Chapter 6

The dynamic between them had shifted with a quiet intensity that neither of them had expected, like a fault line rearranging beneath the surface of a landscape they thought they understood. The passion they had shared the night before had not been born of heat alone—it had been a slow, unfolding revelation, a moment that reached beneath their guarded façades and pulled something raw and beautiful to the surface. It wasn't just about desire; it was about trust. About surrender. And in the soft, silvery haze of the morning after, Hermione found herself surrounded by a new kind of silence—one not steeped in resentment or avoidance, but filled with the delicate hush of something fragile and real blooming between them. The comfort of it unnerved her almost as much as it soothed her. She hadn't expected to feel this way—not about him, not about any of it. But it was there, nonetheless, a growing, unspoken connection that made waking beside him feel less like crossing a boundary and more like finally coming home.

When she wandered sleepily into the kitchen that morning, hair tousled from sleep and Draco's old button-down shirt draped over her like a shield, she was greeted by the distinct scent of something both warm and slightly burnt, a buttery cloud of charred batter that curled in the air like an accidental incense. Her eyes landed on him—Draco, standing at the stove in a soft grey jumper and pajama trousers, sleeves slightly rolled up, wand tucked into his waistband like an afterthought. He was staring down at a pan with the furrowed brow of a man confronting a dark curse, his lips pressed together in a line of sheer determination as he attempted—valiantly, if not successfully—to flip what appeared to be his fourth or fifth disfigured pancake.

She paused in the doorway, watching him for a beat, her arms folding lazily across her chest as a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. There was something unbelievably endearing about it—seeing him like this, so out of his element, standing barefoot in his own kitchen and looking like he was moments away from declaring war on a frying pan.

"Good morning," she said softly, her voice still raspy from sleep but laced with amusement as she leaned against the doorframe, head tilting as she took in the chaotic scene before her.

He turned, startled but not displeased, his eyes immediately seeking hers with a sheepish flicker of vulnerability. "Don't judge those," he said quickly, gesturing to the growing stack of scorched, deformed pancakes as if they might defend themselves. "They're prototypes. Early drafts. Highly experimental."

Hermione snorted, stepping further into the room with a light shake of her head, her amusement blooming into something warmer. "Prototypes?" she echoed, raising a brow as she approached the counter and leaned over to inspect the evidence of his culinary crusade. "That's quite a euphemism for burnt offerings to the gods of breakfast."

He groaned, rolling his eyes at himself with a resigned smirk. "They didn't look like that in the recipe photo," he muttered, poking at one of the particularly tragic pancakes with the corner of his spatula as though it had betrayed him personally.

"Do you need help?" she offered, her tone gentle but teasing, eyes glinting with affection.

His immediate, defensive shake of the head was almost charming in its predictability. "No, I'm perfectly capable," he insisted, despite the blackened disc in the pan before him that crackled ominously under the heat. "Just… refining the technique."

She stepped closer now, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, her bare feet padding softly across the kitchen tile as she reached around him from behind, her front pressed against his back. Her hands slid gently over his, fingers wrapping around his knuckles as she took hold of the spatula with him, her breath brushing the nape of his neck.

"Here," she murmured, her voice low and soothing in the morning stillness. "Let me help you before you accidentally burn the house down."

He stilled for a moment beneath her touch, his posture taut with the echo of old habits, but slowly—almost imperceptibly—he began to melt into her, the tension in his shoulders easing as he let her guide him. Their hands moved together, clumsy at first, until he let her lead, the motion becoming fluid, unspoken, like the early beginnings of a dance. The moment stretched, soft and domestic in a way neither of them had ever known how to name—gentle laughter in the kitchen, the hiss of butter on the stove, the smell of something just this side of edible curling through the air.

And in that fleeting slice of morning light, with her arms around him and their fingers tangled over a spatula, it almost felt like they had always been this way.

He tensed, but only for the briefest flicker of a moment—an involuntary reaction, not out of discomfort or hesitation, but because the sudden, quiet closeness of her body pressed so gently to his back sent a heat curling through his chest like a slow-moving flame. It wasn't the sharp, overwhelming kind of want he'd known the night before, but something more rooted, more startling in its tenderness. This was new, different, a subtle undercurrent of comfort rather than fire, like the space between them had been redefined overnight. Her arms brushed against his as she guided his hands, her palms smooth and steady, her fingers wrapped around his in a way that felt instinctive. And he realized, in that small, still moment, that the shift between them wasn't fleeting—it had sunk deeper than lust or circumstance. There was a quiet kind of intimacy blooming now, one stitched together from silence and softness, from efforts made and walls lowered, from a simple truth neither had dared name yet.

"I didn't think you could be so domestic," she murmured with a teasing lilt, though her voice held the kind of warmth that made his heart squeeze in his chest. She was guiding his hand with patience, her touch unhurried, and together they flipped the next pancake, which landed golden and slightly lopsided in the pan—not perfect by any stretch, but a marked improvement over the charcoal casualties he had previously created.

"Well, there's a first time for everything," he muttered under his breath, his ears turning faintly pink as the soft heat of embarrassment crept up the back of his neck. He could feel her smile even though he couldn't see it, and for a moment he fought the urge to hide his face, to retreat into the armor he had so carefully cultivated over the years. "Besides," he added more quietly, as if the words cost him something to say, "I'm trying to be... useful. I figured you'd appreciate breakfast. Or at least the attempt."

Her heart gave an unexpected flutter at that. It wasn't just the gesture—anyone could make breakfast, after all—but the quiet vulnerability behind it. This was Draco Malfoy, the boy raised by house-elves and crystal, by bloodlines and arrogance, standing barefoot in his kitchen at dawn, burning pancakes because he wanted to do something kind for her. Because he didn't know how else to show her that he cared. And gods, it meant more than she could ever put into words.

Without thinking, she leaned into him just a little more, resting her forehead gently against the space between his shoulder blades. The scent of him—warm skin, fresh soap, a hint of spice from the cologne he must have dabbed on out of habit—wrapped around her as she closed her eyes, breathing in the moment like it was something sacred. "I do appreciate it," she whispered against the fabric of his shirt, her voice barely more than breath, but achingly sincere. "More than you know."

Draco stilled, his attention no longer on the stove or the pan or the pancake beginning to sizzle beneath them. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as if he could better feel the press of her against him, the warmth of her words still echoing in his ears. Slowly, like he was afraid of breaking the spell, he released the spatula and turned to face her, his body shifting within the small kitchen space. His gaze drifted to her hand, still resting lightly against his hip, and then up to her face. There was something quiet in his expression, something raw and unguarded that made her throat tighten.

"I'm glad you stayed," he said, his voice soft and rough at once, threaded through with a kind of astonished reverence. "I know I haven't earned it. I know I don't deserve you. But you stayed. And that means everything."

Hermione looked up at him, caught in the intensity of his gaze. His grey eyes, always so sharp and unreadable, were soft now—open in a way that invited her in rather than pushing her away. For the first time, she could see it plainly: the fear he carried, the shame he wore like a second skin, the hope he didn't quite dare to hold. It wasn't an apology or a plea—it was just the truth. Honest and quiet and trembling with meaning.

"You're not who you used to be," she said after a moment, her voice even but trembling slightly. "And neither am I. We've both changed. Maybe... maybe we're still figuring out who we are. But that's okay."

Her words hovered in the air like a promise, and for a long heartbeat they didn't move, didn't speak—just stood there, breathing the same air, lost in the weight of something deeper than either of them had prepared for. Then, slowly, her hand reached up to his jaw, her thumb brushing along the sharp line of his cheekbone, and she leaned in. It wasn't a kiss, not really—just a soft press of lips to the curve of his jaw, tender and fleeting, but it made Draco inhale sharply, the warmth of it rushing through him like a shockwave.

"Thank you... for breakfast," she murmured with a smile that was both teasing and affectionate.

Draco huffed out a laugh, the sound light and stunned, shaking his head as he looked down at the disaster still unfolding on the stove. "Thank me when I manage one that's actually edible," he replied dryly, but there was unmistakable pride in his voice. "Although—I'll take the kiss as a down payment."

She rolled her eyes but didn't hide the smile that curved her lips. "Alright, then. Let's see if we can salvage your pancake graveyard."

And so they did—standing shoulder to shoulder, brushing fingers and sharing quiet glances, their laughter mingling with the crackle of batter on the skillet. The pancakes remained imperfect, slightly burnt and uneven, but it didn't matter. None of that mattered anymore. What mattered was this—the way they moved together, the ease growing between them like a new language, unspoken but deeply understood.

And later, when they sat across from each other at the kitchen table with chipped mugs of tea and mismatched plates piled with flawed but earnest pancakes, Draco glanced at her—at the woman who had once been a name he cursed, now the heartbeat of his mornings—and thought, for the first time in longer than he could remember, that he wasn't afraid of what came next.

For the first time, hope didn't feel like a risk. It felt like breakfast. It felt like her.

~~~

The next morning arrived slowly, sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains in pale streaks that danced lazily across the bedspread, but it wasn't the brightness or warmth that roused her—it was the sound. The gentle murmur of voices drifted faintly through the Manor's long corridors, a distant echo that shouldn't have meant anything. But then came the unmistakable cadence of a woman's laughter—light, lilting, and oddly melodic—and something about it struck her with all the subtlety of a dagger slid between ribs. It didn't belong in the quiet, in the morning hush that had, for the past few days, belonged to just the two of them. It jarred her awake like a slap. Her eyes blinked open slowly, the haze of sleep clinging to her lashes, and for a moment she simply lay still, trying to place the unfamiliar noise. But the longer she listened, the clearer it became—and with that clarity came a slow, crawling tension that began to tighten in her stomach like a knot being pulled too tight.

The laughter came again, sharper now, followed by the low murmur of a response she couldn't quite make out—and it stirred something inside her she wasn't prepared for. Jealousy, maybe. Or resentment. Or just a low simmer of indignation that someone—some woman —was laughing with him. In their home. In his voice. The sound grated against her senses like broken glass, setting her teeth on edge. She pushed back the covers with more force than necessary, slipping her feet into the slippers beside the bed and yanking her robe off the chair. Her hands trembled slightly as she tied the sash, but she told herself it was just the chill of the morning air. Not the adrenaline. Not the irrational fury.

Who the hell was in their house this early—and what could possibly be so funny?

She lingered at the doorframe, her hand gripping the wood tightly as she held her breath and strained to listen. Another peal of laughter rang out, and this time it wasn't just the sound, but the ease of it—the way it filled the space with too much familiarity. That laugh. That voice . It was like a bell she hadn't wanted to remember. Her eyes narrowed, lips parting slightly as recognition crept in like an uninvited guest. The knot in her stomach twisted cruelly, and her heart gave a single, heavy thud as realization dawned.

She didn't need to see her. She knew .

Astoria Greengrass.

The name exploded in her mind like a curse, like something bitter she wanted to spit out. She began moving down the hallway, her steps slow but purposeful, bare feet soundless on the smooth floorboards. Her pulse thudded louder with every step, matching the quickening tempo of her thoughts. She didn't know what she expected to find—perhaps she was hoping she was wrong, that it was someone else entirely—but a part of her knew. She knew . Even before she turned the corner, before the full scene revealed itself, her mind had already painted the picture, each brushstroke layered in tension and spite.

And then she saw them.

There, sprawled across the edge of the living room sofa like it was hers, sat Astoria—radiant, poised, too perfect in that maddening, polished way. Her glossy hair swept over one shoulder, her eyes alight with amusement as she smiled— smiled —at Draco, who sat beside her, far too relaxed. They were angled toward each other, knees almost touching, their postures open and familiar, the kind of closeness bred not by accident but by design. Her hand, adorned with tasteful rings, rested lightly on his forearm, the gesture seemingly casual but filled with intention. It wasn't a touch of greeting—it was a territorial stake.

Hermione's entire body went still.

She felt the burn rise in her chest, hot and acidic, something between rage and disbelief. The image seared itself into her vision, burned into the backs of her eyelids even as she stood frozen at the threshold. Her breath caught in her throat, fists clenching at her sides as a thousand thoughts screamed for attention all at once. She wasn't the type to storm into a room or throw a tantrum— usually . But this wasn't usual. This was her house. Her husband. And that —that elegant, manicured, smirking woman—had no right to look at him like that. To touch him like that. Not after everything.

Her heart pounded in her ears, louder than the laughter now, louder than the polite conversation drifting from the room. And still, Draco hadn't noticed her. Still, he hadn't looked toward the hallway where she stood like a ghost watching her own life unravel.

And suddenly, she didn't know what hurt more—that Astoria was there, or that he hadn't come to wake her up first.

Draco was seated beside her—not touching exactly, but the distance between them was so minimal it may as well have been nonexistent—and what made Hermione's stomach knot with a slow, acidic burn was that he didn't seem to notice, or worse, didn't seem to mind. His posture was relaxed, his long legs stretched out before him, his elbow just barely brushing Astoria's, and that smile—Merlin, that smile, the one he so rarely showed, the one that made his entire face soften and his eyes light up—was pointed straight at Astoria, not at her. The ease between them was unmistakable, the kind of ease that came with long familiarity and private jokes and a history that Hermione had never been part of, and it made something coil and seethe in her chest.

She could feel her heartbeat quicken, her hands curling into tight fists at her sides as she stood frozen in the doorway, trying and failing to calm the surge of possessiveness that was rising in her like a tidal wave. She didn't even know why it affected her this much—except she did. It wasn't just the familiarity between them, it was the way Astoria leaned in just slightly when she laughed, that syrupy, high-pitched laugh that grated on Hermione's ears like nails on glass. It was the way Draco didn't pull away, didn't flinch when her perfectly manicured fingers landed lightly on his arm, her touch delicate and possessive all at once. It was the way Astoria looked like she belonged there—in their living room, on their sofa, with him.

And that made Hermione's blood boil.

"I didn't know you were still such a flirt, Draco," Astoria said with a playful purr, her voice smooth and just loud enough for Hermione to hear as she leaned in, her hand sliding further along his arm like she had every right to touch him. It was a casual touch, but calculated, every bit of it a performance—and Hermione was her only audience.

The tight smile that curled on Draco's lips did nothing to ease her growing fury. "I'm charming by nature, what can I say?" he quipped, and there was a familiarity in his tone that made Hermione want to scream. He didn't sound like that with her. Not often. Not freely.

Her legs finally moved before her mouth did, carrying her into the room with a deliberately loud clearing of her throat. The sound was sharp, abrupt, a blade cutting through the low, easy hum of laughter between them. Both heads turned, and for a moment, she could swear there was a flicker of guilt in Draco's eyes—gone in a blink, but unmistakable—and Astoria, of course, looked entirely unbothered. Pleased, even. Like she'd been waiting for Hermione to walk in all along.

"Princess," Draco said, his voice softer now, guarded. "Good morning."

Astoria's expression sharpened with false delight, her smile just a touch too polished. "Oh, Hermione," she drawled, drawing out the syllables like she was savoring them. "Lovely to see you. You look… well." Her gaze swept over Hermione's oversized robe and slippered feet with barely veiled amusement.

Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line. "I didn't know we were expecting guests," she said, her tone carefully neutral but sharp enough to slice glass.

Astoria gave a dainty shrug, still comfortably nestled on the sofa. "Oh, I just dropped by. Draco and I were catching up. We go way back, after all." Her eyes sparkled with something smug, something territorial.

Hermione's stomach churned as her gaze flicked once more to the casual, intimate way they sat. "Yes," she said, voice clipped. "I remember. You used to date."

Astoria laughed again, tossing her hair over her shoulder with infuriating grace. "Briefly," she said breezily. "Ancient history. But you know how it is—some people just... stay close." Her fingers brushed Draco's arm again, light as air but burning like fire in Hermione's eyes.

Draco shifted, finally seeming to register the tension radiating off Hermione like heat. He casually removed Astoria's hand and stood, his expression unreadable. "We were just talking," he said, almost apologetically.

Hermione didn't believe it. Not really. The sight of Astoria curled up on their sofa like she owned it, like she still had a piece of Draco, made Hermione's skin crawl. There was a tightness in her chest she hadn't felt since the war, something raw and instinctive—rage, yes, but underneath it, fear. Because she was starting to care. And it terrified her.

"You two seemed... close," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them, brittle and laced with venom. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, trying to anchor herself.

Hermione's mouth went dry. Her fists clenched tighter at her sides, nails biting into her skin hard enough to leave half-moon crescents. "I see," she said tightly, her voice brittle with the effort of holding herself together. Her eyes didn't move from Astoria's, locked in a silent battle she had no intention of losing, though every second that passed in this hellish tableau felt like another inch being carved out of her composure. She couldn't stand it—this ridiculous charade, this carefully curated performance of effortless elegance and subtle jabs. She couldn't stand the way Astoria acted like she belonged there more than Hermione ever had, like this manor was her second skin, like Draco was still hers to touch and laugh with and claim.

Draco took a step toward her then, his movements slower, gentler, as if approaching a startled animal, his eyes softening as they met hers. "Baby," he murmured low enough that only she could hear, the word barely more than a breath, intimate and desperate. "It's not what you think."

And oh, gods, how she wanted to believe him. How she wanted to take that small, careful phrase and let it wrap around her like safety. But she couldn't—not with Astoria sitting there like a serpent in silk, lounging comfortably in a space that felt far too intimate, too shared, too familiar. Not when that smug, practiced smirk was still playing on her lips, as if she knew exactly what she was doing—reclaiming territory that Hermione hadn't realized she'd wanted to call hers until it was already threatened.

"I think I'll leave you two to… catch up," she said, her voice smooth and sharp as a dagger dipped in poison. The controlled venom in her tone was deliberate, her spine straight as she turned on her heel without another glance, not giving either of them the satisfaction of seeing how much it had gotten to her. Her chest was burning, her hands trembling at her sides, but she wouldn't let it show. She refused to give Astoria that satisfaction. She wouldn't stand there another second, watching Draco laugh like that, watching him bask in someone else's attention while she stood off to the side like an intruder in her own life.

Her footsteps echoed through the empty halls of the Manor like gunshots, each one loud and angry and barely restrained, the marble beneath her slippers cool and unyielding. She stormed through corridor after corridor, her thoughts spinning into chaos. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes stinging with a frustration she hadn't expected, and every breath she drew felt too shallow. Why was she reacting like this? Why did it feel like she'd been punched in the gut by something she couldn't even name? Astoria's presence had been a sudden, sharp wound, but the laughter, the casual ease, the closeness—that was the knife twisting deeper.

Draco's past shouldn't matter. She knew that. She had always told herself she didn't care. But the truth of it—the truth that slammed into her with every step—was that it did matter. Not because she was petty. Not because she was possessive. But because, somewhere along the way, she had started to care in ways she hadn't wanted to admit. She had started to fall for him.

And seeing someone else so effortlessly claim a piece of him—someone who fit into his world so easily, someone blonde and elegant and poised, someone who had once had his heart and maybe still did—made her feel like she was fighting for something she was already losing.

"Fuck that bitch," she hissed under her breath as she flung her bedroom door open and stepped inside, the fury radiating off her in waves. She paced back and forth, her heart pounding in her chest, her hands shaking as the image replayed in her mind: Astoria's hand on his arm, that low, sultry laugh, Draco's smile—unbothered, too comfortable, too goddamn charming. It was infuriating. It was devastating.

She wasn't the jealous type. At least, she hadn't been. But there was something about Astoria—about the way she had looked at Hermione like she didn't belong, like she was just the temporary placeholder in a story that had always been meant for someone else—that brought something ugly and territorial clawing to the surface.

She had told herself she was just surviving this arrangement. That whatever was growing between her and Draco was incidental, peripheral, a side effect of proximity and shared trauma. But now, that excuse rang hollow. Because it wasn't just physical. It wasn't just obligation. She had let herself get close—too close. And now, watching someone else waltz into his life with effortless familiarity, with that possessive touch and that smug look, made Hermione realize just how much she wanted to be the only one who got to see that smile. Just how much she didn't want to share.

She sank down onto the edge of her bed, her fingers twisted in the fabric of her robe, her chest aching in that quiet, nauseating way heartbreak always did when it snuck up on you. Because she could lie to herself all she wanted. But the truth was glaring, undeniable, and sitting like lead in her stomach.

She was jealous. And worse—she had every reason to be.

The door burst open with a bang that echoed through the room like a shot, slamming against the wall with the force of Draco's entrance. He didn't knock—didn't hesitate—just stormed inside with a look carved from frustration and something far more volatile, his pale cheeks flushed, his jaw tight, and those storm-grey eyes darkened by a tempest that matched hers. "My love, please—" he started, voice strained, desperate, as if he'd rehearsed a dozen apologies on his way there and now couldn't remember how to breathe.

"Shut the fuck up," she snapped, the words slicing the air like a whip, venomous and ragged and entirely unrestrained. Her voice cracked from the force of her rage, loud and hot and sharp enough to make the room vibrate. The sound of it shocked even her, louder than she intended, crueler than she'd meant—but she didn't care. She couldn't care. Not now. Not after that.

He flinched—just slightly—but the reaction was enough. His eyes widened in disbelief, but beneath the surface there was something else too. Guilt. Tangled with confusion. Regret. "Hermione," he breathed her name like a prayer or maybe a curse, like it was the only thing anchoring him to the floor.

She crossed her arms over her chest with a force that bordered on self-protection, her posture rigid, chin tilted in defiance, trying so damn hard to keep herself from crumbling. Her glare could've lit the room on fire. "What are you doing here?" she hissed, her voice shaking with barely contained fury. "Shouldn't you be off entertaining your guest? Maybe Astoria's waiting for you in some other room, purring your name and laughing at all your charming little jokes."

Draco exhaled slowly, visibly trying to keep his own temper in check as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, as if gentleness could somehow undo the fury she was barely holding back. "Astoria's gone," he said, careful, measured, the words too neat to fit inside the chaos of her mind. "She dropped by for a short visit. Nothing more."

"A short visit?" she snapped, her tone curling into something cold and dangerous, lips pulled tight as she stepped forward, her fury burning just beneath the surface. "Is that what you call it when someone's practically on your lap, touching you like she owns you? Laughing at everything you say like you're the only man in the world?" She shook her head, her laugh bitter and humorless. "God, you didn't even pull away."

Draco's jaw tightened, the tendons in his neck flexing as he took a step closer, his voice low and firm. "There's nothing between me and Astoria. Never was. Not even a kiss, Hermione."

She barked out a laugh, wild and disbelieving. "Well, good for her. Because she sure looked like she wanted one."

His face fell, and she saw it—that flicker of hurt, the way his shoulders sagged with the weight of everything unspoken. But she didn't let it soften her. Not yet. "I don't care," she hissed, the lie ringing hollow even to her own ears. "I don't care who you flirt with or how many pretty blondes you bring into this house. Just don't expect me to smile and pretend I don't see it."

"Yes, you do," he said quietly, stepping closer again, so close she could feel the heat coming off his body, see the tremble in his fingers. "You care, Hermione. And it's killing you."

Her lips parted to deny it, but the words died in her throat. Her fists clenched at her sides, breath shuddering as emotion overwhelmed fury. "And if I do?" she whispered, her voice cracked and full of pain. "What then?"

His gaze softened, and the edge of his mouth tugged into a smirk—not the arrogant kind, but the kind that cracked his expression into something more human. "Then someone's jealous," he said, almost teasing, but his voice trembled just enough to betray how much he wanted to be wrong—and how much he wanted her to admit it.

Her heart punched against her ribs. "What if I am?" she snapped, her words cracking like glass under pressure. "What if I hate seeing someone else touch you? What if I want to scream when you smile like that at someone else? What if I can't stand how easy it is for her to walk in here like she still has a place in your life, like she fits better than I ever will?"

And there it was—the truth, raw and unfiltered, sitting between them like a wound too deep to ignore.

Draco's smirk faded into something softer, something closer to awe. He reached out slowly, deliberately, as if he was afraid she might vanish. His hand found her arm, tentative but warm. "Then tell me why," he murmured. "Tell me why you care so much."

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her throat ached with the truth and the fear tangled inside it. She blinked, eyes stinging with tears she didn't want to shed. "I don't know," she said finally, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with exhaustion and surrender. "I just… do. It hurts. That's all I know."

His fingers slid up her arm, slow and reverent, until he was cupping her cheek. His touch was gentle, grounding, like he was afraid she'd break if he held her too tightly. "Hermione," he said, and when she met his eyes, she saw none of the smugness, none of the old pride—just a boy in love with a girl who didn't know how to let herself be loved. "There's no one else. There's never been anyone else. Not like this. Not like you."

Her breath hitched, and the dam broke.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she choked out, not even sure who she was angry at anymore—him, herself, or the whole world. "Why are you making me feel like this when I was fine before? When I didn't have to feel anything at all?"

He leaned in then, so close their foreheads touched, his voice dropping to something that made her knees weak. "Because I can't help it. Because I think about you all the fucking time. Because I'd rather burn this whole place to the ground than let you think I want anyone but you."

She stood there, shaking, breathing hard, staring at him as if he were something she wanted and hated and needed all at once. He kissed her forehead—light and slow and reverent—and she closed her eyes, the smallest, most broken sound catching in her throat.

"I don't want anyone else, Hermione," he whispered, his lips against her skin. "Just you."

She closed her eyes, lashes fluttering against flushed skin as she let the sound of his voice sink into her like warmth after a long winter, letting his words coil around the tight knot in her chest that had been there for what felt like forever—an ache born of fear, doubt, pride, and all the things she had tried to ignore. She hadn't let herself believe this could be real, hadn't allowed herself to hope that someone like Draco Malfoy could want her, care for her, choose her—not out of obligation, not out of convenience, but with that quiet, persistent tenderness that was now shining so clearly in his voice. For so long, she'd kept her heart hidden behind sarcasm and steel, behind walls fortified by grief and stubborn independence, but now, standing in front of him, looking into those storm-gray eyes that were softer than she'd ever seen them, she realized she couldn't run anymore. She didn't want to.

"I don't want anyone else either," she whispered, barely more than breath, her voice trembling as though the truth had cost her something to say—even though it hadn't. It had given her something. A kind of peace. The admission was terrifying in its honesty, but also the most relieving thing she'd said in a long time. It was like exhaling after holding her breath for months. Like telling herself, for the first time, that it was okay to want him back.

Draco's smile broke slow across his face, not smug or triumphant, but gentle, almost reverent, like her words meant more than she could know. His thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone in a featherlight motion, grounding her, soothing her. "Then we're on the same page," he murmured, and it felt like an anchor—a promise.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her chest rising and falling with the weight of emotion she could no longer suppress. It was all too much—his nearness, his gentleness, the quiet vulnerability in his gaze—but at the same time, it was everything she hadn't known she needed. Her entire body felt awake in a way it hadn't in ages. Her nerves thrummed with life, her heartbeat galloping with the strange thrill of finally surrendering to something she'd fought so hard to deny. The future stretched before them in a blur of uncertainty, but for once, that unknown didn't terrify her. It felt like freedom. Like possibility.

She looked up at him, her lips parting as if to speak again, but the words never came. He was already watching her, eyes filled with that same intensity that had always left her breathless, but now there was a softness to it—a glow of something she almost didn't recognize. Adoration, maybe. His hand brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, and the gesture sent a shiver across her skin, delicate and electric.

"I enjoy when you're jealous," he said, his voice low, rich with amusement and the kind of playful affection that made her want to melt and slap him at the same time.

She narrowed her eyes, a flush blooming across her cheeks despite her best effort to maintain composure. "I do not," she said quickly, arms crossing in front of her chest as though they might shield her from how flustered she felt. "It's completely irrational. I don't know what came over me."

He tilted his head slightly, smirk widening as he leaned in until his lips brushed the edge of her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "It's not irrational," he murmured, that dangerous, teasing lilt curling through every syllable. "It's kind of adorable, actually. You, all bristling and fierce over me? Drives me mad."

Hermione's blush deepened, and she scowled at him, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her. "Adorable? Merlin's balls, Malfoy, I've fought in a war. I've been tortured. I'm not adorable."

"Well, you are to me," he said without missing a beat, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze again, and in his eyes, she saw none of the smirking cruelty of the boy she used to know. Just sincerity. Earnest, infuriatingly charming sincerity. "But just so we're perfectly clear… you don't ever need to feel jealous. Astoria means nothing to me. Never has. You're the one I want."

The words landed like a thunderclap in her chest, knocking the breath from her lungs, and for a second, she didn't know what to do with how much they meant. How much he meant. All her well-rehearsed arguments, all the ways she'd tried to justify keeping her distance, seemed to dissolve like mist. He looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered, and gods, she wasn't ready for it—but she wanted it. Badly.

She sighed, trying to hold on to some semblance of control, and rolled her eyes with exaggerated frustration. "She still can't come over. Ever."

Draco raised an eyebrow, his amusement returning full force. "Ever?" he repeated, drawing out the word like a challenge.

"Ever," she confirmed with a decisive nod. "Pansy can come. I like Pansy. She's loud and strange and sometimes terrifying, but she doesn't try to drape herself all over you like some sort of designer cloak."

Draco's laugh was sudden and unrestrained, warm and bright, and it wrapped around her like sunlight. He reached for her waist, tugging her into him with ease. "Noted," he said between chuckles. "Astoria's officially banished. But Pansy? Pansy can visit any time. Preferably when I need moral support."

Hermione grinned despite herself, the tension that had coiled tight in her spine finally beginning to loosen. "Good. Because I think if I had to explain that particular boundary to Pansy, she'd hex me into next week out of sheer dramatic principle."

Draco's hands slid up her back, slow and comforting, fingers drawing lazy shapes against her spine. She sighed into the touch, leaning into him, letting herself fall just a little further into the quiet warmth between them. For the first time in days—no, weeks—it felt like the storm had passed, like something between them had solidified, fragile but real.

And she realized, as she pressed her forehead to his chest and let the rhythm of his heartbeat lull her into calm, that maybe being vulnerable didn't mean being weak. Maybe, with Draco, it could mean something else entirely. Maybe it meant being chosen , even when you didn't ask to be. Maybe it meant finally letting yourself believe that you deserved to be wanted.

"You know," he began, his voice softer now, more serious, "I've never had this with anyone before. This... us. It's new for me too."

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for any sign of hesitation. But there was none. He was being honest, vulnerable in a way she had never seen before, and it made her heart ache in the best possible way.

"I'm not used to feeling this... attached," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper now. "But with you, it's different. I want this. I want you."

Her chest tightened at his words, and for a moment, she didn't know how to respond. The walls she had built around her heart, the ones that had kept her safe for so long, were crumbling, and she wasn't sure how to handle the weight of her own emotions.

But he didn't push. He just held her, his arms steady and sure, as if he was willing to wait for her to catch up to him. And in that moment, she realized something. She didn't have to have all the answers right now. She didn't have to know exactly what the future held or where this relationship would lead. All she had to do was be present, to let herself feel, and to trust that maybe—just maybe—this was something worth holding on to.

"I want this too," she finally whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she spoke. "I just... I didn't expect it to feel so... real."

He smiled softly, his thumb gently stroking her cheek. "It is real, Hermione. More real than anything I've ever known."

They stood there for a moment, the silence between them comfortable, as if the weight of their confessions had brought them to a new level of understanding. It wasn't perfect, and it wouldn't be easy. But it was theirs, and that was enough.

After a few minutes, he pulled back slightly, his gaze locking with hers. "So, no more jealous fits then?" he teased, though there was a tenderness in his voice that belied the joke.

She smirked, giving him a playful shove. "I make no promises. But if I see another woman draping herself over you, I might just kill her."

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Fair enough. I'll be sure to keep a safe distance from all other women from now on."

She laughed softly, the sound light and free. And for the first time in a long time, she felt like everything might just be okay.

As they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, the weight of their unspoken feelings finally out in the open, Hermione felt something shift inside her. For the first time in what seemed like forever, she wasn't afraid. Not of Draco, not of the intensity of her own emotions, and certainly not of what the future might hold for them. She felt an undeniable sense of belonging, as if she had found something she hadn't even known she was searching for.

Her gaze drifted up to meet his, and in that moment, the connection between them was electric. Her heart raced, her breath hitching in her throat as her eyes filled with longing she could no longer deny. Slowly, she leaned in, brushing her lips against his in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened. It was as if a dam had burst, and everything they had been holding back for so long came rushing to the surface.

He responded immediately, his hands cupping her face as he kissed her back with a hunger that matched her own. The kiss was anything but gentle— it was raw, intense, filled with the pent-up desire that had been simmering beneath the surface for months. Their tongues collided, exploring, tasting, and claiming each other in a way that felt like both a release and a promise of more to come.

Her hands roamed over his chest, her fingers tracing the hard planes of his muscles as if memorizing the feel of him beneath her touch. Each brush of her skin against his sent a wave of heat crashing through her body, and she pressed herself closer, wanting—needing—more.

His hands slid down her back, gripping her hips firmly before slipping lower, cupping her ass and pulling her tightly against him. The feeling of her soft curves pressed so intimately against him made his mind spin. He could feel her warmth, her desire, and the way her body seemed to fit perfectly against his. His entire being ached for her, and he was sure she could feel it too.

She stood up, her dress slipping down to her ankles in a slow, deliberate motion, teasing him with every subtle movement. As she turned around, her bare back was now exposed, the curve of her spine leading his eyes downward in helpless awe. She reached up, fingers grazing her shoulders, and with a soft, sensual gesture, she let the fabric slide off, pooling around her feet like silk.

His breath hitched in his throat. She was wearing a lacy black lingerie set that left nothing to the imagination, every inch of her skin bathed in the dim light, her curves highlighted perfectly. Her ass was a masterpiece of perfection, and her breasts, firm and tantalizing, seemed to beckon him closer.

When she turned back to face him, her gaze was smoldering—her eyes dark with intent, locked onto his like an unspoken challenge. Slowly, with a grace that made his pulse race, she crawled onto the bed, straddling his lap with fluid ease. The warmth of her body, so close, sent a wave of heat crashing through him. His hands instinctively moved to her hips, pulling her against him as though he needed her closer than air.

Every inch of her skin pressed into him, and the friction of her breasts against his chest was intoxicating. His breath grew ragged as she ground her hips against him, making him moan deeply, his need for her becoming almost unbearable. The sensation of her, teasing him with every slow, calculated movement, had him on edge, craving more.

His hands couldn't stop their exploration, roaming over her soft, supple skin as though committing every detail to memory. Her body was like a work of art under his touch—delicate, yet powerful, pulling him deeper into the moment. His fingers gripped her ass, kneading the flesh as he pulled her tighter against him, desperate to feel every part of her. The heat between them grew unbearable, the tension electric.

Leaning down, he captured her lips in a kiss that was rough, hungry, and full of the passion he'd been holding back for so long. Every brush of their skin, every breathless touch, sent sparks shooting through him, as if the universe had aligned just to bring this moment to life.

She increased the rhythm of her hips, grinding faster against him, the friction driving him wild. His moans grew louder, a low, primal sound that only encouraged her further. With a sultry gaze, she reached down, her hand wrapping around his cock, stroking him slowly at first, feeling him grow harder in her grip.

It was too much for him to handle. In a swift motion, he flipped her onto her back, pinning her beneath him. His eyes were dark with need, his breathing ragged. He lowered his head to her neck, kissing her skin with a mix of hunger and reverence. Each kiss sent shivers down her spine, her soft moans echoing in the room.

His lips continued their descent, trailing down her body in a path of slow, heated kisses. When he reached her breasts, he paused, taking one nipple into his mouth and swirling his tongue over it, teasing her gently. Her back arched off the bed in response, a louder moan escaping her lips as the pleasure intensified.

Every touch from him was deliberate, his mouth and hands exploring her with a fervor that made her tremble beneath him. He kissed and licked his way further down, savoring every inch of her skin, as if worshiping her body. When he finally reached her center, he spread her legs gently, revealing her glistening, wet heat.

He paused for a moment, his eyes drinking her in before leaning down, his breath hot against her most sensitive spot. His tongue flicked out, tasting her, and the moan that left her lips was almost a plea. He worked his mouth against her, licking, sucking, and teasing, his hands gripping her thighs to keep her open for him. She writhed beneath him, completely at his mercy, her hands fisting the sheets as he brought her closer and closer to the edge, each stroke of his tongue sending her spiraling into a world of overwhelming pleasure.

His tongue flicked over her clit with expert precision, alternating between gentle licks and harder, more focused strokes that made Hermione moan louder with each passing second. Her body reacted instinctively, her hips bucking against his face, seeking more of the pleasure he was giving her, desperate for that final release.

He groaned against her, the vibration adding to her pleasure, and slipped a finger inside her, feeling her tight walls immediately clench around him. The warmth of her arousal coated his fingers, making it easy to slide in and out as he matched the rhythm of his tongue, each movement calculated to drive her closer to the edge.

Her breath hitched, her moans becoming more frantic, her hands tangling in his hair as the pressure built to an unbearable point. Draco added a second finger, curling them inside her, finding the spot that made her gasp sharply. Her hips lifted off the bed as her body responded to the overwhelming pleasure, and he could feel her tightening around him, on the verge of losing control.

And then it happened. Her release hit her with the force of a tidal wave, her entire body trembling as her orgasm ripped through her. She cried out, her moans turning into gasps as the intensity of the moment consumed her. He didn't stop, riding out her climax with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue and fingers, drawing every last bit of pleasure from her until she was a trembling, blissed-out mess beneath him.

He crawled up her body, his lips brushing hers in a tender kiss, his cock now pressing against her soaked entrance. Her eyes fluttered open, the desire still burning in them as she looked up at him, her chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths.

He paused, his forehead resting against hers for a brief moment as if grounding himself in the reality of this connection between them. Then, with a shared look of understanding and desire, he slowly pushed inside her, filling her completely. They both gasped at the sensation, their bodies melting together in a perfect, slow rhythm that made time seem to stand still.

He slid into her slowly, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he felt her warmth envelop him. Hermione's breath hitched, her moan mingling with his as their bodies connected in a way that felt impossibly intimate. He paused for a moment, savoring the sensation, before beginning to move, his hips rolling in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Each thrust was deeper than the last, a languid, sensual pace that built the tension between them. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, until she felt every inch of him. Her body moved in perfect harmony with his, their hips meeting with each thrust as they fell into a rhythm that felt both natural and electrifying.

His gaze locked onto hers, the intensity of the moment reflected in his stormy grey eyes. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that was tender yet hungry, their mouths moving together with the same passion as their bodies. Her hands slid up his back, fingers tangling in his hair as she deepened the kiss, their tongues entwining in a dance that mirrored the slow, steady build of their shared pleasure.

Every movement, every touch, sent sparks of electricity racing through her, intensifying the heat between them. Her nails raked lightly across his shoulders as the pressure inside her mounted, her moans growing louder, more desperate, as the friction between them became almost unbearable. Hia pace quickened, his thrusts becoming more insistent as they climbed higher together, lost in the raw, undeniable connection that pulsed between them.

The world around them faded away, leaving only the sensation of their bodies moving as one, the heat of their shared passion filling the room. He groaned against her lips, his breath ragged, and she gasped, holding him tighter as they both teetered on the edge of release, ready to fall together.

"Harder!" Her voice was a mix of desperation and control as she clenched the sheets beneath her, her body arching off the bed. Her back was slick with sweat, her breasts heaving with each breath, nipples taut and begging for attention.

His hands gripped her hips tightly, his own body covered in a thin sheen of perspiration as he thrust into her with determined strokes. His cock was thick and pulsing, sliding in and out of her wetness with a rhythm that was both rough and urgent. "You like that, huh?" he grunted, his voice rough with desire. "You like feeling my cock inside you?"

She moaned, her head twisting to the side as she bit her lip. "Yes, god yes," she panted, her fingers digging into the mattress. "I love it.."

He leaned over her, his chest pressed firmly against hers, the warmth of his body grounding her as she sank into the mattress beneath them. His hand reached up, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of her breast before gently pinching her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, eliciting a soft gasp from her. His voice was a low, possessive growl, laced with something deeper—something raw and vulnerable.

"You're mine, Hermione," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "No one else will ever know you like this… no one else can."

Her eyes fluttered shut, the world narrowing to the sensation of his touch, the sound of his voice, the way he seemed to claim not just her body but something far more intimate. "Only you," she whispered back, her voice trembling with need and surrender.

His lips brushed against her temple, his touch soft in contrast to the fire between them. There was something unspoken in the way he held her, something that went beyond desire—a promise, a declaration that this was more than just physical. His fingers lingered, not just to claim but to remind her that she was safe, cherished in this moment.

His hand glided down her body, his fingers lingering just above her trembling core before dipping between her legs. The heat between them was electric, and as his thumb began to circle her clit with deliberate, skilled precision, he felt the way her body reacted to him. Each stroke of his cock drew a soft moan from her lips, and he could feel her muscles tightening around him with every thrust. His voice, low and sultry, sent shivers down her spine as he leaned in closer, lips brushing her ear.

"Are you ready to fall apart for me, love?" he whispered, his tone dark and tender all at once. "Tell me how much you want it... let me hear it."

Her breath hitched, her thighs quivering as the intensity of his touch sent waves of pleasure crashing over her. "I'm so close," she panted, her voice a soft plea. "Please, Draco... I need it. 

A wicked grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he felt her surrender, her desperation igniting something primal in him. "That's my girl," he murmured, increasing the pressure on her clit, matching it with the powerful rhythm of his hips driving into her. Each thrust was deeper, harder, pushing her closer to the edge.

"Let go for me," he growled softly, his voice rough with desire. "I want to feel you fall apart around me. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel how much you want this."

Her body tensed beneath him, and with a final stroke of his thumb and a deep thrust, she shattered—her climax crashing over her in waves as she moaned his name, her entire body trembling. He could feel her pulse around him, her orgasm rippling through her as she clung to him, breathless and undone.

Hermione gasped, her body quivering as the overwhelming sensations built inside her, coiling tighter with each thrust. "Draco, I'm so close—I'm going to—" Her words broke off, her voice breathless and filled with urgency.

"Let go for me," he growled, his breath hot against her ear as he quickened his pace. His tone was commanding, yet filled with the unmistakable tenderness he reserved only for her. "I want you to cum for me, now. I need to feel you." His voice rumbled low, rough with desire. "You feel so incredible, wrapped around me like this."

Her body obeyed him almost immediately. With a strangled cry, her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her muscles spasming around him as she came hard. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on overwhelming, her vision blurring as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed through her body. She felt herself unravel, completely giving in to the sensations as her release flowed over him, her moans filling the room.

He watched her, mesmerized by how beautiful she looked in the throes of her pleasure, her body shaking beneath him, his name on her lips like a prayer. "That's it, love," he murmured, his hand steady on her hip, grounding her as she trembled in his grasp. The sight of her coming undone beneath him sent him over the edge as well, his body tightening with his own release.

He held onto her tightly, feeling her body tremble as her inner muscles clenched around him, igniting the fire building within him. "Fuck, yes," he groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own climax. "So tight, so fucking wet. I'm going to fill you up."

Her mind swirled in a haze of pleasure, each pulse of his orgasm sending electric shocks through her. She felt the warmth of him spilling inside her, every spurt adding to the intoxicating sensation of being completely claimed by him. "Draco, oh god, yes," she whimpered, her body still shuddering from her own release, the aftershocks making her heart race.

Gently, he untangled himself from her, his breath mingling with hers as they lay side by side, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He moved closer, his hand softly tracing the curve of her hip, savoring the intimacy of the moment. "That was incredible," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction and laced with curiosity. "Was it everything you hoped for?"

Turning to face him, her eyes were still glazed with the remnants of ecstasy. "More," she whispered, her fingers brushing against his arm, a spark of need igniting between them. "But I want more."

A smile spread across his face as he leaned in, capturing her lips in a tender kiss. As their tongues danced together, his hands began to explore her body anew, starting at her shoulders and slowly working their way down to her waist. His touch was both gentle and deliberate, each stroke sending shivers down her spine, reigniting the fire within her.

"Tell me what you want," he said, breaking the kiss to gaze deeply into her eyes, searching for the desires that lay beneath. "I want to give you everything."

Her heart raced, and she bit her lip, her mind racing with the possibilities. "I want you to touch me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, filled with longing. "Everywhere."

His smile widened, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, and he nodded, moving his hand to rest on her inner thigh. Slowly, he inched his fingers upward, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin just below her panties. She gasped, her hips involuntarily bucking against his hand, her body craving his touch.

"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice low and husky, the heat between them palpable. "For me to touch you here?"

She nodded eagerly, her breath hitching as his fingers continued their journey. "Yes," she whispered, her voice trembling with need. "Please."

With that, he slipped his fingers inside, his touch becoming more assertive as he pressed two fingers against her moist entrance. She arched her back, her head tilting back as a moan escaped her lips, a sound of pure bliss.

"You're so wet," he said, his voice filled with wonder, a hint of pride at his effect on her. "Did I do that?"

"You did," she replied, her voice quivering with excitement, her body aching for more. "Keep going."

He obliged, sliding his fingers inside her, his thrusts slow and purposeful, teasing her with each movement. As he moved, he leaned down, capturing her nipple between his teeth, biting lightly before flicking it with his tongue. She cried out, her hands gripping his hair, the waves of pleasure coursing through her body like a storm, leaving her breathless and yearning for his every touch.

As the gentle glow of moonlight filtered through the curtains, they lay entwined in each other's arms, a serene calm enveloping them like a warm blanket. The world outside faded into the background, a distant hum that barely reached their consciousness. Their bodies, still flushed from their earlier intimacy, molded together perfectly, a puzzle with each piece fitting seamlessly into the other.

Her head rested on his chest, her soft hair cascading like silk over his shoulder. With each rise and fall of his breath, she felt a sense of peace wash over her, grounding her in the moment. It was as if all her worries, fears, and doubts were swept away by the rhythm of his heartbeat, a steady drum echoing the promise of love and safety. The faint sound was a soothing lullaby, harmonizing with the silence of the night.

Draco, too, felt a profound contentment as he held her close. He had never imagined that he could find such solace in another person, yet here he was, utterly captivated. His fingers brushed gently against her bare back, tracing delicate patterns as he absorbed the warmth of her skin against his. Every touch felt electric, igniting sparks of tenderness that danced between them. The intimacy of the moment was palpable, a tangible connection that tethered them together, transcending the physicality of their embrace.

In the quiet stillness, thoughts raced through their minds, each one echoing the profound bond they had formed. They had faced their fair share of challenges—trials that had tested their resolve and commitment to one another. Yet, as they lay there, they realized that each obstacle had only strengthened their connection. They had grown together, learning to communicate and support each other in ways they had never thought possible.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she nestled deeper into his embrace, her eyes fluttering closed. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, wrapping around her like a protective cocoon. In this moment, she felt safe—safe from the chaos of the outside world, safe from the uncertainty that life often brought. Her heart swelled with gratitude, knowing that she had someone who would always stand by her side.

His thoughts drifted as he watched her sleep. Her features were softened in the dim light, the lines of worry and stress smoothed away in this moment of tranquility. He marveled at how beautiful she looked, a serene expression on her face that brought a smile to his own. She was his anchor, the one who had seen him through dark times and celebrated the light that life brought into their days. He felt a fierce protectiveness swell within him, a need to shield her from anything that could harm her, to ensure that she would always feel this way—safe and cherished.

As the minutes slipped by, the outside world continued its dance of shadows and whispers, but inside their sanctuary, time felt suspended. The gentle sounds of their breathing filled the air, a symphony of calm that wrapped around them like a melody. With each heartbeat, they shared unspoken promises, a mutual understanding that they were in this together, come what may.

They had both faced their own demons—moments that had left scars, but also taught them invaluable lessons about love, trust, and resilience. They had weathered storms that had threatened to tear them apart, yet somehow, they had emerged stronger. Their journey had not been without its challenges, but it was the beauty of their growth that brought them closer.

In the midst of their peaceful slumber, their dreams intertwined, a tapestry of shared hopes and aspirations. They envisioned a future together, one where they could build a life filled with laughter, adventure, and endless support. Hermione dreamt of the small cottage in the countryside, where they could plant a garden together, nurturing life as they nurtured their love. Draco imagined quiet evenings spent by the fireplace, reading together, sharing stories and secrets, a life filled with warmth and connection.

As the night deepened, they shifted slightly, their bodies instinctively finding new positions of comfort, yet never losing the closeness that tethered them together. Her hand found its way to his cheek, her fingers brushing against his skin, eliciting a gentle smile from him even in sleep. In that simple gesture, there was a world of affection—an unspoken acknowledgment of their commitment to each other.

In the soft cocoon of night, they both knew that no matter what life threw their way, they would always have each other. They would face challenges as a team, laugh together in the face of adversity, and cherish every moment of joy. Their love was a refuge, a sanctuary where they could find solace in each other's arms, a promise that echoed through the darkness: "I am here for you."