Hermione tended to overthink everything. It was what she was known for. Most revered her for her ability to think and think, turning information over and over.
But they didn’t know what a hinderance it had been in some areas of her life.
Relationships, for example and more specifically, sex.
She tended to take longer than her partner (Ron) to reach climax and she had long ago determined that it was due to the fact that she over thought everything.
She was such a victim to her mind and the process of thinking that ideas typically crept into her mind that had absolutely nothing to do with sex.
It was annoying and sure, it had even caused a couple of fights between Ron and herself. But she had accepted it. It was just who she was. There was nothing to do about it.
Then Draco came back into her life.
And she found that when she was around him, her mind felt less cluttered. It felt at ease. When he first put his mouth on her, that Monday after she nearly died, her mind had shut off. All she could do was feel.
When he went down on her three days later, her mind had completely abandoned her. She was a victim to his touch, his proximity, no longer suffering from the rapid fire thoughts that seemed to constantly plague her mind.
She hadn’t been thinking when she kissed his blood stained mouth yesterday and she wasn’t thinking tonight when they had sex on her tiny little couch.
She had never had the experience of falling completely into a lover, enjoying every touch, letting the pleasure dominate her senses.
Until Draco Malfoy.
With Draco, she had fallen so far away from her mind, from the constant flurry of ideas and thoughts and questions that she failed to register the words of his question.
She felt the lift of her mouth, curling into a smile at the sound of his voice, that tone of his that always meant something wicked was about to come.
Even as he stood, still naked and beautiful. Like some bright, silver beacon in the gloom of her macabre little apartment.
It wasn’t until the flicker of flames against the dark wall of her bedroom door, did she finally register the words that strung together the seemingly harmless question of his.
How do you feel about lighting that mattress on fire?
Hermione jumped from the couch and hurried to find her bed in flames, a victim to the Incendio he had lazily launched at it.
She had been furious. She had been livid, shocked!
But Draco only chuckled as he began to pull some of Ron’s shirts from her closet, adding them to the fire.
“I’ll buy you a new one, love.”
She watched as he mistakenly grabbed one of her blouses and added it to the growing fire.
“That was mine!” She wrapped her hands around his arm and pulled him away from her closet.
“I’ll buy you one of those, too.” He allowed her to pull him away and sighed as he turned to face her. “Are you partial to this flat of yours?”
No, she hated it. But it was all she could afford on her own, coming out of the war. She was broke, she was homeless and refused to live with Ron. She stayed with Harry while she saved up before finally jumping at the first opportunity to find a place of her own.
“Yes.” She lied and he smirked, as if sensing it. Gods, there was no winning with this one. He read her like a book.
“Don’t burn it down.” She begged and he laughed, his eyes shining down on her in adoration.
He didn’t agree but he didn’t refuse her request, either. Instead, he planted his hands on either side of her face and lowered his mouth, once again, to hers.
Her mind began to drift, despite the roaring flames that seemed — thankfully — confined to the bed and whatever clothing he had added to it.
“We could renovate.” He murmured against her lips.
“I don’t own the flat. I’m only leasing it.”
“I’ll buy the building. We’ll gut it and turn it into a palace for you.” He was smiling against her mouth as he continued to pepper her lips with kisses. He was moving her against the wall. “We need a bed.”
“I had a bed and you just lit it on fire.” She gasped when he nipped at her lip.
“I will never sleep on a bed that Weasley fucked you in.” He growled into her mouth, his hand falling between her thighs. “Let me move you out of this shithole.”
She gasped as his fingers danced over her swollen sex. “No,”
“But you don’t belong here.”
But, she did, this is what she had earned. All of this was all that she had earned after nearly dying and losing people she loved. Instead of saying any of that, she opened her legs and allowed him to slide his finger into her slick folds.
“You belong with me.” He said with conviction, as his finger thrust hard into her. “You’re mine, now.” He said it into her mouth as he began to steal her mind away. All of the those nagging thoughts and ideas drifted away from her as her hips bucked against his hand, as he kissed her and kissed her, while her bed burned into ash.
Draco managed to smelt her into a puddle of molten steel, compliant and maleable, simply with use of his hand and his tongue. He wouldn't let her go until he managed to pound her into the shape he wanted. It was how he was able to convince her into packing a bag and allowing him to take her home with him.
As they stepped into her floo, with his hand wrapped around hers, he smirked down at her and watched her mind come back to life. She gnawed on her lip and frowned as she stared into her tiny little apartment.
He leaned over and kissed her brow before grabbing a handful of Floo powder and said, “I’ll get you something better, I promise.”
Decided on a bit of a whim to sign up for Round 10 of the Last Drabble Writer Standing competition - 9 weeks of elimination-style Dramione drabbles. And I'm thrilled/honored/delighted/shocked to have won!
I put my drabbles in an album for posterity, so here they are along with all the lovely banners I won along the way.
HUGE congratulations to my fellow competitors and finalists. I loved reading your work every week!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
While Granger didn’t understand what had happened in that meeting this morning, Draco did.
He felt her slip into his subconscious. Felt her mind inside of his, watching one of the hundreds of fantasies Draco had about harming Weasley.
It was a daily occurrence, for him, really. It wasn’t always so frequent, but ever since the day she died, Draco imagined it often enough to have categories. When he was really irritated, he’d imagine the red headed git dying by Draco’s own bare hands. On more manageable days, the fantasizes were more tame.
Like the one Granger had unwittingly slid into. She believed it to be one of her own, most likely brought on by the realization that what Draco had pointed out about the idiot was accurate.
Ronald Weasley was not happy that Hermione Granger had survived and that bothered her. It even bothered Draco but it wasn’t surprising. Aside from his obvious idiocy the bloke exuded, there seemed to be some kind of sixth sense. As if the hatred the red-head had garnered and curated had given himself the ability to sense Draco’s presence.
Even if it was just a sliver of Draco's soul nestled inside of his fiancé and longtime friend.
This observation had initially unnerved Draco. Because if Ron was brave enough to voice his concerns, then the idea would be planted into not only Hermione’s mind, but Harry Potters.
And Merlin knew how that would go.
But now, it was entertaining to him. Because now, he got to sit back and watch as Ron Weasley single handedly destroyed his relationship with the Golden Girl herself.
The Golden Girl with eyes of silver. Silver and gold. Draco and Hermione.
Draco grinned to himself as he stalked through the halls of the DLME. It was lunch time and Draco was in the mood for something in particular. He had a craving for warm skin and plump lips. He had a hunger for wild, untamed curls and the scent of coconut and mango.
“Malfoy,” Potters neutral tone called from behind.
Draco turned to see the Chosen One jogging toward him. “Potter,” Draco lifted his chin in greeting, repressing his impatience.
“Do you have a minute?” Potter glanced around and leaned in closer. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes deep into the back of his head. He couldn’t answer another bloody question about the attacker or that damn wand.
The assailants wand was an issue because Potter wanted to perform a Prior Incantato on it. But Draco had ensured that it had been destroyed. Before calling the department for backup, Draco had snapped the wand in half, ensuring that the unicorn hair inside was severed completely.
Potter wouldn’t drop it. He seemed to think that Granger was still in danger if they didn’t figure out what kind of mysterious curse she had been hit with.
“What’s up, Potter?” Draco asked, fighting a sigh.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about that mysterious curse...”
Here we go.
“And?”
Potter leaned in and spoke low. “Well, I was thinking...do you know anyone who might specialize in obscure curses?”
“...” Draco lifted his chin and managed to look down his nose at Potter, despite the fact that he didn’t actually hate Potter. “Maybe. Why?”
“Well, I know Hermione refuses to let me fuss over her but,” He shrugged. “I’m concerned about any long-term effects the curse might have on her.”
“Of course.” Draco forced a tone of understanding.
“Well, do you think we could, maybe, call in a favor? I know you have a lot of connections and figured you might know someone who could help us. I was also thinking that maybe we could run diagnostics on her, every once in a while.” He cleared his throat and leaned back. “You know, just in case.”
For fucks sake. This man really did care about Granger as much as Draco did.
“Yes...” Draco lifted a hand to his chin and nodded, slowly. “I think I might know someone.”
There were only two people Draco trusted to keep his secret safe with him and play along with Potter’s idea of monitoring Granger, checking her for obscure curses and their lasting effects. And one of them was currently on a girl’s trip she took yearly with the Greengrasses.
“Theo,” Draco said.
Potter frowned. “Nott?”
“Yes. He’s incredibly gifted and has extensive knowledge with obscure curses. His dad was quite of an enthusiast. Theo was going to apply to work for the Department of Mysteries, but decided against it in the end.”
“Ah. Right, well...do you think you could set something up?”
Draco glanced over at Granger’s office. He could feel her in there, that little flare of light in the back of his mind. The bit of good that was still inside of him, wiggling behind the door.
“Have you talked to Granger about this?”
“No.” Potter’s lips pressed into a straight line. “I was kind of hoping you’d talk to her. You seem to have a way with her.”
Because she’s mine.
“Sure, I’ll bring it up. But first,” Draco grinned. “I have to ensure I pin her down for lunch.” The vision of her splayed out for him, pinned beneath his mouth flashed in his mind. “You know how she can be.”
Potter nodded, emphatically. “Right, better make sure she’s well fed before you bring that up.”
“Oh, I will.” And with that, Draco winked and moved to her door.
He raised his fist but was unable to knock. The door swung open and he was suddenly being hauled into her office by the font of his shirt. He stumbled in as Granger whirled him around and into the room. She pressed her back to the door and murmured a quick muffilato.
“Hello,” Draco sang but when he turned to face her, he found her glaring at him. She was livid.
“What was that?”
She’s figured it out. She realized what he had done. She knows that it was his fantasy, not hers.
“Are you trying to ruin my relationship with Ron?” She shoved him in the chest, which was something she had been doing more and more. Draco couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it.
“Well,” Draco winced.
“Malfoy!” Her little foot stomped but that only thrilled him more. So, when the grin began to reform onto his face, Hermione closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You can’t do that. You can’t just puff up your chest and push your weight around in front of him.” She scowled. “In front of everyone!”
Draco pouted and took a step towards her. “That’s not any fun.” He lifted a hand and pinched one of her curls in between two of his fingers. Granger swallowed nervously but kept that chastising look in her eyes.
Draco sigh.
“You know I don’t play fair.” He took another step forward, their bodies practically flush. “And you know I’m not going to stop until you’re mine.”
“But I’m not yours.” She said, quite unconvincingly. Her words were breathy, her eyes heady. “I’m Ron’s.”
Draco’s eyes hardened. “Please,” His fingers let go of her hair and moved to her neck, where they splayed against her skin. “Never say that to me, again.”
Her eyes were wide, drinking him in. She still couldn’t look at him with any real disdain. Because she liked this. She enjoyed his kind of attention, his brand of love and adoration.
His fingers were gentle as they moved up her throat, the tip of his middle and index finger on her jaw. “It’s lunch time, love.” His eyes dropped to her mouth.
She licked at her lips, as if anticipating just how thirsty he was.
“I’m not hungry.”
She was lying. But Draco didn’t mind. He loved when she was stubborn. It made everything so much more fun.
“But, I am.” He murmured. He leaned forward, inching his mouth closer to hers. But he didn’t kiss her. Not yet.
“Draco,” She gasped, her eyes were so wide, he could see his reflection.
“I’m starving, Granger.” He said, his breath coasting her lips. “Will you let me indulge, love? Will you let a hungry man starve?”
“I wouldn’t.” She said but he knew that she knew he wasn’t actually talking about food.
His other hand was at her hips, playing with the band of her pants. They were black and snug against her body, exposing every curve and crevice that belonged to him her.
“I want a taste. Will you let me?”
She was trembling, the adrenaline pumping through her, causing her to stammer out the next word as she closed her eyes. Relenting. “Yes.”
Draco growled before he fell to his knees, his hands ripping her pants and knickers down her hips in one fluid motion.
Granger squeaked as he pulled one leg free of her pants, her little black ballet flat falling to the floor.
And then he was hoisting that leg over his shoulder and she was grabbing onto his shoulder and the door knob in an attempt to stabilize herself.
“Draco,” She gasped but his mouth was already on her. He lowered his lips onto her cunt with an open mouthed kiss. Her hips jerked against him at the first jolt of pleasure that shot through her. His lips and his tongue kissed and sucked at her clit until she whimpered and gasped.
He pulled back enough to nuzzle his nose into her and inhaled. “You smell better than I imagined.” He whispered before he ran his tongue through her folds.
The fingers in his hair tightened as he slid two fingers into her, feeling the warm, soft spongey walls of her cunt. She felt like silk and clouds and he could only imagine what it was going to be like to bury his cock inside there.
When his fingers began to move as rhythmically as his tongue, she began to tremble again. The walls of her cunt began to flutter and he knew she was close. She was so close, so fast. She was turned on more than she would ever want to admit.
And he knew it was because it was him doing this to her.
Because, deep down, she wanted him too. Secretly, she loved him.
The trick was going to get her to admit it. To leave that red-headed git and let herself fall into Draco, completely.
She came with a battered cry that seemed to be wrenched from somewhere deep inside of her chest.
She tasted like heaven. She tasted like everything he could ever want.
The waves of pleasure rolled through her, almost endlessly, as her body fell limp against the door, held up only his hand on her hip, and his shoulder, under her leg.
She watched through heavy lids as he pulled her knickers and pants up and stood to press her shoulders into the door. Licking his lips, he grinned down at her. She looked relaxed, dazed. She looked like she was about to be angry with him again.
Good.
“Thank you, that was delightful. Compliments to the chef.”
“Malfoy.” She huffed.
“Now, there is something I do want to discuss with you.”
Her eyelids lifted, a look of confusion crossing across her now pale eyes. “What?” She looked at his crotch and then back up at his face, as if misunderstanding the situation.
“Oh, not that.” Draco held up a hand and shook his head with a chuckle. “Not now. There isn’t time. Potter needs me to convince you to let Theo check you out.” He adjusted his belt, loosening it against the tightness of his now rock hard cock.
“I...what? Theo?” She swallowed, still actively collecting herself after cumming all over his fingers and his tongue. “Why?”
“He needs to figure out what the curse might have done to you.”
“I thought it killed me.” Ah, right.
“Well, you might want to remember that they don’t know that you were Avada’d in that kitchen. They still think it’s mysterious curse that hit you.”
“Why don’t we just tell them the truth?”
“Because,” He frowned at her. “I don’t want to explain how I brought you back to life.”
She frowned back. “How did you bring me back to life?”
They stared at each other. He could feel her the wheels in her mind turning, could feel the way her eyes were searching his face for any tell-tale signs of deceit.
“It must have been when I kissed you. I have a magic kiss and just like the sleeping princess, it woke you up.”
She rolled her eyes. “Gods, you’re impossible.”
“But I eat cunt like a dream, don’t I?”
Her cheeks flamed bright red and it filled Draco with the overwhelming urge to crash her lips into his.
And so he slid a hand to her face and did.
Her sound of surprise was muffled by his mouth as it closed over hers. And when he nudged her lips apart, she gasped before allowing entry. Their tongues brushed gingerly, though hungrily.
When he pulled away, she was panting. Her lips were swollen and wet and red.
He grinned. “So, it’s agreed?”
“Huh?” She lifted a hand to her mouth and felt the aftermath of his kiss.
“Great, because Potter’s waiting out in the hall.”
Her eyes widened, nearly falling out of her head. “What!” She hissed and pushed away from the door, mortified, tripping over the shoe he had knocked off of her foot.
“Don’t worry, love. I told him we had to take care of lunch, first.” He shot her a grin as he pulled his wand from the inside of his jacket. He aimed his wand at the door. Hermione barely had a chance to fall into the chair behind her desk when the door opened. Draco picked up her shoe and tossed it over to her just before Potter walked in.
“So, I take it Malfoy was able to convince you?”
Granger closed her eyes but Draco cleared his throat as he nodded and gestured to a chair in the room.
The little guest house is nestled into the far south corner of the property. There’s a pathway that leads from the front gates, winding around the manor, through the gardens, and past the quidditch pitch. It goes along the pond mother had installed before I was born, filling it with koi fish and lining it with cherry blossoms that are charmed with the perfect temperament year round. Every season, the cherry blossoms bloom. Snow and ice cling to the thing branches and the delicate flowers and even I have to appreciate the sheer beauty of it all. Because the pond freezes over and when my mother was younger and I was just a boy, she’d ice skate and pull me around on a sled tied to a string. I don’t remember it, but she swears I loved it.
The path, it snakes its way through the luxurious estate that I was raised on and it leads to a cottage style home that the earth clings to. The moss grows up the side of the white wood slats of planks and the windows are trimmed with aqua green paint and sweet peas that sprout and bloom along the vines that crawl up the sides of the home.
The guest house has three bedrooms. Only the master bedroom has a bed. I can see mother has been inside. Because, while she does her duty as a good little pureblood wife, what she really wants, is the chance of a grandchild. She wants to see me become a father and I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why. Because I’m the worst. I was raised by the worst father in history.
But, she has come into this place and gutted the two spare bedrooms. She’s taken away the opportunity for us to both gravitate toward the only room with comfort to sleep in.
You enter the cottage and you find yourself in the middle of a space of clean, white furniture that opens up to a large kitchen with white countertops, white cabinipetry and aqua green accents hidden throughout. Like the thin little lines of x’s that are pressed into the white subway tiles behind the stove. Or the little salt and pepper shakers, or the jar meant to hold flour.
But it’s all white and clean and I look at the inside of this cottage and I want to see splashes of colors that don’t make you feel clean. I see the inside of this house all whit and blank and empty and I have to fight the urge to cut open my hand and smear blood against the walls or the couch.
Down the hall, there’s several doors. First, there’s a bathroom, all white and black tiled with a little picture hanging over the toilet that is an old advertisement for soap in French.
Across from the bathroom, is a guest room that is barren. Just wooden floors that are meant to look old and worn but really, they are brand new. The wood planks continue throughout the entire house and down the hall is a laundry room, beside that is another guest room that is full of boxes.
But at the end of the hallway is the master bedroom. It’s where the large, king sized bed is. The bed sits in the middle of the east well. Night stands on either side. Everything in this room is warm earth tones because on the west wall is a wall made entirely of glass that over looks the woods crowding the edge of the house. There’s a sliding door that opens up to a wooden deck. On the deck, there’s a table and two chairs. There’s a hammock attached to the two moderately young oak trees.
And this is where we will live.
This is where our story will take place.
Because, for now, this is our home.
Granger must hate this. Her entire life has been ripped apart and broken down. It’s been broken down and stuffed into boxes with labels that don’t tell you anything about what she has done or what she had been through.
Her life has been broken down and stuffed into boxes like an after thought.
Books, kitchen. Photos, more books.
There’s boxes of clothes, and boxes of shoes. There’s boxes of Knick knacks and sports equipment. I didn’t even know Granger liked sports.
But her life is here, compartmentalized into boxes and they’re lining the hallway of our new home and it’s fucking frightening. Because it’s me and it’s Granger and she’s my wife and I feel the need to snoop through her boxes because I know nothing about her.
Yes, she’s the Golden Girl.
Yes, she’s a swot.
Yes, she’s bossy and had big hair.
Yes, her tits are superb and her lips could kill me.
But, I know nothing else.
Since we were forced to get engaged, I’ve seen her cry over the idea of marrying me, only to kiss me on our wedding day like it was a long time coming. She kissed me like she’s been doing it for years. I’ve seen her stand up to my father, as if they have some sort of ancient history of rivalry.
And now she’s stomping into the master bedroom where I’ve been checking for traps or bugs meant for spying and she’s pouting like a child.
“What are you doing?”
Currently, I’m checking the floorboards for any trap doors or hiding places. So, I roll onto my back and I blow out a sigh before folding my arms under my head.
She standing over me in her little cut off denims and her big baggy sweater and she’s chewing on her fat little lip and all I can do is recall the way it felt to have it against my mouth.
“What?” I ask and she rolls her eyes and uncrosses her arms. They fall to her side and her eyes roam over me. The way my plain white shirt rides up, revealing the course hairs that lead from my navel, to below the waistband of my pants. They roam over the tattoo that is branded into my arm. They bounce from my eyes to my cheeks. Theirs sallow and sunken. My skin is pale, my eyes are dark and my lips are almost always chapped. I think, once upon a time, I used to be considered attractive, pretty even. But even the most beautiful sculptures made out of the finest stone can wither away if left out in the elements.
But Grangers eyes are hard to read. They’re always bright and sunny, though something tells me they are dulled, worn down from how they used to be. They’re always guarded.
“I can’t transfigure anything into a bed.”
I suck through my front teeth. “McGonagall would be disappointed.”
“I know how to do it, you arse, but nothing will take.”
I sniff and stare up at her. From here, I can almost see up her shorts. There’s enough of a gap between her skin and the denim that there’s an alluring shadowy space that makes me want to reach my hand out and touch her. It’s enough of a gap and enough shadow to let my imagination go wild. I can imagine a freckle on her inner thigh, oddly shaped like a heart.
Fuck.
I’m not supposed to want to fuck my wife. Not when I was going to marry Astoria and definitely not now that I am married to Granger.
But that kiss.
This witch had cursed me and blessed me. Because despite the never ending attack of ants fueled by anxiety, I feel like I’m alive.
Granger is giving me life and purpose and I hate her for it.
I love it.
It feels good, great even.
She’s looking down at me, expectantly. She’s looking at me like I’m supposed to fix this.
“That,” I prop myself up onto my elbows. “Is most likely due to mother’s meddling.”
“What?” She almost laughs at the idea. Because, yes. Narcissa is a dutiful wife and she does her best to back up her husband but, more than anything, she wants a grandchild.
Something tells me that if I were to have a child, it would somehow give her a chance to do things differently.
Like, shower their child with love and protect them from the patriarchal dictator of a father.
“There is only one bed in this house, for a reason, and something tells me that if one of us was to fall asleep on the couch, it would likely kick us off of it.”
Her lips do that thing, again, where it turns into a little rosebud. She’s staring down at me with unreadable emotions flashing quickly, across her face before she sighs and turns to observe the room. she looks at the wall of windows. She looks at the massive bed. The only bed in the entire house.
“I prefer the side closest to the door.”
Grangers head jerks down and her big golden eyes look down at me with that same unreadable expression. That’s when I realize something.
Granger is occluding. And from what I can tell, it’s only something she’s learned how to do recently.
And I know, I know, it’s because she’s married to me.
And that is when I realize that I’ve been letting my walls down and the longer I’m around her, the harder it is to keep them up.
Trust me, I know.
And now I’m living with this witch. It’s like being behind enemy lines, only the war is over and we have been forced together. We’ve been forced into a new kind of war. One that is all our own and we are the only soldiers, the only collateral and I can’t figure out if there’s even a chance of a winner or a loser.
Granger looks at the bed, the only bed, and I see her swallow as she fights to build those walls back up.
I need to stop her. I need to make this a fair fight. If I cannot keep mine up, then neither can she.
I shift onto one elbow and my other hand lifts to her ankle. My hand wraps around it. Her entire ankle fits inside of my hand. It’s a perfect fit.
And she jerks and her eyes return to me. She takes her eyes and she gives them back to me as I tighten my hold on her.
“This is the chain.” I say, glancing back to my hand. “And me,” I look at her and she’s all wide eyed and her lips are parted as she inhales deeply. “I’m the ball.” I slide my hand up, allowing my fingers to open up as it reachers her calf. “You’re stuck with me.”
I tighten my grip on her calf and she jumps out of my grasp. I grin up at her as she takes a step back and glares down at me.
And before she lifts her chin into the air and stomps away, going back to unpacking her life that has been divided and stuffed into boxes, she almost smirks as she says, “This isn’t going to go the way you think it is, Draco.”
Trust me, I know.
Because she slipped again.
To Granger, I am not Malfoy. To Granger, I am not just the boy who teased her in school.
DISCLAIMER: It’s come to my attention that Ron Bashing is very upsetting to some readers. So , please do note that this post uses the Ron Weasley tag because he is a significant character in this particular story, also this is his POV . HOWEVER, please mind that this also includes a Ron bashing tag. If you are offended by Ron bashing, don’t bother.
I had to write this one, the inspiration hit and I’ll be in LA all day tomorrow visiting my sister. So here we go! Also, I’m adding to the next chapter on ao3, so it will be a minute before I post it.
Ron had mixed feelings about working the night shift on the beat. Before they were ordered to have a partner with them at all times, he’d been able to pop into Hermione’s or even Parvati’s while on patrol. Some nights, he was able to visit both witches.
He wasn’t proud of what he had done to Hermione. Parvati had been aware, from the beginning, that he had no intention of leaving Hermione. She was his til the end. And he was hers.
The thing with Parvati wasn’t serious and she had been okay with that. It was just a way to get that little bit extra he wasn’t getting with Hermione. He had assumed that she was content, if not happy, with their love life. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings by telling her that he needed more.
But, what if she had been severely disappointed. Maybe that was why she never complimented him, never praised him, never rolled off of him in a state of pure bliss.
With Hermione, it was always straight to work. She’d have to make tea, or clean her kitchen, or catch up on paperwork.
What if she wasn’t satisfied and that was why she kept busy after? What if she was seeking that little extra bit that Ron couldn’t give her from someone else.
What if that someone was Malfoy? He seemed to sordid type to get off on hitting his women or choking them. Hermione was not that kind of girl. She never asked Ron for anything naughty.
But Ron watched her, wondering. She avoided eye contact with him whenever they passed by one another. Ron would fantasize about grabbing her hand, pulling her into an office. Anyone’s office, it didn’t matter. Whichever one was nearby. And he’d go down on her and make her cry and shout out his name. She’d thank him for being so good to her, for making her cum so hard. Ask him to take her back. You know, shit like that. Something fantastical. Something erotic.
Ron would stop at the end of the hall and watch her.
With Malfoy, she’d look right into his creepy pale eyes and smile. She’d look at his bruised face, the dried blood on his lip that never seemed to go away and her eyes would fucking light up.
Hermione would look right into his face and see something in or past all of those sneers and scowls. She was blind to the monster lurking within.
Even worse now, she resembles him. The scowls and the sneers have migrated and taken residence on her beautiful round features, her eyes just as cold and pale as Malfoys.
She was scary, now. Other Aurora avoided her gestate, shivered when they thought she wasn’t looking. Whispered about her behind her back.
And now her and Harry were both looking at Ron like he was the monster. Ron was only human, and humans were animals. Fucking was just a natural need. It delivered the endorphins that were desperately needed after the war, after losing his brother.
Everyone did it. Every being did it. The birds and the bees and all that shit. It’s just that when Ron got off, he needed to be told what a good, sweet boy he was. That he was a hero., a savior. Someone worthy.
But sometimes, once upon a time, Hermione would look at him like he was. He missed it. Fuck, he missed her. It’s a terrible thing. That, even though Ron had fucked up and he still had Parvati, he didn’t want to give up Hermione. He loved her body as much as any others, probably more. No man enjoyed accepting the idea that he would no longer have it to himself. Maybe never again.
And Ron certainly didn’t accept the fact that Malfoy might be the new proud owner of that particular one.
“Hey, Weasley.”
Oh, right. The other reason he hated these shifts. Not only could he not drop by Hermione’s, he was permanently stuck with Anthony Goldstein. He wasn’t a terrible bloke. But he was shifty, a bit off. His movements were jerky, timid. He looked like somebody who didn’t belong on the force. He looked like someone who was thrown into it, forced to become an Auror and had never accepted that fact.
Ron pinched his lips together, and pulled his eyes from the corner building where Hermione lived. Her windows were dark. She probably wasn’t home.
He nodded to Goldstein in acknowledgment.
“Isn’t this the apothecary where Hermione and Malfoy got into that altercation?”
Goldstein was staring into window of the shop. The lights were dim, as if to still keep the potions advertised on display in the front window. Or perhaps the witch who ran the place was still inside, cleaning up.
Ron stepped up beside him. The wizard flinched and Ron couldn’t help the roll of his eyes. “Yeah,” He sighed. “That’s the one.”
Goldstein looked up at and stared. Ron could feel his eyes assessing him. “You and Malfoy don’t get along, do you?”
Ron dug his hands into his pockets, thumbing the wand nestled inside and laughed. One short, derisive bark. “What makes you think that, Goldstein?” He frowned and shook his head, a little ashamed at the acidic tone of his voice. “Look, let’s just say that the day where every day of my life stops revolving around Malfoy, will be the best day of my life.”
Anthony was still staring at him. Ron was staring at the window, at the dim light of the back room, a shadow moving. Through his peripheral, Goldstein was nodding slowly. He might have been grinning, but that wouldn’t make any sense. Goldstein hated conflict, he was a bit of a coward
But then Goldstein moved for the door. “We should go in.”
Ron shook his head. “Nah, she’s closing up. Besides it wasn’t our crime scene.”
“I heard she hadsa love potion. It might help mend whatever went sour between you and Hermione.”
“No thanks, mate.” Ron chuckled nervously. “I’ve had one too many experiences with love potions.”
“But, this isn’t like Amortentia. This one helps to…alter the way you think.” Goldstein voice was less flinchy and more persuasive than he had ever heard him. It was unsettling.
“That’s Barmy.”
“The witch who brews it says it allows you to connect with your lover on some kind of mental or spiritual level.”
“I’m not slipping ‘Mione anything, Goldstein.”
“You wouldn’t have to.” He opened the door and said, as he stepped inside. “You take the potion. All you need is a strand of her hair to add to it.”
And then Goldstein was disappearing into the shop and into the dark shadows of the potion filled shelves. “What the — Goldstein!” Had the wizard lost his mind?
Stepping into the Apothecary sent a shudder down Ron’s spine. The hairs on his arms stood. Something was definitely off about this. But the witch didn’t seem to notice or care about the jingle of the bell on her door, and Goldstein was lost somewhere in the vast array of potions. Some of them glittered, some were glowing in the dark. Some were as dark as the sky outside.
None of them seemed ordinary. Most of them, Ron didn’t recognize.
But he crept along the shelving, the habit of staying quiet and undetected hard to break. He passed shelves labeled things like Elixirs for Life. Others with the words, Poisons to live by. But when Ron reached the shelf that was labeled, Love, Sex and other maladies, he knew he was in the middle of something shady.
Of course, none of that helped him to prepare for the figure that leapt out in front of him, or for the wand that was pointed directly at his temple before the voice whispered the incantation that would turn his brain into dough, softening into something that could be kneaded and molded into surrendering. Ron’s entire body locked up, his mind went quiet.
Nothing was the same. Nothing was known. His name, his desires, his job.
No, for Ron, everything had changed the second that voice had uttered the word to end it all, “Imperio.”
Smoke curled around him as Draco stared at her through the window from across the street. The end of his cigarette burned, reflecting against the glass. Like a little red firefly, it burned bright as he sucked on it. It flashed into existence, before it died a slow death. She was busy, refilling cups of coffee. Clearing empty ones. Dusting off the crumbs from a pastry from the tabletops.
Tucking a rogue curl behind her ear as she stared into the empty pastry case. Frowning into the empty cups. Tracing circles into the wood grain of the tables she cleaned.
Hermione, the girl from the café, had something about her. It captivated him. Something about her eyes held a certain allure. They were deep, fathomless. Like she had lived a hundred lifetimes. There was no doubt in Draco’s mind that she had built a tough exterior. Something about her was soft, though.
Around her eyes, he thinks as he squints through the smoke, watching her move through the tasks of her job with fluidity, each motion memorized and well practiced. Deceptively calm. Her eyes are almond shaped, a gentle brown with a touch of honey. Like coffee with a hint of cream and sugar.
Her mouth was full, the shade of a cherry blossom right before it withered away from the branch it bloomed on. Her name was like a one word poem. A iambic trimeter that was more emotion than meaning. Her -mio-ne. Her- mio -ne. She was like the kind of poem you know not what it means, what the poets intent was when she wrote it. But it resonated with you, anyway.
Draco didn’t know what he was doing here. Watching her. She was off limits. He was off limits.
Again, he surmised, it must be the eyes. They pulled him in, ensnaring him from the second she looked at him when he entered the night before. His entire night was plagued by the memory of her. The feel of her warm against his, something sparking between them.
Chemistry, perhaps.
Something the new regime claimed was behind the matches they declared beneficial for humankind. Despite what all of the officials printed in their reports, Draco knew it was all bullshit. They were just trying to track the population of magical folk. They were trying to study it, using all of their chemistry and science to study them. Lab rats.
He knew all their secrets.
But he was not interested in remember theirs. He wanted to know hers.
Her-mio- ne .
Draco lowered his cigarette, and eyed the dying tip. He licked the tip of his thumb and index finger and pinched the end of it, satisfied with the hiss of the miniscule fire inside of the paper being put out. The moisture on his fingers evaporated with it.
Flicking it to the ground, still damp with residue of rain from earlier. He waited until the last customer left. He watched as her shoulders curved in, relaxing just a little. Enough to show pain of tension burning into her muscles from holding the weight of the world.
Draco crossed the empty street. Still watching through the windows as she massaged the back of her neck. As she swayed to the music coming from the speakers inside the building. He couldn’t hear it, but he recalled the somber sound of trumpets and piano from the night before. The deep, crooning voice. Her shoulders rocked side to side, her neck loosening up as she allowed the rest of her body to react to the music.
Yes. Draco was intrigued.
He approached the glass door, and watched as her hips moved along with the slow, steady rhythm. Her chunky loafers were non-slip footwear appropriate for her job. The knee high socks, black skirt and white shirt? He wasn’t so sure it was appropriate. But he appreciated them, nonetheless. The way the fabric of the skirt brushed along the back of her thighs
His eyes flicked up to the little bell on the door, before slowly and quietly, pushing it open. She kept dancing, her arms moving to wrap around her body. She hugged herself as if she hadn’t been hugged in ages. Like she was missing the feeling of a warm embrace.
Draco knew the feeling.
He moved silently toward her, eyeing the way the apron tied at her back, cinching her white, oversized shirt, into her waist. The horns began to pick up, her arms dropped to her sides, her shoulders moved and her fingers snapped in tandem with the notes of the rhythm section as her feet shuffled side to side.
Draco had not found himself so ardently enraptured with anyone like this, before. Had no control over the way his lips lifted into a smile that suddenly felt foreign, but so easily put on. It was unlike him.
Her feet began to step in a way that told him that she knew what she was doing. Like she belonged on a dance floor with a partner holding her hands. She belonged with this music. It belonged with her.
The trumpet’s notes moved quicker and quicker as Hermione began to step and rock her body in a way that demanded his full attention. Particularly when it came to her hips.
His fingers twitched, the need to reach out and rest them on the flare of her hips a sudden and petulant need.
The notes were pulled out, the rhythm quickening before the finale of the song struck, ending abruptly as she spun on the ball of one foot, her arms out to the side. Her eyes were closed and she completed a full spin before slamming her left foot down, arms still splayed out to her side.
She was breathing a little heavier, and though she was still faced away from him, he felt that her smile was a palpable force. He could sense it. Suddenly, it was obvious that Hermione was not as somber as he thought.
At least, not when she was dancing.
Draco began to applaud her, his hands coming together softly but the sound somehow thunderous in the little coffee shop.
Her breath stalled, her entire body freezing upon realization that she was not actually alone.
“You dance.” He mused, stuffing his hands into his pockets again, still fighting the urge to reach for her hips. Her hand.
Her.
With a long and slow exhale that trembled as it left her, Hermione slowly turned to face him, her hands still thrown out to her sides. When she was fully facing him, her hands shot down to her sides, fingers gripping at the rough material of her black apron.
“How long–” Her voice was pitched, her eyes big and rounded out as she nervous looked around the cafe. Her eyes darted to the empty tables, the wall of windows behind him. The door. She cleared her throat and rolled her shoulders back, and Draco marveled at the way her expression changed from shock to neutral in the blink of an eye.
She tilted her head down, eyeing the tiled floor beneath their feet. “I don’t dance. I was just…” She bit down on her lip and he knew she was struggling to come up with a lie.
“You were dancing.” He clarified, masking his glee with a frown. He was well practiced, himself. Practiced in keeping his true emotions hidden from everyone. To expose yourself in a world like this was dangerous, to say the least. “You were enchanting.” He added, despite himself.
Her eyes shot back up to his. They stared at each other, neither willing to give themselves away. Well, mostly. He had failed, already. He was breaking all of the rules with this one.
Her cheeks grew warm, pink tinted as she cleared her throat and straightened out her apron, unnecessarily. “Double espresso?” She offered, and he could have sworn that in her eyes, something sparked as her lips twitched against a small smile. She fought it and he knew that eventually, he would unearth it. He would find a way to make her smile. He would find a way to make that smile his own.
He watched her from where he stood as she prepared the same drink from the night before. The soft whirl frothing milk with the tinkle of piano put Draco in quite a surreal moment. His entire life, he had never encountered a moment such as this. A moment that soothed and flustered him all at once.
She was quietly humming along with the crooning voice of a woman. She sounded like she was in pain. Not the physical kind, the kind of pain only love could cause. Whether it be the love of a partner or a kin, the pain was much more visceral. The woman’s voice was hauntingly beautiful as she sang of her pain. Her loss. Her love.
The glow of the dim lights against the midnight backdrop of the coffee shop created the kind of atmosphere you might find in a dream. He considered the fact that he might be. Coming in here last night was by chance. He was unfamiliar with the area. The majority of his life was spent sheltered in Texas. He was put through vigorous training and had recently been enlisted, forced by his father to join the official ranks of a regime that had treated his family well.
Mostly.
This was only his second assignment. His father left California, returning to Texas before he would be shipped out to somewhere up north, ordered to keep a lock down on the Northern border instead of the south.
That job was to go to Draco, after all. He had entered this coffee shop last night, in a way to find refuge or a place of solace as he wrapped his mind around the job he was forced to accept.
His eyes refocused on her as she carried the drink to the table he occupied last night. He turned his head to follow her, eyeing the perfect layer of foam dusted with cinnamon.
When she straightened and looked over at him, he turned to face her and pulled his hands from his pockets. “Do you often work at night? Alone?”
“I only work nights.” Her shoulders lifted in a shrug.
He approached her, the table and the coffee. Slowly. “Why is that?”
Her eyes darted down to his arms, exposed from when he rolled up his sleeves. The tattoo that was branded into him upon his enlistment was stark against his pale skin. The mark of the regime forever imprinted on him. As if he hadn’t spent his life being reminded of its existence. As if he would ever forget who and what he lived for.
He watched her eyes narrow in on his arm as she pressed her lips together before she replied. “I have another job.”
His brow lifted as he reached for the porcelain mug. “You do?”
She nodded, her chin lifting. He thought she looked defensive. Stubborn.
Adorable.
“What job is that?”
She didn’t want to tell him. He could practically feel the battle inside of her mind as he allowed himself to thoroughly appreciate the heart shaped mouth. Her oval face with a dusting of cinnamon freckles along her cheekbones. On skin the color of milk with a splash of coffee.
She sighed, apparently relenting. “I work at the motel on Broadway, cleaning rooms.”
“The Six?” He took a sip of. It was made perfectly. The perfect ratio of sweet, bitter and milk.
She nodded, curtly.
He nodded too, but asked. “Why do they call it The Six. Doesn’t it have like twenty odd rooms?”
She scowled up at him, momentarily unable to control her features from showing her emotions. Draco found himself in a similar situation, the edges of his mouth curling into a smirk.
“Perhaps it started out with six.” She hissed in response before her eyes went wide in shock. “I mean,” She shook her head.
But Draco kept smirking and nodded at her, lifting his mug at her. “No, do go on.”
She spun away from him and he watched her return behind the line that separated the space for employees and the space for customers. She went to grab a wet towel from the red bucket of water he imagined was actually a cleaning solution.
He followed her, toeing the invisible line as she spun to face him. “I wouldn’t know why they name it The Six ,” she said. “I am just a lowly maid.”
Draco stepped over the invisible line and her eyes widened again. “Why are you working two jobs?” He asked as she stepped back, alarmed by his brazen refusal to follow the unspoken rule. Draco didn’t have to follow most rules the civilians followed. Only the ones put upon him by his father and the regime. Rules that were much frightening than a silly line imagined by some small business owner.
“You can’t come back here.”
“Doesn’t your father take care of you?” He asked, narrowing his eyes on her, still holding his mug in his left hand, his other in his pocket.
She rolled her eyes as she scoffed but she refused to answer. Instead, she lifted her hand and pointed to the space on the other side of the pastry case. On the other side of the point of sale station. The empty café beyond.
“Have a seat and drink your coffee.” She looked annoyed as her eyebrows pinched and her nose scrunched up. “Let me do my job.”
Draco did no such thing. This was the most fun he could remember having in…well, forever. “No father, then.” He mused out loud and she opened her mouth to respond but he cut her off. “Your mother?”
Her mouth clamped shut as she exhaled through her nose.
“Also gone?” He asked, his tone gentler than the taunting drawl he had previously used on her.
She nodded once, shifting her eyes to the windows as another armored truck hurried, the sirens blotting out the sound of the piano and trumpets as Draco refused to look. He knew exactly where those trucks were going to or leaving from. In an hour, he would be there, too.
“I’m sorry.” He said, pulling her eyes back to focus on him. “My mother is gone, too.” He couldn’t understand why he was telling her this. She probably didn’t care. But she should. Because he was an officer, the son of Lucius Malfoy and he was breaking every one the rules his father had pressed upon him. “Died when I was born.”
Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry.” Her words were gentle as they reached him.
He shrugged and took another sip. “Don’t be.” He drained his cup before setting it onto the tray full of empty mugs. He watched her collect them all throughout the night. He pulled his hand free of his pocket, another brand new gold mark in his hand as he held it out for her.
Her eyes became guarded, once more, as she reached out her hand, opening it up to the ceiling.
Slowly, deliberately, he placed the mark into her hand, ensuring that he felt the warmth of her skin brushing against his before he nodded to her and turned around.
If he didn’t leave now, he’d break more rules. Rules that were put in place to keep him in line. To keep him protected from people like her.
“Hermione,” He called over his shoulder. When he stepped outside, he glanced back to find her staring down at her hand, her arms still lifted and stretched out as if reaching for him.
She looked stunned by whatever it was she saw there. Perhaps it was what she felt. Perhaps there was chemistry there, after all.
When her eyes lifted back up to meet his gaze. They were captivating, bright and deep. He wondered what secrets she was keeping in there. He smiled at her. “See you tomorrow?”
Her lips parted in shock but he turned and left before she could respond.
Obviously, Granger refused to have the ceremony at the manor, despite all of my mothers requests and horde of howlers. Mother wanted to save all of the time and money she spent planning her only sons wedding. So, she brought the ceremony to Granger.
Inside of the ministry, is this sad little room for the kinds of witches and wizards who want to get married without all of the hoopla. They either don’t have the money to spend on a big wedding, or they just need the marriage for legal purposes.
But mother fills this room with the white Lillie’s and the pink carnations and she charms to ceiling to sparkle. There’s a massive wedding cake in the middle of the room on a table she set up herself. It’s three tiers with the smallest one holding two figurines of a bride and groom. The bride originally resembled Astoria with her black hair and pale skin. I had to ask Theo to transfigure it to resemble Granger. He managed to transfigure the skin to resemble the sandy color of Grangers and the hair to grow two sizes bigger, but it’s still black. Not brown.
With a shrug, he moves back to my side. We’re both leaning against a wall, and I’m dressed in the first clean(ish) suit Theo could find before forcing me out of the door.
The finality of last nights drunkenness simmered into a buzz and is now boiling rapidly into a hangover. It starts with a headache that begins at the base of your skull and then it wraps around and you swear you can feel your brain scraping against your scalp because you’re so hungover you think everything has shrunken or expanded. You aren’t really sure, but all of those scenarios pop into your head and you just can’t even blink without the pain landing into your brain, behind your eye sockets.
The point is, I feel like shit on what some may consider the most important day of my life.
Theo peers at me from where he’s leaning and begins to dig through his pockets. Inside of his jacket, in his pants pockets. I don’t know what he is looking for and I can’t understand how he keeps digging around in the same pockets for long periods of time but finally. He produces a vial of something bright red and holds it out to me as I watch my father hiss into my mothers ear. Across the room, he’s telling me, my mother, the worl, that at this is the worst thing to ever happen to the Malfoys.
“Take this.” Theo says and I take the vial, without looking it. I take the vial and uncork it before tossing the entirety into the back of my throat.
Because potions are not new to me. Potions are what I do. It’s just that, ever since Granger rolled into that room last week, I don’t want them. I hate them. They dull everything inside of me and everything around me. And so, every other night, I skip them. Every other night, I let myself feel the spread of my sheets as i lay down to sleep. I mull over data and information, mostly about the things insane and heard and I felt.
And then I close my eyes. I blink and then it’s morning. Everything stops and then speeds up until the sun is shining through my curtains. Sometimes I doubt that I even fell asleep.
The point is, I didn’t take my potions last night because I wanted to feel the enormity of this day. I wanted to remember the way it felt to watch Granger say ‘I Do to Draco Malfoy.
It’s not like I have any romantic feelings. It’s just interesting and something about the way she stood up to father makes me think she’s going to do something stupid and reckless and I really just want to remember it. I want to feel it all.
The point is, we have to kiss. This isn’t just a business deal, because we’re expected to get intimate. We’re expected to stick my parts into her parts and make a fucking baby.
But the point is, I got stupid drunk last night because I couldn’t figure out what kind of kiss to give her. It’s not like I even want to kiss her. But if I don’t, or I do, what is then outcome? If I kiss her like she’s repulsive, she’ll likely hex my balls off.
If I kiss her like I want to fuck her, like I want to consummate this, she will likely still hex my bullocks off.
And I don’t. Really, I don’t.
It’s just that, she has the greatest set of tits I’ve ever seen wrapped inside of fabric.
The potions tastes like pepper up with a kick of something tart. And my tongue tingles just as the door to the room opens.
Granger is dressed in a white dress. Her shoulders are bare and the dress is simple, like something you’d wear to an afternoon garden party and her hair is pulled back with intricate braids that meet at the back of her head but the rest of her hair is down and wild and she feels like the falls of Asaranca during summer. It’s Warm and wild but there’s a cool steady mist blowing in your face.
Trust me, I know.
But, behind Granger, there’s Harry Potter and there’s Ginny Weasley. And there’s Ronald Fucking Weasley.
Ronald Weasley is as freckly as ever, but that’s not why I hate him. Freckles don’t bother me. He’s combed up and dressed in a suit that actually looks new and fits his big gangly body, but that isn’t why I hate him, either. I don’t even hate his copper colored hair. Copper has its appeal.
The point is, just the mere presence of him grates at my nerves.
It’s like being lit on fire and being able to do nothing about it. Your blood is boiling and it feels like your skin is tightening around your temples but really it’s just your nerves getting frayed and there’s nothing you can do.
And the point is, that when Granger steps into the room, his hand moves to the small of her back and I can feel the possession in his touch, even from here I’m standing.
And the point is, I’d rather die than have my wife be something Ronald Weasley feels like he owns.
The room fills with the tension that spreads and reaches out for all eight of us. It’s threading itself into our skin and through the fibers of our muscles until it settles deep into the gut or carves itself out a little space in our chest.
There isn’t enough room in there for my heart and my lungs and all of that tension.
Because it’s pounding and my lungs are contracting over and over and Granger is looking at me from across the room like she’s just seen life on the moon. She takes her big dumb eyes and shines them on me like I’m that thing she lost years ago, and totally forgot all about it until this moment.
Until she’d stumbled upon it like we stumbled upon it in the middle of looking for something else. And now she can’t remember what she was looking before she found me.
And the point is, it’s unnerving. The look of this witch with her lips parting and her eyes glimmering, it’s too much. Because she’s about to give herself to me, and I’m going to pull her into my life and into my chest and lock her in there. I’ll have to protect her from everyone,even my father. I’ll have to care for her and we don’t even like each other.
My magic is buzzing and my heart is pounding and Theo is nudging his shoulder into mine, telling me to calm down.
“Either the potion’s kicked in, or you’re very excited to see your bride to be,” Theo says and when drag my eyes away from Granger, he’s pointedly looking at my nose. There’s steam pouring out of my nostrils and my ears and I can feel it wafting up my throat as I step away from the wall to greet my bride. But, I cough and puff out a cloud of tart flavored smoke.
Grangers face lights up in a way I’ve never seen before.
Her lips quirk and her eyes latch onto mine and then she smiles. She’s smiling at me like she can’t help it. Like the smoke and my nerves are all something precious and I feel like I’m being bolted to the floor. I can’t move and the best of my heart increases and so I just stare.
I stare and staresndstareandstare. I can’t stop staring at the way her lips lift and show the row of pearl like teeth, the slight sliver of her top gum.
“Ahem,” father clears his throat and the spell is broken. The mudbloods magic fizzes out and her smile transforms into something cruel and bitter as she looks to look at my father.
The tension thickens as the Marriage Commissioner enters behind Grangers gang of Gryffindors.
“Are we all ready?”
The little room is bursting with flowers and tension and the nine of us.
Nobody is ready. We’re all fidgeting and on edge.
Potter is shifting from foot to foot as he squeezes onto the hand of Ginny Weasley. She’s narrowing her eyes on me, a brow lifted like she’s sure I’m about to take a shit on the entire thing. Theo is fiddling with his bow tie and I don’t know why he’s nervous. He thought the entire idea of me and Granger getting married is hilarious.
But now he’s adjusting his tie and shaking his hair from his face and staring at my parents like they might do something.
Mothers just wringing her fingers together and watching Granger with something like wonder filling her blue eyes, rounding them out and lifting her brows.
Father is scowling as he watches everyone step into place.
I step up to the little alter that is on the far east side of the room. The commissioner stands at the podium.
Theo and my parents line up on one side. Potter and the Weasleys on the other.
Granger steps up to the podium and then all of the eyes in the room are on me.
They’re poking and prodding. They’re waiting and predicting.
Because what will Draco do?
Something stupid, his fathers eyes say. Theos eyes are begging me to be reckless.
Harry thinks I’m going to do something to hurt Granger.
Ron Weasley is telling me to run away. His eyes are gobbling up his golden princess and he’s begging me to give her back, give her back.
Granger barely looks over her shoulder, and her eyes don’t land on me. I don’t know what Granger wants.
But I step up beside her and her shoulder brushes against my arm and my headache is gone but in its place, my heart has spread into my throat and into my head. I can feel and hear it in every part of my body.
The commissioner doesn’t drag it out. It’s like ripping off a bandage. It’s better to just get it over with, don’t prolong the pain. Just pinch the edges and pull.
And before I know it, I’m turning to face Granger and she’s turning to look up at me and there’s a ring shoved into my hand. I slide it onto her little fingers that look like they belong between my teeth and I’m promising to care for her and protect her. I’m promising to love her and she’s doing the same and isn’t that some shit.
Were promising to do something that we had no choice in. They’re forcing us together and now they’re making us swear to love each other when we never got the chance to figure it out on our own. And we don’t. We don’t love each other. We hate each other but now we’re going to love each other for the rest of our lives.
You may now kiss the bride.
The words crack into my mind like a whip. I’m jolted back into a moment I can never forget because I’m not being dulled down by the potions my father encouraged me to take. And this is why I drank last night.
Because I’m forced to make a decision that neither of us wants to make.
I clear my throat and I can see Granger swallow as her eyes flick to her friends, to the commission, who nods encouragingly.
She looks to my parents and to Theo.
I lean forward and I have to bend my knees so that I can lower myself to her height and gently place my lips against hers.
I settled on a respectful, closed lipped kiss.
Her lips are soft and firm and warm. There’s a spark of magic that dances against my mouth and I gasp. I gasp and make to pull away.
But Grangers hands suddenly clasp over the back of my neck as she lifts up onto the tips of her toes and deepens the kiss. She takes advantage shock forces her tongue into my mouth and, I think I’m falling.
The point is, my hands hold onto her, grasping at her face and her waist and I’m falling. I’m falling into Granger and she takes me, catches me and devours me.
The kiss is wild and it’s inappropriate but I think I’m cursed because I can’t stop kissing her back. I can’t stop slanting and molding my mouth to hers. I can’t stop letting her massage my tongue with hers I can’t stop her little fingers from gripping onto my neck or from finding their way into the little hairs at the nape of my neck.
I can’t stop the way my fingers press into the fabric of her dress like I might rip into it. I can’t stop the way I, forcing her body to crowd into mine.
The kiss is like a dance that is synchronized and well practiced, like we’ve been doing it forever.
Someone clears their throat and Granger slows the kiss down, kissing me once, twice, three times before she pulls away with my eyes still closed.
She pulls away and when I open my eyes, she sends a smirk at my father and the point is, I can’t care.
The point is, that ancient beast that was a part of me is now a part of her and something wild and frenzied is suddenly brewing right here. Here in this space between her body and mine, my mind and hers The point is, it’s here to stay and the point is, I can’t stop this, even if I tried.
Ron is already there when she gets home. The white of one of his eyes is red, irritated from Draco’s thumb digging into it. But other than that, he Is fine. Physically, he is unharmed. There is no broken skin, no bruising.
Hermione exits her Floo and heads straight for him. He’s standing against the kitchen counter, in her tiny little flat, in the tiny little building that holds the bulk of her life in its little shell.
Her hands reach out and she shoves him hard, slamming his lower back into the edge of the counter.
“How dare you!”
Ron curls his arm in on himself and turns away from her. “Are you mad? How dare I?” He hurried over to the other side of the counter, putting a barrier between the two of them. “You let him kiss you! Right there in front of me!”
“Why shouldn’t I let him kiss me?” She cried. “Who else is going to do it? You?” She laughed, it was cruel and derisive. It scalded her throat, it made the tears stinging the back so her eyes feel good.
“Oh, come on, Hermione,” Ron threw his hands up in exasperation. “You nearly died! What was I supposed to do?”
“Literally the opposite of what you did do, Ronald!” She slammed her hands against the cheap laminate counter top. “You could have wrapped me in your arms, thanked the gods for letting me live! You could have kissed me like if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be able to confirm that I was actually alive!”
“Why! Is that what he did?” He pointed to the Floo, as if wherever she had come from had been with Draco. It was, obviously, it was.
But she didn’t say that. Instead, she said, “Who were you kissing instead, hmm? Who were you fucking while I was dying?”
“Oh, come off it, Hermione. You’re crazy. You have been acting crazy since you woke up in that hospital bed.” That was a lie. She wasn’t acting crazy. She was perfectly sane. Nothing about her had changed.
Except for the eyes and the horrific daydreams. She had fallen into a terrible fantasy that she was Draco, that she was seeing Ron the way Draco saw him just before she kissed Draco’s bloody mouth.
But she felt perfectly sane. Angry? yes. Violent? Absolutely. But, she wasn’t crazy.
“You’re a liar.” She hissed, creeping around the counter, her hands tip toeing along the peeling veneer as she rounded the corner.
Ron’s eyes widened, terrified of whatever he say on her face, in her eyes.
“Calm down, Hermione.” He dodged her as she threw her hand out at his face, her nails reaching for his cheek.
“Malfoy’s gotten to you, I told you not to listen to him, I told you!” He said it like that justified everything, like everything would suddenly make sense if she would just listen to him.
“Maybe he has.” Flashes of Malfoys mouth on her, his fingers buried deep into her cunt. “But you are a liar. We are over, Ronald Weasley. You hear me?” She seethed. “We are over!”
“Good!” He yelled but he was tearing up and his ears were turning red. This hurt him as much as it hurt her. Despite the lies and the cheating, this hurt.
Gods, why did it all have to hurt so fucking much.
“Great. I’m off the hook, then. How could I marry someone who cares about someone as vile as Draco Malfoy?”
Hermione screamed and grabbed the closest thing to her. It was a bottle of cooking oil. Plastic, half gone, but she threw it anyway as he shuffled backwards, it hit him in the shoulder and he scowled at her.
“You’re fucking crazy. You’re perfect for each other, you know that?” He cried as he turned and stepped through the front door of her flat and left, slamming the door behind him.
Hermione stared at the door, watched the way it shook against the highest, like wooden jello. She blinked over and over, forcing the tears to stay behind the balls of her eyes.
And then she was watching Ron hurry out into the dark streets below. But not from her window, not from any secret door.
No, she was watching Ron stalk away from her building through somebody else’s eyes. And she wasn’t alone.
