Chapter 5

Another month had passed—thirty excruciating days suspended in a slow, painful limbo, each one steeped in the aching quiet that had grown so dense it clung to the walls of the Manor like a second skin, heavy and unrelenting, a silence that no spell could break and no breath could soothe. It was the kind of silence that didn't merely exist between two people—it buried them, stretched out like an unending chasm carved not just by time, but by every word left unsaid, every emotion left unspoken, every memory too painful to confront. Hermione still hadn't come out of her room, hadn't so much as looked him in the eye or acknowledged his existence beyond the occasional accidental noise—footsteps behind her door, the faint shifting of furniture, the sound of running water in the middle of the night that let him know she was still alive, still somewhere inside, even if she had long since stopped living. The oak door between them had become something more than just wood and charmwork; it was a barricade built from rage, grief, shame, and guilt—hers and maybe his too, though he didn't know where one ended and the other began anymore.

Draco had stopped knocking—not because he had given up, because Merlin knew he hadn't, not even close, but because there was something sacred in the silence now, something fragile and dangerous that he didn't dare disturb, as though even the softest sound might cause everything between them to shatter into irreparable pieces. The absence of her voice was maddening, but even more painful was the absence of her presence—the way she refused to exist in the same space as him, to let him see her even in passing, to let him prove in the smallest ways that he still gave a damn. His life had become a quiet theater of routine and repetition, one in which he performed the same meaningless acts of hope every day without any audience to witness them. The flowers kept arriving, enchanted to remain fresh and impossibly vibrant, bouquets curated with obsessive care—white lilies for healing, red carnations for devotion, honeysuckle for a love that clings—but none of them were ever claimed. They withered at her door or were collected by the house-elves in the dead of night, and still, he sent more, because doing nothing felt worse than screaming into a void.

He kept working, kept waking up, kept dressing in pressed robes and going through the motions of living a life that no longer felt like it belonged to him, his days stitched together by the illusion of productivity when all he really did was endure. Each unopened letter left on her desk was a small heartbreak. Each untouched gift was a dagger. Each unreturned glance—or rather, the absence of any glance at all—tore at something inside him that he didn't have the words to name. He told himself he understood, that she needed space, that she was hurting, but understanding didn't ease the ache that had taken root in his chest like a parasite. She treated him like a sickness, something to quarantine herself from, and maybe, in her mind, that was exactly what he was—a living, breathing reminder of everything that had been taken from her, everything that had gone wrong, everything that had broken beyond repair.

And still, he waited. He waited because he didn't know what else to do. He waited because somewhere deep down, in the part of him that still dared to hope, he believed she might come back to him—not with love, not yet, but with words, with anger, with something real and tangible that proved she hadn't vanished entirely into that locked room. He waited even though it was killing him slowly, even though every hour that passed without her felt like another thread unraveling inside his soul. He waited because he didn't know how not to. But he was fraying, unraveling at the seams like a suit too old and too worn, barely holding together under the weight of the ache he carried, and it was only a matter of time before something inside him snapped.

Then, one night, after what had felt like a century carved into days, as he sat hunched over the cluttered chaos of his study desk, parchment strewn with half-finished Ministry reports and ink smudges that bled like bruises across his work, his hand moved absently, scribbling nothing meaningful, his thoughts far too consumed with her absence to make sense of policy or numbers or laws that suddenly seemed so trivial, he heard it—a sound, soft but unmistakable, the slow, aching creak of a door somewhere down the corridor. The sound sliced through the silence like a blade, so unexpected and so jarringly alive that it brought him to complete stillness. His ears perked instinctively, every muscle tensing, his breath catching halfway in his throat, heart stammering like it had heard her name whispered in the dark. He froze mid-motion, quill suspended uselessly above parchment as ink pooled into a single, spreading droplet, a countdown he couldn't stop, a warning he couldn't interpret, his entire body caught in the anticipation of something seismic.

And then—there she was. Hermione. Standing in the doorway to his study as if conjured by the sheer force of his longing, and yet entirely untouchable, like a memory that refused to fade or a ghost that refused to be buried.

But she didn't look like the version of her that lived in his memories, or the one who occasionally haunted his dreams, fierce and fiery and full of righteous fury. No—this Hermione looked like a contradiction of every version he'd ever known. She was gaunt and disheveled, her skin pallid, the purple crescents under her eyes like bruises carved from sleepless nights, her curls tangled in a halo of neglect, her blouse wrinkled as if pulled from a forgotten drawer and thrown on without care—but there was steel in her posture, the rigid set of her spine a familiar echo of every time she'd stood her ground in the face of cruelty or injustice, of every time she'd glared at him in school with contempt that doubled as a dare. She looked hollowed out and dangerous, both fragile and volatile, like someone who had been cracked open and lit on fire from the inside.

"Hermione—" he began, the name leaving his mouth like a prayer, half-rising from his chair as his heart surged toward her before his body could catch up, confusion and disbelief clashing violently across his face.

"Malfoy," she said, her voice stripped bare, devoid of softness or ceremony, sharp and surgical in its cold finality. It wasn't a greeting. It was a warning. It was a boundary. And then, with the kind of quiet savagery that came from pure emotional exhaustion, she spoke the words that would splinter his entire world: "We're going to have sex. Now."

His brain short-circuited, his pulse stalled, and all the air seemed to vanish from the room. "What?" he asked, not because he hadn't heard her, but because his mind couldn't seem to reconcile her words with the woman who had shut him out for weeks.

"I said," she repeated, slow and deliberate, each word enunciated like a curse cast with perfect clarity, "we are going to have sex. Tonight."

He stared at her, wide-eyed and stunned, still gripping the quill as if it might shield him from the sheer strangeness of the moment, the desk between them suddenly a battlefield. His voice, when it came, was uncertain, stammering, grasping. "I—I don't understand. What are you talking about?"

She didn't bother explaining. Instead, with a ferocity that felt terrifying in its apathy, she strode toward him, her steps echoing in the stillness, and before he could stop her, before he could process the madness unfolding before him, she climbed onto his desk, scattering documents, knocking over ink, sweeping aside everything he had touched in the last hour as if none of it mattered. She lay flat, facedown across the desk like an offering, her body positioned with chilling precision, her dress rucked up around her thighs with one practiced motion. She did not meet his gaze. She didn't speak his name.

"Just don't touch me," she said in a tone so devoid of feeling that it made his skin crawl. "Do what you need to do. Be quick."

Draco's entire body went still, frozen in a moment that no longer felt real, his stomach twisting violently, bile rising in his throat. The blood drained from his face, and his limbs refused to obey him. It felt like a nightmare disguised in the skin of reality—an act not of passion or obligation, but of despair.

"Hermione—" he breathed, her name cracking in his throat like glass underfoot, as if even saying it might make her shatter. His voice was barely audible, trembling, reverent, desperate to anchor her back into herself, to pull her away from whatever edge she was teetering on.

"Don't call me that," she snapped, her voice venomous, sharp as a blade as she turned her face away. "Just do it, Malfoy."

He stood—abruptly, violently, the chair scraping backward with a screech against the stone floor as if it, too, recoiled from the weight of the moment—his entire body taut with a fury that had nowhere to go, chest rising and falling in harsh, uneven breaths, fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles turned white and trembled with the effort of restraint. His voice was low but laced with fury, trembling with disbelief and anguish all at once, the sound barely human as he growled, "Stop it. Stop this madness right now. This isn't happening, not like this. I'm not going to let you do this. I'm not going to stand here and watch you reduce yourself to this—to a shell, to some twisted idea of duty that was never meant to break you."

Her head snapped toward him like a whip, her hair catching the light in tangled waves, and her eyes—Merlin, her eyes—blazed with a fury so potent it nearly knocked the air from his lungs. "We have to, don't we?" she spat, her voice rising with every word, each syllable sharpened by despair, desperation bleeding through her defiance. "Isn't that what they want? The Ministry? The press? The whole fucking world? A golden child from the golden girl and the reformed Death Eater, bred like prize horses for the next generation? That's the plan, isn't it? That's what this entire farce was built for—compliance, legacy, propaganda. Isn't that what they're all waiting for? For us to give them exactly what they want?"

"You think this—this—is what I want?" he snarled, the words tearing out of him before he could stop them, stepping forward so quickly that the air shifted, though he stopped just short of touching her, his instincts screaming that she was too fragile, too fractured for anything more than words. "You think I want to see you like this? Like some hollow, trembling thing that wears your skin but has none of your fire, none of your brilliance? You think I can stomach watching you break yourself open just to appease people who don't give a damn about who we are? You think I want this? This misery? This version of you that looks at me like I'm just another cage?"

"Just do it already!" she screamed, and it wasn't just frustration—it was agony, it was grief, it was everything she'd buried and shoved down and ignored until it erupted out of her like a tidal wave, her voice cracking in the middle, her sobs too raw to hold back any longer as tears poured down her cheeks in scorching, relentless trails. "We're already prisoners! We're already shackled and trapped in this nightmare! Why not make it official? Why not just get it over with so we can both stop pretending this is anything other than what it really is?"

He moved without thinking, not out of anger but out of instinct, out of sheer desperation, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. He reached for her gently but urgently, his hands trembling as they found her arms, guiding her down from the desk with the same careful reverence one might use to carry glass that had already started to crack. He flipped her around so that she was sitting, her legs dangling over the edge like they had no strength left in them, her entire body limp in his grasp, her energy spent.

And then he just held her, arms wrapping around her tightly, anchoring her to the moment, grounding her in the quiet presence of his body rather than the chaos of their thoughts. He leaned down, pressing his chin lightly against the crown of her head, his eyes fluttering shut as he breathed her in—the scent of her hair, the remnants of tears on her skin, the residual tremors of a soul that had been fighting for too long. He didn't say anything, not because there weren't a thousand things he wanted to say, but because language felt insufficient. Words were useless here. Words were knives that had already done their damage. He knew there was nothing he could say to erase what had happened, to take back all the ways they had hurt each other, or all the ways the world had wounded them both—but maybe, just maybe, he could give her silence that didn't feel like absence. A silence that felt like safety.

And when, at long last, she began to pull away, when her body shifted slightly against his and she leaned back just enough to create a sliver of space between them, it felt like the air itself changed, like the pressure in the room had finally lifted. The weight of expectation, of grief, of unspoken agony—it didn't vanish, but it loosened its hold. Her face was blotchy, her skin streaked with saltwater and emotion, and her lashes clumped from crying, but her eyes were no longer wild. Her lips, red and swollen from the tension she'd bitten down on for weeks, parted on a shaky breath. Her fingers trembled as she wiped her face, but the motion wasn't frantic. It was slow, almost reverent, like she was trying to wash something away. She didn't look calm, not entirely—but there was a difference now. Her shoulders didn't sag beneath invisible weight. Her mouth wasn't pressed into a bitter line. She looked, for the first time in so long, like someone who had finally allowed themselves to feel everything they had been denying.

Draco watched her in silence, his gaze locked onto every minute detail of her face and posture—the way her jaw tensed, the fluttering of her lashes, the tremble in her fingers—every instinct inside him burning with the need to speak, to offer her something tangible to hold onto, anything that could make her feel safe or seen, but he forced himself to remain still, to resist the impulse to rush in with reassurances or apologies or declarations that might only muddle the fragile space between them. He had already bared his soul, already offered her every ounce of honesty he had left to give, and he knew that anything else—any word, any movement—had to come from her now. He couldn't force her to trust him, couldn't pull her into forgiveness like it was something owed. She had to choose him back. She had to take one step forward, however small. So he waited, breath caught in his throat, the stillness in the room pressing down like fog.

The silence that stretched between them wasn't uncomfortable, but it was thick—full of unspoken fears, tentative hope, memories too painful to name. Even the air around them felt like it had stopped moving, like the walls of the Manor were holding their collective breath, unwilling to shatter the delicate moment hanging between two people who had lost each other and were fumbling their way back. She didn't leave, didn't lash out or retreat into herself, which in itself was a kind of miracle. She didn't meet his gaze, but she didn't run. She remained perched on the edge of his desk, a queen without a crown, a soldier without armor, not ready to reach for him—but not ready to disappear, either.

He cleared his throat with quiet intent, not to break the silence so much as to ground himself within it, his voice emerging low and tentative, the edges softened by restraint. "Maybe… maybe we just start small," he offered gently, each syllable spoken like he was walking a tightrope between her past and their possible future. "Not everything at once. No big expectations. Just… one little step forward."

At that, her eyes flicked toward him, a movement so quick and guarded it could've gone unnoticed by anyone not watching her as closely as he was—but to Draco, it was everything. There was no warmth in her gaze, not yet, but there was presence. She was listening.

He hesitated again, dragging a hand through his hair as if gathering the courage to ask for something simple that somehow still felt impossibly large. "Like…" he began, voice cracking slightly before he steadied it, "sleeping in the same bed. Nothing more than that. Just… proximity. Just not alone. Is that okay?"

She didn't answer right away. Her gaze dropped to her lap, to her hands that twisted the fabric of her sleeve so tightly that her knuckles had gone white, like she was trying to force all the nervous energy in her body out through her fingertips. He waited, not daring to say another word, not daring to move, because this wasn't something that could be rushed. This wasn't something that could be talked or gifted into existence. It had to be chosen. Slowly, her head dipped once, a nearly imperceptible nod—but it was enough.

"That's okay," she said softly, the words emerging as if they'd been held captive in her chest for days, maybe weeks. And though her voice was small, barely louder than a breath, the sound of it hit him like thunder.

Relief bloomed quietly in Draco's chest—not loud or exuberant, but deep, steady, the kind of relief that steadies the ground beneath your feet after months of feeling like it might fall away. It wasn't joy, not yet. But it was hope. A small ember burning in the ash of what they'd been.

He stood with deliberate care, cautious not to disrupt the stillness they'd found, and extended a hand toward her—palm open, not as a command or an expectation, but as a quiet offering, a bridge she could choose to cross. She stared at it for a long time, her expression unreadable, her eyes flickering between his hand and his face as though she were still deciding if he was real. And then, slowly, her hand slipped into his, not intertwining with his fingers, but resting there, cold and hesitant. It was the first time she had touched him of her own accord in what felt like lifetimes.

They walked through the corridor in silence, the only sound the soft brush of their feet on the stone floor. They didn't speak, didn't need to. The distance between their bodies remained, but the contact between their hands—the singular, fragile point of connection—felt like a lifeline. Like a thread tying them back together.

When they reached the bedroom, she paused just inside the doorway, her gaze sweeping the space as though it were sacred or dangerous—she couldn't seem to decide which. The bed stood before her like something mythic and foreign, not just a place to rest, but a battleground of memories, silence, and ghosts. She lingered, unmoving, and he didn't rush her. He simply pulled the blankets back with quiet reverence, slid into his side of the bed with practiced familiarity, and turned to her with a small, almost hesitant gesture, inviting her in.

She hesitated for a moment longer, one foot half-turned as if she might bolt, her breath caught between uncertainty and exhaustion—but then she sighed, and the sound of it seemed to carry all the weight of the last few months. She moved toward the bed slowly, methodically, like every step was a decision. When she slipped under the covers, it was with the rigid tension of someone who hadn't allowed herself softness in too long. Her hands folded tightly over her stomach, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, unmoving.

He lay beside her without reaching out, without assuming anything, watching her in the muted light as her profile flickered with shadow. Her breathing was uneven, too shallow. Her body was stiff as a board. He could feel the distance between them like a chasm carved into the mattress.

But then, after a long moment, he spoke—not demanding, not pleading, just offering. "Come here, love," he whispered, the endearment slipping from him so naturally it surprised even himself. "Lay on my chest. It helps. I swear it'll help."

He expected a sharp refusal, a scoff, some cutting comment to push him away again. But instead, slowly, hesitantly, she turned toward him. Her movements were small, measured, like she wasn't sure if she could let herself want this. But inch by inch, she slid closer until her cheek found a place just over his heart. Her body remained tense, her spine taut as a bowstring, but when his arm gently, cautiously curled around her, cradling her against him with more reverence than she thought he was capable of, she didn't pull away.

And in that quiet closeness, as the night wrapped around them and their breathing began to sync, Draco felt a sliver of something tender wedge itself into the cracks of their broken story—fragile, yes, but real. Something that might be worth holding onto.

He pressed his lips to her temple, lingering there like a vow sealed in silence, letting the warmth of her skin seep into him as if he could absorb her pain and carry it for her. Her scent—lavender crushed from the garden outside, worn parchment edges tinged with ink, and something else entirely, something inherently her, like bottled defiance and sleepless nights—wrapped around him in a way that made his heart ache. It didn't smell like perfume. It smelled like memory. Like comfort. Like home. His hand moved slowly across her bare arm, tracing gentle circles into her skin with the patience of a man who had learned the hard way how delicate healing could be. Each pass of his palm was a silent reassurance, a grounding point for both of them, like he was reminding her—and himself—that they were still here, still real, still together, even after everything that had been broken between them.

"Promise me something," he murmured finally into the softness of her hair, his breath catching slightly on the words as they brushed against her scalp like a prayer he didn't know how to say out loud. It wasn't a demand. It wasn't even a plea. It was a lifeline tossed into the dark, asking her to reach for him even if her hands were still trembling.

She didn't answer right away, and he didn't push her. She simply stayed where she was, pressed over his chest, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart as if trying to memorize it, as if the rhythm of him might be safer than the echo of her own thoughts. There was something in the stillness of that pause that felt heavier than silence, more intimate than words.

"Promise me," he said again, more quietly this time, like he was afraid of chasing her away. "Promise you'll never do that again. Don't—don't offer yourself like you're a thing, like you're disposable. Like you're nothing. Don't shut me out like that. Please, Hermione. Don't make yourself small to survive."

She drew in a breath that shook on the way in, like it had to claw through a dozen different versions of herself before it made it out. "I promise," she whispered finally, the words trembling, delicate, like glass stretched thin. Her voice cracked a little on the last syllable, but it didn't matter. It didn't weaken the promise. He felt it. He felt her mean it.

Relief swept through him in a way that didn't feel like triumph—it felt like oxygen after drowning, like light pouring through the cracks of a locked door. He let out a slow breath, one he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, and closed his eyes, pulling her a little closer, just enough that their bodies touched from shoulder to knee, the kind of contact that didn't ask for more than it offered. It wasn't everything, not yet. But it was enough. And right now, enough felt like everything.

They stayed like that for what could have been minutes or hours—time blurred at the edges when all that existed was breath and warmth and silence. The world beyond the Manor rolled on without them, thunder rumbling distantly outside the windows as rain traced lazy paths down the glass panes, but inside the four walls of that bedroom, inside the circle of his arms and the hush of their exhales, there was stillness. A kind of stillness neither of them had felt in months. They weren't fixed. They weren't whole. But they weren't on opposite sides of the battlefield anymore, and maybe that was the first real miracle either of them had allowed themselves to believe in.

"I'm scared," she whispered eventually, her voice so soft it almost disappeared into his chest. It wasn't an admission flung into the dark—it was a secret, given to him gently, like a shard of glass she'd been hiding in her hand for too long.

His throat tightened around something unspoken, something heavy. He tilted his head to press another kiss to her hair, softer this time, more reverent than reassuring. "Me too," he whispered back, his voice raw but steady, as if the words were a promise etched into stone. "But we're in this together now. You don't have to be afraid alone anymore. Not ever again."

She didn't answer, and that was okay. He didn't need her to. She didn't pull away. Didn't build a wall. She just stayed—pressed against him, trusting him enough to rest there like she belonged. And maybe, just maybe, she was starting to believe that she did.

So in the dark, with nothing but the sound of her breathing and the slow, deliberate beat of his heart beneath her ear, Draco let his eyes drift shut and allowed himself, for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, to believe in something better. Not perfection. Not fantasy. Just the fragile, impossible hope that one day, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even soon—but one day—they would be okay. And for tonight, that was enough.

~~~

Waking up next to her was like stepping into a dream he never wanted to wake from, a warm, weightless place where reality softened at the edges and everything that had felt impossible between them now felt breathtakingly close. Her limbs were tangled with his in a quiet intimacy that hadn't been earned with words but with silence and proximity, the kind of closeness that whispered of progress, of healing, of tentative peace stitched together in the quiet hours before dawn. Her soft, sleeping warmth was draped over him like a living blanket, pressed so intimately against his body that he could feel every shift of her breath, every slow rise and fall of her chest, and it grounded him—anchored him in the here and now in a way that felt sacred, like if he moved too quickly the moment might shatter into something irretrievable. For the first time in months—months that had been filled with silence and screaming and sharp edges—there was something resembling peace, delicate and fleeting like frost on glass, but peace all the same, and it made his heart ache with its unexpected gentleness.

She was draped over him like she had always belonged there, her cheek nestled in the curve where his neck met his shoulder, her breath warming his skin in a steady rhythm that soothed the restlessness in his chest. The sensation of her weight on him wasn't stifling—it was comforting, like being held down by something real, something he didn't have to chase or question. There was something about the sheer presence of her—solid and soft and utterly human—that made him want to hold her even closer, something that made his arms tighten instinctively around her without a single thought. It wasn't possessive; it was reverent, as though his body understood what his mind still struggled to accept: that she was here, that she hadn't run, and that maybe—just maybe—she wasn't going to.

His heart swelled in a way he couldn't fully explain, a strange and unfamiliar contentment curling through his chest like warmth in the cold, like dawn breaking through long winter darkness. Her hair brushed against his chin in unruly curls, tickling him, and he didn't dare move, didn't dare disrupt the fragile, miraculous calm that had settled over them. He wasn't sure how long they stayed that way, whether it was minutes or hours, but time lost all meaning when she was in his arms like this, when the world outside the walls of their shared bed ceased to exist. The Manor could've crumbled around them, and he still wouldn't have moved. In this moment—this impossibly quiet, impossibly real moment—there was nothing but her. No Ministry, no decree, no war-scarred history looming like a shadow. Just her warmth and his heartbeat and the soft hush of everything they hadn't said.

But then, slowly, he felt the shift—small, almost imperceptible, like the tremble of a leaf in the wind. The change in her breathing, the subtle tightening of her muscles, the way her fingers twitched against his side as she began to stir. She was waking. And with waking came awareness, and with awareness came memory, and with memory came the wall she always tried to build before he could reach her. He could feel the panic flicker to life beneath her skin like a matchstrike, that instinctive flinch of someone realizing just how close they've let someone else get. She didn't speak, not yet, but her body spoke for her—stiffening, shrinking inward, like she was already trying to pull away.

"Shh, princess," he murmured into her curls, his voice low and steady like the sea in the dark, as though softness might stop her from slipping away again. "Go back to sleep."

She froze, breath caught in her throat like a thread between denial and surrender. "No, it's—" she began, voice hoarse, frayed by sleep and instinctive self-preservation.

"It's okay, love," he said before she could finish, cutting through the space between them with a gentleness that was almost painful in its sincerity. His hand resumed its slow, soothing movements along her spine, the same repetitive gesture that had lulled her to sleep in the first place. "Nothing bad is going to happen. I promise. I'll be right here when you wake up."

There was a pause—long, weighted, full of tension and unshed fear—as if she didn't know whether to believe him, as if the voice in her head was arguing with the one wrapped around her body. But he didn't let go. He didn't move. He just stayed there, steady, unflinching, patient in a way he hadn't known he was capable of. And slowly, so slowly it broke his heart, she softened. The tension in her spine began to melt, the tight line of her jaw eased, and she let out a breath she had clearly been holding since the moment she woke. Her head burrowed deeper into the hollow of his chest, her fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt like it might tether her to the moment, and gradually, her breathing evened out again.

He didn't move. He didn't dare. He lay there, every part of his body attuned to hers, his hand drawing idle patterns on her back, his heart thudding quietly beneath her cheek. He couldn't believe this was real. That she was here. That she trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms again after everything. It didn't fix what had been broken—it didn't erase the pain or rewrite the past—but it was a start. A fragile, trembling, heart-wrenching start that he would protect with everything he had. Because this moment—her breath on his skin, her fingers curled into his side, her heartbeat a quiet drum against his chest—this was everything. And he wasn't going to let it go.

As her breathing began to slow and deepen, settling into that soft, rhythmic cadence that only came with sleep, he finally let himself exhale the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, his entire body softening beneath the gentle weight of her. There was something profoundly grounding in the way she rested against him now—her limbs draped over his, her head tucked beneath his chin, her warmth seeping into his bones like sunlight through ancient stone—and yet, it was also overwhelming in a way he couldn't quite articulate, a flood of emotion so big, so unnameable, that it left him stunned and silent. He stared up at the ceiling, the shadows of the chandelier stretching out in soft arcs across the room, trying to slow the dizzying whirl of thoughts that spun through his mind, all of them circling around one truth: she was here. After everything. After months of aching silence and locked doors and biting words hurled like curses. She was here, curled up against his chest, as if some small part of her trusted him again. As if maybe she had never stopped.

And he couldn't stop thinking about how impossible that should have been—how the woman wrapped around him now was the same one who had spent so long running from him, hiding from his gaze, flinching at the sound of his voice. She had built fortresses around her grief, battlements out of bitterness, and for a long time, he'd thought he'd never be strong enough to scale them. But here she was, no walls, no shields, just skin and breath and the weight of her vulnerability against his chest. It undid him in the quietest, most devastating way. It made him wonder—achingly, hopelessly—if she felt it too. If she felt this same unbearable pull between them, this thing that couldn't be explained, couldn't be rationalized or denied. He hadn't planned on falling for her. He hadn't expected anything from her except perhaps tolerance, the bare minimum of civility. And yet… somewhere between the shouting and the silence, the distance and the breaking, something inside him had shifted. Without realizing it, she had become the center of his world, the steady thought anchoring him through sleepless nights and hollow mornings. He hadn't asked for it. He hadn't wanted it. But now that it had happened, now that he knew what it felt like to hold her like this, he didn't know how to live without it.

And gods, how had it even come to this? How had a cold, obligatory marriage turned into something that felt so ruinously intimate? He had once imagined their lives as little more than a political arrangement, a contract dressed up in wedding vows, a slow descent into apathy masked by protocol. But what existed between them now—this raw, trembling thing—it wasn't apathy. It wasn't cold. It was warm and terrifying and fragile in ways that scared the hell out of him. It was him holding her like she was the most precious thing in his life. Because she was. Somehow, without even realizing it, she had become his reason. The thing he measured his days by. And he couldn't imagine a future that didn't have her in it. He didn't want to.

He didn't have all the answers. He didn't know what came next, or how long this fragile truce between them would last. He didn't know if she'd wake up tomorrow and retreat back into herself again, if this moment was just a fluke, a temporary breach in the walls she'd so carefully constructed. But as he lay there with her now, her breath feathering softly against his collarbone, her fingers twitching slightly in sleep, he knew one thing with blinding certainty: he didn't want to let her go. Not now. Not ever. No matter how much time it took, no matter how many scars they had to sort through, he would keep fighting for her. For this. For the quiet miracle of her sleeping in his arms.

With a tenderness that surprised even him, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head, letting his lips linger there for a moment longer than necessary. It wasn't about romance, or lust, or duty. It was instinct. It was reverence. It was a vow unspoken but deeply felt. I'm here. I'm not leaving. I'll protect this, protect you, even if it kills me. He would keep that promise. He would be here when she woke up. He would keep showing her, in all the small ways, that she wasn't alone. That he was hers if she'd have him. That every morning she opened her eyes and found him still there beside her, it would be another quiet proof of the truth he hadn't yet found the courage to say out loud.

The minutes passed, the room wrapped in silence, and he felt sleep tugging at the corners of his mind, soft and relentless. He let himself sink into it, slowly, carefully, arms still wrapped around her as though he could somehow hold onto this moment even in dreams. His heart felt lighter than it had in months, not weightless, but bearable. Hopeful. For now, this was enough. For now, this soft, perfect moment was all he needed. And maybe—just maybe—it was all she needed too.

She stirred gently, her body shifting against his with the kind of slow, subconscious movement that came with waking from deep sleep, her limbs brushing over his as she stretched slightly, and Draco felt the change before her eyes even fluttered open—the way her breath quickened, the subtle stiffening of her spine as consciousness returned. The morning light was delicate and golden, filtering through the curtains in soft, dappled beams that made the room glow with a kind of fragile serenity, and in that early hush, when everything still felt suspended in the stillness of dawn, he could feel her becoming aware of him—of their closeness, of the way her body was curled so perfectly against his, of the fact that she hadn't pulled away.

He tightened his arms around her just a little, the gesture protective, instinctual, quiet in its reassurance. "Good morning, princess," he murmured, his voice gravelly from sleep, the words rumbling in his chest where her cheek rested.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, lashes fluttering as she adjusted to the light and the reality of the moment. She didn't immediately pull away, didn't retreat into herself the way he had feared she might, but there was something in her gaze—tentative, searching, as if she wasn't sure if this warmth between them was real, if it would last longer than a few stolen hours in the dark. It was the way she looked at him, not with anger, not with resentment, but with wary confusion, that made his heart clench.

"Why are you being nice to me?" she asked, her voice hushed and rough, thick with sleep and emotion that hadn't yet settled into clarity. There was something raw in the way she asked it, something that made Draco ache, as if the idea of kindness from him was a foreign language she hadn't quite learned to speak.

He let out a soft huff of breath, part sigh, part laugh, and though his smirk appeared, it lacked any of its usual edge—it was gentle, almost reverent, as his thumb traced slow, absentminded circles along the smooth skin of her upper arm. "It's a bit early for one of your interrogations, Granger," he said, his tone teasing but quiet, subdued. "But since you're so curious… I'm nice to you because I want to be. Because it doesn't feel like effort. Because somewhere along the way, it stopped being something I did out of obligation and started being something that just—felt right."

She looked at him for a long time, her brows slightly furrowed as if she didn't quite believe it, as if the sincerity of his words were too much to accept all at once. But she didn't push him away. She didn't argue. Instead, and to his complete surprise, she leaned in and pressed her lips softly to the side of his neck—a tender, deliberate kiss that made his breath catch, the heat of it blooming across his skin like fire under ice.

She had to feel it—there was no possible way she didn't notice the growing hardness pressing insistently against her through the thin layers of clothing that now felt more like an inconvenience than a barrier, especially as she continued her slow, calculated assault on the sensitive skin of his neck, her mouth warm and persistent, her breath a tantalizing whisper that made every muscle in his body clench with the effort of restraint. A low groan slipped from his lips, involuntary and breathless, and his hands—traitorous, eager hands—gripped her hips without thought, pulling her closer, holding her firmly in place as though anchoring himself to her touch might keep him from unraveling completely. His fingers flexed against her, desperate for control, for sanity, as if the feel of her beneath his palms might help him remember who he was before her kisses turned him into this trembling, half-mad version of himself.

"Hermione," he said again, her name breaking from his mouth like a prayer and a curse all at once, this time laced with a raw desperation that trembled along the edges of his voice, warning her, pleading with her, "Stop—stop, or I won't be able to." His tone was ragged, strained, every syllable dragging against the tight rope of self-control he was clinging to by sheer force of will.

But she didn't stop. Not entirely. Instead, she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, to look at him with an intensity that nearly stole the breath from his lungs, her gaze dark and unreadable, charged with a thousand unsaid things that danced behind her lashes. She was daring him—testing him, pushing him to the edge—and the worst part was that she didn't even seem fully aware of what she was doing. Or maybe she did, and that made it even more dangerous. Because the way she looked at him now—half defiant, half uncertain—was undoing him in slow motion, peeling away the layers of restraint he'd built so carefully around himself, and it was driving him out of his mind.

"What if I don't want to stop?" she whispered, her voice soft but steady, laced with a quiet challenge that turned his blood molten. Her gaze dipped down to his lips for the briefest moment, and that was all it took—his pulse surged, a thrum of electricity shooting through his veins, and he knew, he knew, that he was losing this battle. That he might not even want to win it.

His thoughts spiraled as desire collided with the steel bars of his conscience, the war within him raging louder with each passing second. He had tried so hard, for so long, to give her space, to never take more than she offered, to let her guide the pace of whatever fragile thing was blooming between them. But now—now she was pressed against him, lips hot on his throat, body shifting over his in ways that made his breath catch and his resolve fracture—and the fragile leash of control he had wrapped around himself was fraying fast.

"Don't play with fire, Granger," he warned, the words a growl at the base of his throat, but even as they left his lips, he knew the warning was hollow. Because the fire had already been lit, and it was spreading fast.

Then she leaned in again, her mouth brushing against the shell of his ear, and the shiver that racked his body was immediate, visceral. "Maybe I'd like to burn," she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper, sultry and sharp as a dagger's edge.

That was it. That was the moment his restraint snapped like a wand cracked in half during a duel. In a blur of movement, fueled by weeks of pent-up frustration and longing and want, he flipped her onto her back, his body covering hers in one fluid motion that sent parchment flying from the desk and scattered the remnants of control to the wind. He hovered above her, braced on trembling arms, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, his eyes blazing with something wild and untamed and utterly undone. The teasing, playful tension between them shattered like glass, replaced by something darker, something deeper—an intensity that filled the room with the weight of every unspoken thing that had passed between them.

His hands, which had spent so long learning how to hold her gently, now gripped her wrists, pinning them above her head, not out of force, but out of desperation—to stop himself from shaking, from losing her, from drowning in the storm she had summoned in him. He stared down at her, their faces close, the air between them charged and unsteady. "Don't push me," he rasped, the words cracked and rough, like they were being torn from somewhere deep inside. "Because if you keep this up, I won't be able to stop myself."

They were both panting now, both caught in the invisible current between them, and for a moment neither of them moved, the air thick with a kind of tension that bordered on unbearable. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her lips parted, eyes wide and flickering with emotion—something raw, something dangerous, something real. He expected her to pull away, to blink and remember who they were and how messy this all was.

But instead, she smirked—cheeky and devastating and utterly Gryffindor—and he felt the floor beneath him vanish. "Who said I wanted you to stop?" she whispered, her voice breathless and sure, her eyes locked on his like she was daring him to let go.

Draco's heart thundered in his chest, his thoughts in chaos. Everything in him screamed for her—every ounce of him ached to claim her, to finally let this hunger consume him. But even through the haze of lust and longing, something steadier kept him grounded—the need to make sure this wasn't just a moment driven by adrenaline and chaos, that she knew what this meant.

He loosened his grip on her wrists, his fingers trailing down the length of her arms, eyes still locked on hers as if searching for some flicker of doubt. "Hermione," he said again, softer this time, gentler, more fragile. "This isn't just… a game."

And something in her changed at those words. Her teasing smirk melted into something softer, something heartbreakingly open, and she reached up slowly, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers, her thumb brushing over his jaw like a whisper. "I know," she breathed, and in those two words was every shattered piece of her, offered up like a fragile truce. "But I'm not scared of you, Draco."

And just like that, she undid him. Completely.

With a low, barely restrained groan that seemed to rise from somewhere deep within him, Draco closed the small, electric space between them, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was not steeped in heat or hunger, but in something quieter, something more sacred—tender, slow, unhurried, as if the act itself was too precious to rush, too delicate to sully with urgency. His lips moved against hers with aching gentleness, his breath mingling with hers as though they were inhaling and exhaling in the same rhythm, as though the very air between them belonged to both of them now. His hands slid up slowly to cradle her face, fingers slipping into the tangled softness of her curls, anchoring himself to the one truth he knew in this moment: he wanted her, not just her body, not just her presence, but her soul, her heart, all the broken and unbroken pieces she was willing to offer.

There was no fire in the kiss—not yet. It was something gentler, like the first rays of sun breaking through the fog after a long storm. He kissed her like she was something he wasn't sure he deserved, like he was afraid this would vanish if he moved too quickly or held on too tight. It wasn't just affection, it was confession. A pouring out of everything he hadn't yet found the courage to say aloud. The way her lips met his with equal softness, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, clutching him closer, told him she understood, even if she hadn't spoken a word.

When they finally drew apart, it wasn't with regret or hesitance, but with a kind of reverent pause, like the silence that follows the final note of a symphony—full, brimming, suspended. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling, hearts pounding in tandem, and Draco couldn't look away from her eyes—those warm, dark, ever-searching eyes that had haunted him through months of silence and now held him here, present and raw. He lifted a hand and brushed his thumb along the curve of her jaw, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm as the words built in his throat, struggling to find their way out.

"I need to tell you something…" he murmured, and though his voice was soft, there was an unmistakable weight behind it, a tremble of vulnerability that made him feel exposed, uncertain, as though the very ground beneath him might shift if she didn't respond the way he hoped.

Hermione blinked up at him, her eyes still heavy from the kiss but laced with curiosity, concern, something almost tender. "What is it?" she asked gently, her voice like silk unraveling in the quiet space between them.

He swallowed hard, the truth clawing its way to the surface. His fingers were still nestled in her hair, brushing through the curls with unconscious care, grounding himself in her nearness, needing that anchor to steady him. "I've never…" He paused, exhaled, his gaze dropping to her lips before finding hers again, the weight of honesty pressing down on him. "I've never done this before. I mean... that. Not with anyone."

The silence that followed was deafening for a heartbeat, and he braced himself for whatever came next. Laughter. Pity. Awkwardness. But none of it came. Instead, Hermione blinked once, twice, and then smiled—a soft, almost disbelieving smile that made something tight in his chest loosen. "Oh…" she whispered, and then, with a touch of surprise and warmth in her voice, "Oh. I see."

She didn't tease him. She didn't make him feel foolish. Her fingers reached up, brushing along the sharp line of his cheek with the same gentleness he had just offered her. "I've only done it once," she added, her voice quiet, a hint of vulnerability bleeding into her words. "And it wasn't exactly... memorable. So I guess I'm not much ahead of you."

Draco blinked, momentarily thrown by her honesty, by how casually and kindly she had offered it up—not to diminish his confession, but to stand beside it, to make it feel less isolating. And just like that, some of the tension in his spine melted away. He let out a small, breathy laugh, the kind that sounded more like disbelief than amusement. "Well," he said, the corners of his mouth lifting into something real, something shy, "that makes two of us."

She smiled, and it was softer now, fuller, her hand sliding down to rest against his chest, her fingers splaying out over his heart as though she could feel the truth of his feelings pulsing there. "We'll figure it out together, okay?" she said, and there was no pressure in her voice, no timeline, no expectation—only reassurance, only calm, only the kind of patience that felt like a balm on every old wound.

He felt his throat tighten, the swell of gratitude rising so swiftly it almost overwhelmed him. Her kindness undid him. Her quiet acceptance, her willingness to hold space for him in all his inexperience and self-doubt, it chipped away at walls he hadn't even realized were still up. "Together," he echoed, and the word felt sacred, felt true, as his hand reached up to cradle her cheek again, his thumb brushing away a curl that had fallen across her temple.

And then, because he couldn't not, because the feeling in his chest had nowhere else to go, he leaned in and kissed her again—not on the lips this time, but on the forehead, a kiss that was reverent, protective, filled with more meaning than either of them could yet put into words. He lingered there, his mouth pressed to her skin, and whispered into the space between them, "I like the sound of that."

She started to kiss his neck and nibble on his earlobes. He felt a surge of excitement run through his body as she worked her way down to his chest, licking and sucking on his nipples.

"You enjoy that?" she whispered in his ear.

He could only nod, unable to find his voice. He had never experienced anything like this before. She continued to kiss and lick her way down his body, until she reached his pants. She pulled them down, revealing his hard cock.

"Mmm, someone's excited," she said with a smile. She wrapped her hand around his shaft and started to stroke it gently.

Draco moaned as she touched him. He had never felt anything so good before. She leaned down and took the tip of his cock in her mouth, swirling her tongue around it.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned.

He groaned and closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the pleasure of her touch. Her tongue felt so good, and he knew that it was only the beginning.

"Fuck, you're gonna make me cum already," he grunted, as she increased her speed.

She grinned and leaned forward, her soft lips wrapping around the head of his cock. She sucked him gently, teasing him with her tongue. He moaned and threaded his fingers through her hair, holding her head in place as he started thrusting his hips.

Hermione took him deeper, her lips stretching around his thick shaft. She loved the taste of him, the way he filled her mouth, the way he groaned when she touched him just right. She sucked him harder, her cheeks hollowing as she took him all the way to the back of her throat.

He was in heaven. He had always imagined her this way but tonight she was taking it to a whole new level. He could feel his orgasm building, his balls tightening as she worked her magic on him.

"Love, I'm gonna cum," he warned, but she didn't stop. Instead, she sucked him harder, her fingers digging into his thighs as she took every inch of him.

His orgasm hit him like a tidal wave, his cum shooting out of his cock and filling her mouth. She swallowed every drop, her eyes never leaving his as she milked him dry.

When it was over, he collapsed back onto the bed, panting and spent. She crawled up beside him, her lips curved in a satisfied smile.

"Did you like that?" she asked, her voice husky with desire.

He grinned and pulled her close, his hand cupping her breast. "Fuck, baby, I loved it. 

They lay naked in bed, their bodies entwined as they explored each other with eager hands and hungry mouths. Her breath quickened as his fingers traced lazy patterns on her smooth skin, sending shivers of anticipation down her spine. She moaned softly as he gently pinned her wrists above her head, exposing her neck which he proceeded to pepper with kisses and gentle nips.

He loved the taste of her skin and the way she responded to his touch. He wanted to pleasure her like never before, and so he began a slow descent down her body, kissing and licking his way across her collarbone and down to the swell of her breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue while his hand squeezed and massaged the other. Hermione arched her back, offering herself to him, her breathing becoming more ragged as pleasure coiled tightly within her.

Breaking away, he whispered, "I want to taste you everywhere." His voice was hoarse with desire as he continued his journey downwards, pausing to plant soft kisses on her stomach, just above the trimmed patch of curly brown hair that marked the apex of her thighs. 

She squirmed, anticipation making her needy, and she whimpered, "Please..."

Smiling, he replied, "As you wish, princess." And with that, he parted her thighs with gentle hands, exposing her glistening cunt to his eager gaze. He paused for a moment, admiring the sight before him—the plump lips, the glistening wetness, and the musky scent of her arousal filling his nostrils. He leaned in, inhaling her essence before planting a soft, gentle kiss on her gorgeous cunt.

She gasped at the contact, her body jerking at the sensation of his lips and breath on her most sensitive spot. He murmured words of encouragement as he began to explore her with his tongue, tracing the length of her slit before zeroing in on her clit, which throbbed and begged for attention. He teased the bundle of nerves, lapping at it with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue, causing her to buck her hips involuntarily.

"Oh fuck... that feels…so good," she moaned, her hands tangling in his hair as she encouraged him to continue.

And he did. He sucked and licked at her clit, varying the pressure and speed of his tongue, occasionally dipping a finger into her tight, wet channel, feeling her inner walls clench and spasm around him. He added another finger, scissoring them apart as he fingered her slowly, curling his digits to find that magical spot within her.

She cried out, her body bucking wildly as he hit her G-spot, and he kept up the relentless stimulation, adding a third finger as he stretched her and filled her. His tongue continued its assault on her clit, and soon she was a writhing mess, her body on the edge as he fucked her cunt and licked her into a frenzied state.

"I'm gonna cum, oh fuck... I'm gonna cum," she screamed, her body tensing as the orgasm ripped through her. Waves of pleasure washed over her, causing her to seesaw her hips, impaling herself on his fingers as her pussy clenched and released in quick succession.

Draco didn't let up, riding out her orgasm as he continued to lick her sensitive clit, drawing out her pleasure. Her body spasmed uncontrollably, and she cried out again, her voice hoarse as another orgasm crashed over her. He could taste her sweet juices flowing freely, and he moaned softly, the vibrations of his groans sending another jolt of pleasure through her sensitive body.

Finally, spent and satisfied, she lay there, panting heavily as her heart pounded in her chest. He, too, was breathless, a satisfied grin spreading across his face as he admired his handiwork. He slowly withdrew his fingers, raising them to his lips to suck her essence from them, his eyes never leaving hers.

She blushed, feeling deliciously wanton as she witnessed his hunger for her. "That was... incredible," she managed to say, her voice still shaking from the intensity of her release. "I've never felt anything like it."

He propped himself up on one elbow, leaning in to claim a deep, passionate kiss from her. "I aimed to please," he whispered against her lips, his breath warm on her skin. "And we're not done yet, my princess. I plan on making you cum even harder every time."

Her eyes widened at the promise in his words, and she pulled him closer, eager for more. He kissed a trail across her jawline and down her neck, his hands beginning their exploration once more. She sighed, her body already humming with anticipation as he prepared to take her on another erotic journey—one that would leave them both thoroughly sated and satisfied.

And so, as they continued to explore each other's bodies, losing themselves in a maze of touch and taste, she knew that this was just the beginning of a romantic adventure that would push boundaries and bring them even closer together. His skilled tongue and fingers would bring her to heights of pleasure she'd never known, and she couldn't wait to explore every inch of his body in return, driven by a newfound hunger that had been unleashed within her.

The night stretched out before them, full of promise and erotic potential, and as their moans and whispers filled the room, it became clear that this was just the first of many intense and explicit encounters that would leave them both thoroughly pleasured and thoroughly addicted to each other.

It was a sultry night of discovery, one that would leave an indelible mark on them both—a night where inhibitions were shed and replaced with unbridled passion and erotic exploration that would forever change the dynamic between them.