allowed himself a rare moment of quiet pride, the kind of quiet, unspeakable pride that came not from winning a duel or proving someone wrong, but from knowing he had done something right, even if it was small and ordinary and involved navigating a Muggle store to find the right batteries. He looked at her again, and this time his smile deepened, tugging at the corners of his mouth with a gentleness he would never admit to anyone else. Her cheeks were still faintly flushed, the color returning to her face after a day of looking far too pale, and her curls—gods, her curls—were an absolute mess, frizzed and tangled and escaping in every direction from the top of the blanket. They framed her like a halo, if a halo had been electrocuted, and Draco thought she looked utterly divine.

He knew, intellectually, that he probably looked ridiculous—sitting there in the dark, watching a children's movie about aliens and surfing, his eyes lingering far too long on his wife's sleeping form like some sappy idiot in a rom-com. He was aware of how foolish he must seem, how utterly whipped he would look if anyone were to walk in and see him watching her like this. And yet, he didn't care. Not even a little. Because there was something about seeing her like this—without the usual sharpness in her tone, without the fire in her eyes that she wielded like a weapon during their arguments—that made his chest ache with something he didn't have a name for. It wasn't weakness. It wasn't infatuation. It was something older, deeper, the dangerous beginning of something permanent.

He looked back at the screen as the blue creature curled up beside a little girl, mumbling something about Ohana meaning no one gets left behind, and Draco felt that line settle heavily in his chest in a way that startled him. He didn't know what this movie was supposed to teach Muggle children, but somehow, in this quiet, flickering moment, sitting beside a woman he'd once hated and now couldn't seem to stop watching, it all felt oddly... true.

Years ago, if someone had told him—dead serious, wand in hand, looking him square in the eye—that one day he'd be lying in bed next to Hermione Granger, his wife, wrapped in blankets and watching a Muggle cartoon about a sad blue alien who loved Elvis, he would have laughed so hard he'd have choked. He would've sneered, insulted their intelligence, and hexed the idea from existence. But now, as he sat there watching her sleep, listening to the soft whir of the DVD player and the occasional snort from the character on screen, he couldn't help but think... this felt oddly, stupidly, infuriatingly right.

His thoughts drifted the way smoke rises—lazy, unhurried, curling into corners he hadn't dared explore before—as he sat there beside her in the soft hush of their shared bedroom, the flickering glow of the television washing her sleeping face in a kaleidoscope of shifting colors, his gaze fixed on her like he was trying to memorize every detail all over again. He didn't even pretend to watch the film anymore; the blue alien had faded into the periphery of his awareness, a distant hum in the background, eclipsed entirely by the girl—no, the woman—lying curled beneath the blankets next to him, with her wild hair spilling like ivy across the pillow and her lips parted just slightly in the rhythm of deep sleep.

And somewhere in that stillness, as the animated creature chattered on about Ohana and family and belonging, Draco found his mind wandering down a path paved in memories and half-buried feelings, back to a time when everything had been simpler and crueller. When he had called her names—terrible ones, bitter ones, barbed words that had come too easily to a boy desperate to protect the fragile house of lies he'd been raised in. Ugly. That had been one of them. He had called her ugly. Plain. He'd sneered at her teeth, her hair, her blood, trying so damn hard to crush the uncomfortable awareness that she was smarter than him, sharper than him, braver than he had ever dared to be. And now, looking at her in the soft lamplight, tucked into his bed with those same riotous curls and that same impossible brilliance, he couldn't for the life of him remember how he'd ever believed it. Ugly? What in Merlin's name had he been thinking?

She had always been beautiful, hadn't she? Not in the way Pansy had been, all practiced smiles and high-society polish, but in a way that demanded to be noticed. Even at Hogwarts, buried under oversized robes and weighed down by the crushing responsibility of being the best at everything, she had radiated something fierce and bright and untouchable. He remembered it suddenly—not some grand, life-altering moment, but something painfully mundane: the way she'd pushed her sleeves up to her elbows while scribbling furiously during a History of Magic exam, her quill flying across the parchment while strands of hair clung to her flushed cheeks, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. He hadn't even realized he'd been staring at the time until she'd looked up, caught him watching her, and rolled her eyes like he was the most ridiculous thing in the world. She had always made him feel ridiculous, and back then, he'd hated her for it.

And then there was third year.

The courtyard. The punch.

He could still remember the exact sound her fist had made when it collided with his jaw—a sharp, startling crack that echoed through the stone corridor, cutting through the laughter of his housemates like a curse. He had been stunned, embarrassed, furious that a girl—a Muggleborn girl—had dared to strike him, to humiliate him in front of everyone. But now, years later, with the phantom ache of that punch still somehow lingering in the bones of his cheek, he could admit something that would've mortified his younger self.

That moment? That punch? That was the beginning.

Not that he'd known it then—of course not. He was too busy spewing slurs and swallowing shame. But something had shifted that day. Maybe not consciously, but in his bones, in the part of him that didn't have words yet, he'd felt it: the wild, electric thrill of someone not only standing up to him, but winning. She had marked him, in more ways than one. And Merlin, was it a kink? That was the stray, unfiltered thought that fluttered through his mind now as the movie continued playing unnoticed. Maybe. Possibly. There was just something indescribably attractive about a woman who refused to be intimidated, who wouldn't flinch when he was at his worst, who met his arrogance with fire and refused to let him get away with anything. Hermione had always been that woman—even before he deserved her. Especially before.

But it wasn't just her fire. It was her mind.

She wasn't just intelligent—she was incandescent. There was a clarity to her thinking, a kind of unyielding, razor-sharp brilliance that had always drawn him in, even when he'd pretended otherwise. She could destroy an entire argument with a single raised brow and a well-placed question. She could slice through rhetoric like a duelist, outmaneuver him in debates without ever raising her voice. It had driven him mad back then, watching her win again and again—first in the classroom, then in the war. But now? Now he could admit it: he loved it. He craved it. The sharpness, the challenge, the way she never made anything easy for him. She was a storm in human form, and he had never wanted to be caught in anything more.

His eyes returned to her sleeping face, the soft, barely-there smile she wore even in dreams, and his heart twisted in a way that had become far too familiar. She looked so young like this. Softer. The lines that had etched themselves into her brow—lines of war, of loss, of responsibility—had faded in sleep, and for a fleeting second, she looked like the girl she'd been, the girl who had stood in the middle of the Great Hall and dared to speak truth to power. And he… he had hated her for it. Hated her because she'd shown him everything he wasn't, everything he should've been. And now, years later, that hate had burned itself down to nothing, and what was left in the ashes was something terrifying and irrevocable.

She had always been beautiful. She had always been right. And he had always been wrong.

He chuckled softly under his breath, shaking his head as he leaned back further into the pillows, his arm brushing hers beneath the blanket. The irony of it all hit him like a slow wave. That the universe—fickle, cruel thing that it was—had taken him, the boy who had once spat at the ground she walked on, and made him her husband. Her husband. It was absurd. Poetic. Fitting. Because if anyone was going to drag him out of the shadows he'd been raised in, if anyone was going to challenge every rotten belief he'd once clung to, it was her. It had always been her.

Maybe that was the point of her. Maybe that had always been the point. Not to be easy, or gentle, or docile, but to burn. To blaze so brightly he had no choice but to see her, to change for her, to become something better just so he could be worthy of sitting beside her while she slept like this—peaceful, radiant, and still completely unaware of just how deeply she had undone him.

He didn't deserve her—not really, not in any of the ways that mattered most, not in the ways that counted when you stripped away the bloodlines and surnames and war-tattered legacies and looked at the truth underneath it all. He was a man made of thorns and shadows, stitched together with pride and regret, and she was light, unyielding and brilliant, the kind of woman who could walk into a room and change its very gravity with a single word, a single glance. She was everything he had once feared, everything he had once scorned, and everything he had come to crave with every part of himself that still remembered how to want. He didn't deserve her—not her kindness, not her fire, not the strange, aching softness she reserved just for him in moments like these—but that didn't stop him from needing her, from longing for her in the quiet, gnawing way that lived in the marrow of his bones. He wanted her with every stubborn, broken piece of himself, with the desperation of a man who had once been empty and hadn't even known it.

The film continued to flicker quietly in the background, the television casting a gentle wash of blue and gold across the walls as the animated characters carried on with their chaos and comfort, but Draco wasn't watching anymore. His eyes remained fixed on the sleeping figure beside him, unmoving, as though the sight of her had tethered him in place, as though the weight of the emotion in his chest had anchored him more effectively than any spell. His thoughts wandered, slow and strange, tangled in the memory of how this all began. How had they gotten here? How had they gone from bitter schoolyard rivals, from snarled insults and glares that could curdle blood, to this—this soft, unspoken thing that stretched between them like thread spun from firelight and old wounds? How had he ended up in bed with Hermione Granger, of all people, watching her sleep and wondering if the strange thrum in his chest meant he was falling in love with her?

It wasn't love. Not yet. Or, at least, he didn't think it was. He wasn't sure. He didn't have a map for this, no experience to draw from, no memories of affection or warmth to guide him. Love had always seemed like something abstract, distant, a concept meant for people softer than him. He had never been in love before—never even come close—so how could he possibly know for certain? But there was something, something sharp and terrifying and impossible to ignore, something that curled its fingers around his ribs and refused to let go. It went deeper than their forced vows, deeper than the Ministry's cruel decree, deeper than anything he could explain with logic. It was the way she looked at him sometimes, when she thought he wasn't watching. The way her voice softened just slightly when she used his first name. The way his world quieted whenever she touched him.

She made him feel things, which was, frankly, terrifying. He had spent years building walls high and thick enough to keep the entire world out, walls forged in fear and shame and self-preservation, and she had walked into his life with all her infuriating brilliance and knocked them down without even trying. With her, he felt raw. Open. Vulnerable in ways he hadn't known were possible. She made him laugh, when laughter had once felt like a foreign language. She made him happy, in moments so fleeting and quiet he almost missed them. She terrified him, too—not because she was frightening, but because she made him hope, and that was far more dangerous. But more than anything, she made him want to be better. Not out of guilt or shame, but because when he looked at her, he saw the future he could have—the kind of life he never believed someone like him could reach for. And he wanted it. Gods, he wanted it.

A soft noise broke the silence—a sigh, barely audible, as Hermione stirred beneath the blankets. Her body shifted slightly, her brow furrowed for a fleeting second as though caught in some half-formed dream before she settled again, her breathing evening out, slow and rhythmic. Draco watched her, his breath catching in his throat for reasons he couldn't explain. There was something so human in that tiny movement, something that shattered the last remnants of distance he had tried to keep between them. He loved her like this—loved her peace, her softness, the way her guard dropped in sleep and left him with the rarest version of her: the one who trusted him enough to let go.

Without thinking, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, the barest brush of his lips against her hair. The scent of her shampoo—lavender and something herbal—was comforting in a way that made his chest ache. "Sleep well, love," he whispered, the words spilling out before he could stop them, so soft they were nearly swallowed by the ambient hum of the film still playing across the room.

He adjusted the blankets around her with careful hands, tucking them beneath her chin, making sure she was warm, comfortable, cocooned in the kind of safety he had never known how to offer anyone before. Then, slowly, he shifted back to his side of the bed, but even as he moved, his gaze lingered on her, unable to look away for long. He didn't know when it had happened—when she had stopped being an enemy and started being everything—but the change had come, quiet and steady, like dusk bleeding into night. And now, here he was, a man who once believed he was incapable of gentleness, watching over a woman who had cracked him open without ever lifting her wand.

As the little blue creature on screen whispered again about Ohana—about belonging, about family that you choose and never abandon—Draco let out a soft, breathless laugh. He couldn't explain it, couldn't name what exactly he was feeling, but for the first time in his life, it didn't scare him.

Maybe this life—this strange, unwanted marriage, this tangled mess of history and longing and everything in between—wasn't so bad after all.

Maybe, just maybe, it was exactly what he needed.