Draco reread Hermione's note for what had to be the tenth time, the delicate script smudging beneath his fingertips as his grip tightened. His palms were damp, his heartbeat a steady, unrelenting drum against his ribs. Tonight had to be perfect . He couldn't afford another misstep, not after everything—the lingering secrets, the weight of his past, the ever-looming threat of losing her before he'd even truly had her.
The guilt curled around his ribs like a vice as he meticulously arranged the takeout containers to look as far from takeout as humanly possible. The flickering candlelight did little to ease the tension in his chest. If anything, the wavering flames cast grotesque shadows across the walls, mocking him with distorted reflections of his own fears. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
Pull yourself together, Malfoy.
Just as he straightened a silver fork for the fourth time, the emerald glow of the Floo flared to life, casting a sickly light over the room. His breath hitched. Hermione.
He barely had time to school his expression before she stepped through, brushing soot from her sleeve. Her gaze swept across the room, taking in the scene—the candlelit table, the meticulously arranged plates, the nervous tension thrumming beneath his carefully composed demeanor.
"Draco," she said, amusement laced through her voice, "what's all this?"
He forced a casual smile, walking toward her as if he hadn't spent the last hour meticulously obsessing over every detail. "I wanted to do something special for you, darling." He took her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "I've been thinking a lot about us lately, and I wanted to show you just how much you mean to me."
Her expression softened, the guarded edge in her eyes easing just a fraction. She exhaled a quiet chuckle and leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. "You didn't have to go through all this trouble," she murmured, "but it's lovely. Thank you."
He swallowed, his grip on her hand tightening slightly. If only you knew.
They settled in for dinner, the initial tension unraveling as the night unfolded in gentle conversation and soft laughter. The sharp tang of wine lingered in the air as they reminisced, the ghosts of their younger selves flitting through their words—memories of a time when they had been at war, not just with the world, but with each other.
And yet, here they were. Sharing a meal. Talking about the future as if it was theirs to shape.
As the last remnants of their dinner vanished with a flick of his wand, he led her to the living room, where the fireplace crackled warmly, casting golden hues across the plush rug and the two glasses waiting on the coffee table. He poured them each another generous glass of wine before sinking down beside her, the space between them thinning with every breath.
For once, the silence wasn't suffocating. It wasn't tense or heavy with unspoken words. It was… comfortable.
He turned to her, studying the way the firelight danced over her features, the flicker of warmth in her eyes, the soft curve of her lips against the rim of her glass. His fingers twitched, an undeniable pull settling in his chest. Say something, do something, show her.
But before he could overthink it, before doubt could slither its way back in, Hermione spoke first.
"You've been different lately," she mused, swirling the wine in her glass, her gaze locking onto his. "More… open. More you, I think."
Draco's breath caught for just a moment. He wasn't sure if she meant it as a compliment, but Merlin, did it feel like one.
"More me."
He lifted his glass in a mock toast, a slow, almost shy smirk tugging at his lips. "I take it that means you don't completely despise me anymore?"
Hermione laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. She clinked her glass against his. "Don't push your luck."
"Darling," he began, his voice steady but laced with an uncharacteristic vulnerability, "I know I haven't always been the best at… expressing things, but I need you to understand something." His fingers twitched slightly as he reached for her hand, as if afraid she might pull away. "You mean everything to me. And I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, to make you happy." His grip tightened, not possessively, but with a quiet desperation, as though he feared she might slip through his fingers.
The atmosphere thickened, charged with something electric, something undeniable . She felt it settle in the space between them, wrapping around her like a tangible force. His words—his unwavering devotion—sent a tremor through her, a sensation that was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.
She thought of Ron—of that night, of Draco's fury, of the bone-deep certainty in his voice as he laid his claim. It should have horrified her, should have made her pull back. But instead, her breath hitched, a heat curling in her stomach that she refused to name.
"Draco," she murmured, the single syllable heavy with meaning. She lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. Thank you? It felt too simple for what he had done, for what he was to her. Yet, when she spoke, her voice was softer, more certain than before. "You don't have to prove anything to me. You already have."
A slow exhale left him, his shoulders relaxing for the first time that evening. For a fleeting moment, the weight of his past, his fears, the tangled web of secrecy—none of it mattered. Not when she looked at him like that. Not when she chose to stay.
But deep beneath the surface, in the dark corners of his mind where shadows still lurked, a single thought gnawed at him. What if Weasley remembers? What if the spell didn't hold, what if Ronald started asking questions, what if—?
He pushed the thought aside, tucking it away where it couldn't touch the moment. He would deal with it. He had to.
Because losing Hermione? That wasn't an option. Not now. Not ever.
Draco smirked to himself—some dogs needed more than one beating to learn their place. And Weasley? Well, he was long overdue for another training session.
As the night settled around them, he held her close, savoring the rare tranquility that wrapped them in its embrace. The fire flickered, casting golden shadows across the room, but Draco's focus remained solely on the woman in his arms.
"You know I'll never let anyone lay a finger on you again, don't you?" His voice was a low murmur against her ear, his breath sending a delicious shiver down her spine. Then, his tone darkened, dipping into something deeper, something primal. "No one," he stressed, his fingers tightening around her thigh with quiet possession, "touches what's mine."
Hermione, slightly flushed from the wine, let out a slow, languid sigh, her lips curling into a teasing smirk. "I believe you've already made that perfectly clear," she murmured, her fingers tracing lazy circles over his chest. "Especially with how you handled Ron the other day."
His hold on her waist tightened, pulling her effortlessly into his lap. The way she fit against him felt infuriatingly perfect, like she belonged there. "I would do anything for you, love. Anything." His words carried weight, a promise, a silent vow that stretched beyond mere devotion.
She leaned her head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat. "You don't have to fight my battles, Draco," she murmured, her voice softer now. "But… thank you for always being there."
His fingers threaded through her hair, his touch gentle but possessive. "I can't help it," he admitted, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "The thought of anyone hurting you… it drives me mad. You mean everything to me, love."
Her lips brushed against his collarbone, a small, affectionate gesture that sent a ripple of heat through him. "I know," she whispered, her smile sweet, almost innocent—though Draco knew better.
They sat together, wrapped in the warmth of the fire and the quiet intimacy between them. Hermione curled closer, feeling the tension in Draco's body melt away. The weight of the world, of expectations, of unspoken fears—it all faded into the background.
His lips found her temple in a lingering kiss. "Let's stay like this a little longer," he murmured.
"Let's," she agreed, clinging to him. But then, she tilted her head slightly, her lips finding the sensitive skin of his neck. The first kiss was soft, almost teasing. The second, slower, more deliberate.
He inhaled sharply, his grip on her tightening. "Love," he rasped, his voice thick with something between desperation and warning.
"Shh," she hummed against his skin, leaving another featherlight kiss just below his jaw. "Just let me…"
His eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the sensation, to the quiet, torturous pleasure of her lips against him. He had spent years keeping himself restrained, composed, always in control—but she was undoing him, one kiss at a time.
His hands found her face, tilting her head back so he could look into her eyes. The firelight danced in them, and for a moment, he was utterly lost. "You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles against her thigh.
Her smile turned wicked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Oh, I think I have some idea."
He let out a quiet groan, his forehead resting against hers as he struggled to keep himself in check. "Darling, you really need to stop teasing me," he said, his voice strained, nearly pleading.
But she didn't stop. If anything, her kisses became bolder, trailing along the sharp edge of his jaw, up to the shell of his ear. "But I like teasing you," she whispered, her breath sending shivers down his spine.
He let out a low, ragged groan, his fingers tightening around her waist like a man gripping onto his last shred of self-control. "You're going to drive me mad," he murmured, his voice husky, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Maybe that's the plan," she teased, her eyes gleaming with wicked intent as she trailed another slow, lingering kiss along the sharp line of his jaw, each touch unraveling him further.
He exhaled sharply, his hands sliding up her back, pressing her closer until there wasn't an inch of space between them. His restraint was hanging by a thread, and she knew it. "You're impossible," he muttered, but there was no real complaint in his tone—only reverence, only need.
"And you love it," she countered, finally pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, her lips slightly swollen, her eyes dark with mischief and something deeper.
His breath caught, completely undone by the sight of her, the feel of her, the weight of her in his arms. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face, and he finally surrendered. "Yes, I do," he admitted, his voice thick with longing before he crushed his lips to hers, claiming her in a kiss that stole the air from both their lungs.
The moment her hips rolled against his, he hissed, his entire body going rigid beneath her. "Please, darling," he rasped, his voice almost desperate. "Stop—if you keep doing that, I won't have the willpower to stop." His grip on her tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric of her dress as if anchoring himself from the inevitable fall.
She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear, her lips ghosting over his skin. "I'm not drunk, Draco," she whispered, her voice a silky promise. "I'm just… relaxed."
His head fell back against the sofa, a growl of frustration rumbling in his throat as she pressed soft, wet kisses along his collarbone, down the line of his throat, her tongue flicking over his pulse point just to hear the sharp inhale she dragged from him.
He was painfully hard, every nerve in his body thrumming with tension, every ounce of restraint slipping like sand through his fingers. And then—
She moaned into his mouth, a soft, breathy sound that shattered him.
At that moment, Draco Malfoy ceased to exist. He was no longer the heir of an ancient, noble house. No longer the war-hardened assassin. No longer the man who had spent a decade pining in secret. He was simply hers—undone, unmade, completely and utterly ruined by Hermione Granger.
If he had known this was the sound she made—soft, breathy, utterly devastating—he would have rewritten the entire fabric of wizarding law himself. House-elf liberation? Done. Goblin rebellion? Settled. The Marriage Law? He would have drafted the damn thing with his own two hands, signed it in blood, and delivered it to the Wizengamot on a silver platter if it meant he could have this—her, moaning into his mouth like she was made for him.
He sucked in a sharp breath, battling for control even as his restraint crumbled beneath her every desperate movement. She was scorching against him, her heat searing through the fabric of his trousers as he guided her hips harder against his aching cock, the friction exquisite torture.
"Darling, please," he rasped, voice wrecked with need. "Tell me to stop." It was a plea, a final thread of sanity he clung to, but even as the words left his lips, he prayed she wouldn't listen.
But she was beyond reason, beyond hesitation. She was frantic now, rolling against him with such fervor that she'd already made a mess of his trousers—and Merlin help him, he was never washing this suit again.
"Don't stop, Draco," she gasped, her voice a breathless plea that sent molten heat coursing through his veins. "Please—it feels so good."
Then, as if she hadn't already ruined him completely, she made it worse. With one smooth, desperate motion, she pulled her blouse over her head and let it drop to the floor, baring warm, golden skin to him.
He went still. His grip on her hips faltered, his breath hitched, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly, utterly unworthy.
His hands trembled as he reached for her, reverent and almost hesitant, as though she were something holy—something he had no business touching but couldn't bear to resist. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "Fuck, Hermione…"
No, this was the moment he truly died.
His hands were uncharacteristically unsteady as he reached out, fingers fumbling slightly as he unclasped her bra. And then—Merlin help him—her breasts spilled free, heavy, perfect, more stunning than anything he had ever laid eyes on. His breath caught in his throat, reverence and hunger warring inside him as he traced the curve of her skin with trembling fingers.
With the lightest touch, he circled her nipple with his thumb, watching in awe as it hardened instantly beneath his touch. His cock throbbed painfully in response, every nerve in his body on fire with the desperate need to claim, to worship, to drown in her.
"Please, Draco," she whispered, her voice a siren's call, seductive and impossible to resist. She was pulling him under, dragging him into depths he had no desire to escape from.
He couldn't hold back anymore. Leaning in, he captured one perfect peak in his mouth, swirling his tongue over the sensitive bud, savoring the way she gasped and arched into him.
No—no, this was the moment he actually died.
Playing with her gorgeous, peony-colored nipples, he couldn't help but smirk—of course, that was her favorite flower. She pushed her breasts further into his mouth, and in one swift motion, he locked her legs around his waist and lifted her effortlessly. The green couch, it seemed, was finally good for something.
He peeled off her skirt, tossing it somewhere behind him before immediately dropping to his knees, positioning himself between her parted thighs like a man at the altar of a goddess.
"Draco, please..."
That, he heard loud and clear. It ignited something primal inside him, sent fire surging through his veins, and snapped something dangerous loose in his brain. He remembered exactly what this was about—making her forget everything except his name.
"Fuck—" he hissed, his lips pressing against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, inhaling the scent of her arousal like it was the most intoxicating potion in existence. He smirked against her skin. "Tell me what you want, darling… because right now, I think I'd give you anything just to feel you come apart from my fingers alone."
His mouth trailed up, teasing, tasting, worshiping, while his hand slid between her thighs. He dragged his fingers over her soaked folds, finding her dripping, a sinful slickness that made his cock ache.
"All for me?" he murmured against her, his voice thick with possession.
"Yes," she whispered back, breathless, wrecked already.
He was genuinely surprised he hadn't died from arrogance yet.
He slid two fingers into her with practiced ease, swallowing the moan that spilled from her lips as her walls clenched around him. She was grinding down against his hand, needy, desperate, and it made him groan, his self-control hanging by a thread.
Then he dropped lower, sliding his arm under her hips, his mouth replacing his fingers as he latched onto her clit with a hunger that bordered on obsession.
There wasn't a taste in the world that could compare to this. Her cunt—it was his Amortentia, his finest dessert, the only thing in existence that had ever made him weak and invincible all at once.
His mouth closed around her, his tongue flicking relentlessly. A strangled moan tore out of her throat, making his already agonizing hardness pulse with need.
"Please," she begged, her fingers fisting desperately into his hair, tugging.
He didn't respond. That would mean taking his mouth off her, and he had no interest in such a foolish act. Instead, he slid his fingers back inside her, curling them just right as he sucked her clit between his lips, sending her body arching clean off the couch.
He groaned into her, his tongue plunging deep, his thumb pressing against her swollen bundle of nerves, dragging out those desperate, needy sounds he already knew would haunt him for the rest of his miserable life.
"Draco—fuck—please."
His grip on her thigh tightened, hard enough to leave bruises, and he welcomed the marks—just another reminder that she was his.
His.
Her legs shook violently, her breath hitching in that telltale way that made his stomach clench with anticipation. Gods, he loved how easy it was to make her come for him. And he wasn't stopping until she shattered completely.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A week had passed since that unforgettable night, and in its wake, they had fallen into an effortless rhythm—one laced with quiet intimacy and unspoken understanding. The initial heat of their newfound closeness had settled into something deeper, something warm and steady, like embers glowing beneath the surface. Their days were now filled with small, stolen moments, gestures that spoke louder than words, silent affirmations of something neither of them dared to name just yet.
Each morning, he would wake before her, brewing a pot of coffee just the way she liked it. Without fail, a steaming cup would be waiting on her nightstand before she even stirred. And when she did, she'd greet him with a drowsy smile, her voice thick with sleep as she murmured, "Thank you," pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before taking her first sip. It had become their quiet ritual, one that he found himself anticipating more than he cared to admit.
In return, she had started noticing the little things that made Draco tick—the way he liked his tea in the afternoon, the way his brow furrowed in concentration when he was deep in work, the way his shoulders held tension when he was too lost in thought. Without fail, she would slip into his study at just the right moment, setting a cup of tea beside him without a word. Sometimes, she'd press a slow kiss to his neck before retreating, savoring the way his entire body seemed to exhale beneath her touch.
And Draco… Gods, he was so gone for her.
The contentment he found in these small, domestic moments was something he had never imagined for himself. It was intoxicating in a way that had nothing to do with firewhiskey or reckless indulgence. Every smile she gave him, every casual brush of her fingers against his skin, every whispered endearment she murmured when she thought he wasn't listening—each one burrowed deep inside him, expanding in his chest until he felt like he might burst from the sheer magnitude of it all.
One evening, as they sat curled together on the couch, Hermione's head resting against his shoulder, he let his lips press softly to her temple, lingering just a little longer than necessary. His voice was quiet, raw with something unguarded as he murmured, "You know, I never thought I'd be this happy."
She tilted her head up, her gaze locking onto his, full of warmth and something he was beginning to recognize as home. "Neither did I," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't imagine my life any other way now."
He let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening around hers. "I don't want to imagine it any other way either."
And in that moment, as they sat wrapped in the glow of the fireplace, in the quiet hum of their shared space, he realized something.
This wasn't just comfort. This wasn't just a routine. This was everything. And he wasn't letting it go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
June 5th. Once, it had been a day of grandeur, of extravagance, of celebration. A date marked by the arrival of mountains of presents, each one meticulously chosen to fulfill Draco Malfoy's every whim. As a child, he had reveled in the attention, basked in the knowledge that for one day a year, the world bent itself around him, delivering only the finest gifts, the most lavish indulgences.
But one year, one gift, had changed everything.
That year, his birthday hadn't come wrapped in silver paper or adorned with elegant ribbons. It hadn't been a gleaming broomstick or an heirloom watch. No, that year, his gift had been a mark burned into his skin, a brand that stripped him of innocence, of choice, of freedom.
A gift no child should ever receive.
The moment was seared into his memory like the ink on his forearm, inescapable. The throne room had been filled with flickering candlelight and the scent of burning flesh, with the cold, unrelenting eyes of the Dark Lord and the eerie silence of his followers. Draco had told himself he was ready. He had tried to be ready. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the searing agony that followed.
It wasn't just pain. It was obliteration.
Muggle tattoos, he had learned later, were a milestone, a choice, a moment of artistic self-expression. He imagined they came with discomfort, maybe even pain. But he didn't know what it felt like to get a Muggle tattoo. What he did know was that Muggles didn't piss themselves from the agony, didn't scream so hard they lost their voice, didn't collapse to the ground, vomiting between sobs while the burning symbol of their enslavement was permanently etched into their flesh.
No one in the room had so much as flinched at his suffering. Not his father. Not his mother. No one.
The moment had stolen whatever vestiges of childhood he had left. One second, he had been Draco Malfoy, heir to the most noble and ancient house, and the next… he was a pawn. A tool. A soldier in a war he hadn't chosen.
After that, birthdays weren't celebrations anymore. They weren't about gifts or indulgences or laughter.
They were reminders.
A personal dementor that followed him, hovering over his shoulder, whispering the same unrelenting truth into his ear—you were never meant to be free.
There were days he wished an actual dementor would follow him, if only so it could finish the job.
He hated himself for wallowing, for feeling weak, for feeling at all. Everyone around him had assured him it was an honor. His father had clasped his shoulder and told him how proud he was. Finally, Draco, you will make our family proud.
But he had felt nothing except shame, nothing except terror, nothing except the unbearable weight of what had just been done to him.
Merlin bless Azkaban for swallowing Lucius whole. Let him rot.
Because in the end, the great honor his father had forced upon him had been nothing more than a death sentence. A curse.
And though the war had ended and the Dark Mark no longer burned, he still felt its weight pressing down on him, dragging behind him like invisible chains.
June 5th would never be a birthday again.
It would always be a requiem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His beautiful wife had left for work, entirely unaware of the storm brewing inside him. He stood by the window, fingers drumming restlessly against the cool glass, lost in the tangled web of memories that always threatened to resurface this time of year. The familiar screech of an owl pulled him from his thoughts.
A silver blur streaked toward him, wings cutting through the morning air with effortless grace. He didn't need to see the elegant monogram on the envelope to know its sender. Mother.
With a resigned sigh, he took the letter and unfolded the pristine parchment.
Dearest Draco,
The news of your marital accord brings me the deepest satisfaction. As your natal day approaches, I extend a formal invitation for you and your wife to join me at Malfoy Manor this evening.
I trust that Mrs. Malfoy upholds the values of equitable recompense and structured leisure for house-elves. You may assure her that the estate's elf population remains well cared for, compensated appropriately, and provided with regulated furlough periods in accordance with progressive domestic employment principles.
Additionally, I have undertaken extensive renovations to the manor, ensuring that it now aligns with a more modern and welcoming aesthetic. It is my sincerest hope that any unfavorable associations Mrs. Malfoy may retain regarding the residence have now been adequately remedied.
With unwavering maternal devotion,
Narcissa Black Malfoy
He reread the letter six times, each pass doing nothing to dull the sheer absurdity of its contents. A fresh wave of disbelief crashed over him, his grip on the parchment tightening. Did she really think a fresh coat of paint could scrub away the bloodstains and the echoes of screams embedded in the very foundation of Malfoy Manor? Did she believe for even a moment that Hermione—his Hermione, with her relentless intellect and unshakable sense of morality—could ever set foot inside that house without feeling the weight of its past pressing down on her?
The disbelief was sharp, laced with a flicker of something unexpected. Intent. His mother, pragmatic to the point of cold calculation, was not given to sentimentality, nor had she ever been the type to offer meaningless gestures. And yet, here it was—a clumsy, desperate olive branch disguised as a formal invitation. The manor was a graveyard of horrors, and yet, somewhere between the lines of Narcissa's impeccable script, he could sense the tentative construction of a bridge. A bridge that, if not yet strong enough to cross, at least wasn't woven from poison ivy.
Conflicting emotions warred within him. The undeniable ache of longing to see his mother again battled the impossibility of expecting Hermione to return to that place. But a sliver of dark humor crept in—Hermione was notoriously stubborn, sometimes to the point of masochism, especially when it came to confronting deeply entrenched societal expectations. He knew it would take more than ghosts to keep her away if she decided this was a hill she wanted to die on.
"It is your birthday, dearie," she mused, amusement flickering at the edges of her words as she skimmed the letter. "If an evening at Malfoy Manor isn't your ideal way to celebrate, we can absolutely explore alternatives."
He scoffed, sinking into the couch beside her. "Alternatives, you say? Such as being trampled by a herd of stampeding hippogriffs? Being force-fed Veritaserum in front of the entire Wizengamot? Frankly, all preferable to enduring a dinner where my mother attempts small talk while pretending the manor isn't cursed."
She rolled her eyes but didn't refute him. Instead, she traced a thoughtful finger along the rim of her teacup before speaking. "It's been years since the war. I've seen your mother on three separate occasions, and once, we even had an actual conversation." She glanced up at him then, her gaze steady. "You do remember that I vouched for you both during the trials, right?"
His fingers flexed against his thigh, the reminder pressing into his ribs like a dull knife. Of course he remembered. It had been the single greatest act of mercy ever extended to his family, one they had not deserved and certainly not expected.
"You don't hold any resentment toward her," he stated, but there was hesitation in his voice. It wasn't that he doubted Hermione's capacity for forgiveness—if anything, that was what unsettled him most.
A slow smile curved her lips, though her eyes gleamed with something far too clever. "No, Draco, I don't. Your mother, like you, was shaped by the world she was raised in. That doesn't excuse everything, but it also doesn't make her beyond redemption." She paused, tapping a finger against her chin as if deep in thought. "Besides, wouldn't it be perfectly Slytherin of us to use your birthday as an excuse to infiltrate your childhood home and reclaim it? Just for an evening?"
He huffed a quiet laugh, something wry twisting in his chest. "Reclaim it? We're not staging a coup, Hermione."
"Aren't we?" She arched an eyebrow, her smile wicked. "Taking back power in a space that once held nothing but pain? Choosing to walk through its halls not as a victim, but on our terms? Sounds rather Gryffindor of me, doesn't it?"
He groaned, tilting his head back against the couch. "Now you're making it sound noble. Surviving a Malfoy family gathering isn't reclaiming anything—it's enduring my mother's passive-aggressive remarks and pretending the soup isn't laced with centuries of judgment."
She chuckled, nudging his leg with her foot. "Survival is a noble pursuit, especially when dealing with questionable food and aristocratic dramatics." Her voice softened just a touch. "But you know as well as I do that part of moving forward means facing the past, even the parts we'd rather leave buried."
He studied her for a long moment, wariness warring with admiration. He knew Hermione wasn't a masochist—well, not entirely. This wasn't some self-punishing crusade. This was an act of love, a willingness to stand beside him, no matter the demons lurking in the shadows of his childhood.
And, perhaps, just perhaps, it was also the opportunity to learn if she had other masochistic tendencies beyond her taste for emotional battles.
Time would tell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The towering oak doors of Malfoy Manor groaned as they swung open, the sound reverberating through the grand entryway like the exhale of a slumbering beast disturbed from its rest. Centuries-old hinges, polished but weary from the weight of history, protested the movement. A sharp gust of air carried the scent of aged parchment, wax-polished floors, and something colder—something that smelled like memory.
Bibsy, the house-elf, stood frozen at the threshold, wringing her delicate hands against the hem of her pristine tea towel. Her large, liquid eyes darted between Draco and Hermione, hesitation flickering in their depths before landing on Hermione's emerald-green robes. A flash of curiosity shone there, a quiet, unspoken observation of how the rich fabric stood in stark defiance against the manor's perpetual gloom.
"Welcome back, Master Draco," Bibsy whispered, her voice as delicate as spun glass. A pause, then the barest tremor of something almost reverent as she turned to Hermione. "And… welcome, Mistress."
The title carried a weight beyond mere formality. It was a recognition, tentative but real, that something had shifted within the walls of Malfoy Manor.
He inclined his head in a clipped nod, his voice composed but laced with an undercurrent of tension. "Thank you, Bibsy. It's… good to be back." The words felt foreign on his tongue, like an incantation he wasn't sure he wanted to finish. His gaze flicked sideways, seeking the silent anchor that was Hermione.
Hermione met Bibsy's earnest gaze with a small but genuine smile, warmth threading through the tension like a beam of light piercing through a storm-stained window. "Good evening, Bibsy," she greeted gently, her voice a soothing counterpoint to the stiff air lingering between the walls.
Then, with practiced grace, she turned her attention to the imposing figure waiting just beyond the threshold.
Narcissa Malfoy stood beneath the towering archway, her frame poised, her expression carefully arranged into a mask of polite neutrality. And yet, for the briefest moment, the icy veneer wavered—just a flicker, but enough to soften the hard edges of her usually impassive gaze.
"Dragon, darling," she said, addressing him with a name he hadn't heard in years. The endearment landed between them with an almost physical weight, a relic of a time when she had been his whole world, before war and bloodlines had driven a wedge through everything they once held sacred.
Her gaze flickered to Hermione, assessing but not unkind. "It is a pleasure to have you visit," she continued smoothly, her tone measured, but something genuine threading beneath it. "And an honor to host you here, Hermione."
Last time she was here, this house was not famous for its hospitality.
Dinner at Malfoy Manor was a study in controlled warfare. The lavish meal—each dish meticulously plated, every glass filled with the finest wine—was less of a feast and more of a battleground, where each exchanged word was a maneuver, each carefully chosen phrase a calculated move. Conversation flowed with all the grace of a well-practiced dance, but beneath the polished civility, the tension hummed like an unsheathed dagger held just out of sight.
Narcissa Malfoy, regal as ever, sat at the head of the table, her delicate fingers wrapped around a crystal goblet. Her inquiries about Hermione's work at the Ministry were polite, her voice smooth and measured, yet there was an unmistakable edge beneath her refined exterior. Hermione, in turn, responded with equal poise—her tone respectful, her words articulate, but with that signature sharpness Draco knew so well. It wasn't outright hostility, nor was it warmth; it was a test of boundaries, an assessment of the battlefield they both found themselves on.
Draco watched them with the acute awareness of a man walking a tightrope above a pit of waiting wolves.
The meal continued, and so did the verbal jousting. Narcissa asked after Hermione's policies on magical creature rights with a practiced air of nonchalance, though Draco could tell she was waiting for a misstep, an inconsistency she could pick apart. Hermione, however, was far too clever to allow such openings.
"It's quite admirable how far the Ministry has come," Narcissa noted, sipping her wine.
Hermione met her gaze evenly. "Yes, but there is still much to be done." A beat passed. "It takes time to undo centuries of ingrained beliefs."
The words hung between them like a challenge, and for a moment, Draco braced himself. But then, to his surprise, Narcissa inclined her head, her expression unreadable. "Indeed," she murmured, and nothing more was said.
A breakthrough, however small.
Then, Hermione shifted the conversation, deliberately steering it toward the Manor's renovations. Perhaps it was a strategic attempt to gauge how much Narcissa was truly willing to change, or perhaps it was simply curiosity, but either way, the response was immediate.
Narcissa straightened slightly, something like satisfaction flickering across her composed features. She spoke at length about the changes she had implemented—how certain rooms had been completely redone, how old relics of the past had been removed, how the very energy of the house had been shifted.
He nearly exhaled in relief.
They were talking—not just exchanging pleasantries, not circling each other like wary predators, but engaging. It was a tenuous thread, but it was something.
Then, miraculously, a crack in the ice.
Emboldened by the shift in atmosphere, he found himself recounting a particularly disastrous Hogwarts prank—one involving a misplaced love potion and an unfortunate run-in with a flock of Cornish Pixies. It was ridiculous, childish even, but to his utter astonishment, Narcissa chuckled.
Not a polite, perfunctory sound, but a genuine, unguarded laugh.
And then, even more unbelievable—Hermione laughed outright.
The warmth of it was so unfamiliar in these walls that he barely knew what to do with it. It had been years—perhaps a lifetime—since laughter had echoed in Malfoy Manor without a trace of malice or mockery.
For a brief moment, the house did not feel like a mausoleum.
He clung to that warmth like a drowning man grasping for the surface.
Narcissa's lips twitched faintly as she reached for the teapot. The faintest tremor in her fingers betrayed her, though she recovered quickly. "Tea, anyone?" she offered, the question almost hesitant, as though she feared it might shatter whatever fragile peace had been woven between them.
Hermione accepted a cup with a small, appreciative smile. "Thank you, Narcissa. It smells lovely."
He took his own, his grip firm around the delicate china, as if grounding himself in the moment. He let his gaze flick between the two women at the table, watching as the tension that had defined the evening began, slowly, to shift into something else.
The ghosts of the past still lingered—etched into the walls, embedded in the very bones of this house—but for the first time, he wondered if they might not always haunt them.
Perhaps, against all odds, this wasn't a battlefield after all.
Perhaps, just perhaps, this was the first step toward something neither of them had ever dared to hope for. Reconciliation.
Was this a fever dream?!
Draco cleared his throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. "Would you like to see more of the Manor, darling?" His voice was softer than usual, laced with something hesitant yet hopeful. "It's… changed a lot since the war." He met her gaze, and for the first time, there was no trace of the usual arrogance—just quiet anticipation, as if bracing himself for rejection.
Intrigued by the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, she nodded. "I'd like that."
He led her away from the formal sitting room, down long, winding corridors. The grandiosity of the Manor was still there—the towering ceilings, the gleaming marble floors—but the suffocating, museum-like sterility she remembered had lessened. Gone were the oppressive shadows that once clung to the walls like ghosts of the past. Instead, the soft glow of enchanted sconces cast a golden hue over the tapestry-lined halls.
She took in the subtle changes—the deep greens and blues of the decor replacing the stark, colorless austerity she had once known. Portraits of past Malfoys still adorned the walls, but their once-scowling faces seemed more subdued, their gazes less judgmental. A vibrant bouquet of lilies stood on an ornate console table, their delicate scent weaving through the air, a quiet but intentional rebellion against the house's former darkness.
He walked slightly ahead, his fingers grazing the spines of old tomes stacked on a side table. "I wanted you to see this," he said as they reached an intricately carved oak door. Pushing it open, he stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter.
She inhaled sharply as she took in the room before her.
The library. It was breathtaking.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretched along the walls, packed with centuries-old tomes, their leather-bound spines whispering secrets of magic long forgotten. A grand fireplace crackled warmly at the far end, casting flickering light across the deep emerald rugs and dark wood furnishings. A plush reading nook by the tall arched windows invited her in, its armchair and low table practically begging for hours of undisturbed reading.
He stood beside her, watching her reaction carefully. "I spent a lot of time here as a child," he admitted, his voice carrying a rare note of nostalgia. "When things became… difficult, this was where I escaped. Books were easier to understand than people."
She turned to look at him, her expression softening. "I understand that." Her voice was quiet but full of sincerity. "More than you know."
His gaze flickered to hers, something unspoken passing between them.
She stepped further inside, trailing her fingers over the gilded lettering of the books. "This collection is incredible," she murmured, eyes scanning the vast array of knowledge before her. "You have first editions, rare magical theory texts… Some of these I've only ever read about in historical references."
He smirked, his usual confidence slipping back into place. "I thought you might appreciate it," he said. "Consider it an open invitation—you can read anything you like."
Her lips quirked in amusement. "That's dangerous. You might never get me out of here."
He chuckled. "I could think of worse things."
They lingered in the library, sharing book recommendations and discussing their favorite works. The conversation flowed more easily than either had anticipated, a comfortable rhythm forming between them. It was… unexpected. Natural.
As they eventually moved through the Manor once more, she took in the transformation with a newfound perspective. "It's like the Ship of Theseus," she mused aloud.
He arched a brow. "Meaning?"
"You've changed so much of what was here," she explained, glancing around. "Removed the old, replaced it with something new. It feels different, yet it's still Malfoy Manor."
He considered her words, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "I suppose you're right. Maybe that's the only way forward."
"Maybe it is," she agreed, and for the first time since stepping foot in the Manor, she felt something unfamiliar stirring in her chest. Hope.
They stood before the grand double doors of the drawing room, the Malfoy family motto— Sanctimonia Vincet Semper —etched in stark relief above them. The polished wood gleamed under the dim corridor light, an imposing threshold between past and present.
She reached for the handle.
His breath hitched. His hand shot out, but he hesitated, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. His voice, stripped of its usual confidence, wavered with something raw, something she had never heard from him before. "Please," he murmured, his silver eyes pleading. "Not in there, darling. Just… not tonight."
The desperation in his tone made her pause for the briefest moment. But curiosity, defiance, and something deeper—something primal—urged her forward. Her fingers tightened around the cool brass handle.
The heavy oak doors groaned open.
The breath in her lungs vanished.
The room before her was unrecognizable. Where there had once been cold, unforgiving stone, a breathtaking winter garden now flourished. Moonlight streamed through a vast glass ceiling, bathing the space in a silver glow. Exotic flowers bloomed in a riot of color, their delicate petals trembling in the soft breeze from a nearby enchanted fountain.
A beautiful lie.
A cruel joke.
A strangled sob tore from Hermione's throat as the memories came rushing back with merciless clarity. She staggered forward, her pulse roaring in her ears. The air grew thick, suffocating, pressing down on her chest until she could barely breathe.
This was no sanctuary.
This was where she had been broken.
The scent of damp earth mingled with phantom screams that only she could hear. The flowers—so carefully placed, so painstakingly tended—mocked her, their fragile beauty a grotesque contrast to the horrors that had unfolded within these walls. Her vision blurred with hot, furious tears as grief and rage twisted inside her like a blade.
Her legs buckled.
The stone floor met her knees with a jarring force, but she barely registered the impact. She pressed her trembling hands against the ground, as if trying to anchor herself, but the past bled into the present, trapping her in a suffocating loop of agony.
She was there again.
The ropes biting into her wrists. The cruel laughter. The sharp snap of a wand slashing through the air. The unbearable, searing pain.
He moved before he could think, dropping beside her, his arms hovering uselessly, unsure if she would accept his touch or recoil from it. His heart pounded against his ribs, his throat tightening as he watched her crumble before him.
"Hermione," he breathed, his voice rough with emotion. He reached for her but stopped inches away, his fingers twitching, afraid of making it worse. "Love, please. Let's get out of here."
But she didn't hear him.
She was lost in the ghosts of her past, trapped within the walls that had once caged her.
He clenched his jaw, a sharp pang of self-loathing slicing through him. You should have known. You should have never let her walk in here. He had thought—foolishly—that erasing the evidence of what had happened would be enough. That new life, new beauty, could replace the darkness.
But the past could not be painted over. And now, she was drowning in it.
This is a graveyard, not a fucking fairytale. You don't get to plant flowers over the rot.
You don't get to bury the screams beneath vines and pretend they were never here. This is where they shattered me. Where they tried to unmake me. And you think a few lilies and a glass ceiling will make it better? You will not dance on the bones they left behind.
Time blurred into something unrecognizable, stretching endlessly as Hermione lay sprawled on the cold floor, her body wracked with silent sobs. Each tear that streaked down her face was a testament, an unspoken accusation against the ghosts of this place. Against the cruelty that had stolen pieces of her, carved its initials into her soul. He knelt beside her, his arms wrapped tightly around her, an anchor in the storm she was drowning in. But what comfort could he offer? What warmth could possibly thaw the ice that had wrapped around her in this room?
"I'm so sorry, Hermione," he whispered, his voice thick, fractured with his own agony. "I'm so fucking sorry."
She was kneeling on the very spot where her screams had once filled the air, where her pain had been nothing more than entertainment for monsters in tailored robes. And now, she let herself grieve, fully and completely. No pretense of strength, no carefully stitched mask of composure. She had survived, but the walls still remembered, and so did she.
His heart shattered into a thousand unrecognizable pieces as he watched her unravel. The woman he loved, broken open before him. He wanted to take every jagged piece and hold them together with his bare hands, no matter how deep they cut him.
Her body sagged into his embrace, her fingers digging into the fabric of his coat. "It's... okay, Draco," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, hoarse from crying. "Thank you for being here. I needed it."
It wasn't okay. It would never be okay. But maybe, just maybe, she could exist with it. And for now, that had to be enough.
He held her closer, as if he could somehow shield her from the past that clawed at her, the memories that refused to loosen their grip. He wished—Gods, how he wished—he could take it all away. Rip it from her mind and bear it himself.
"I wish—" his voice broke. "I wish to Merlin I was the one who got all the torture that day, love."
She stiffened slightly, but she didn't pull away.
"If I had died that day," he continued, voice raw, scraping against the walls of his throat, "all of the fucked-up, inbred Malfoy, Black, Rosier, and Lestrange lines would've ended with me. Maybe the world would've been better for it." A bitter chuckle slipped past his lips, self-loathing curling around every syllable. "I would've taken a million Crucios instead of watching my classmates—watching you—suffer."
She sucked in a sharp breath, his words cracking through her like a whip.
"Every scream, every ounce of pain," he whispered, his forehead pressing against her shoulder, as if seeking absolution in her warmth. "I would have taken it all if it meant you never had to feel it."
Narcissa stood in the doorway, silent, tears streaming down her pale cheeks—not for her son, but for the woman who had suffered within these walls and still found the strength to stand.
For a moment, Hermione felt the weight of his guilt, his torment pressing down on her. Good. Let him drown in it. Let him feel what it was like to carry the unshakable burden of something you could never undo.
But then she saw it—the way his shoulders trembled, the way his breath hitched against her skin. And the anger melted into something far more complicated. Something she wasn't quite ready to name.
A choked sob escaped his lips, a sound so raw, so agonizing, that it sent a shiver through her spine. For all the years she had spent hating him, for all the ways she had convinced herself he was beyond redemption, she had never once considered this: that he had been suffering too. That while she had battled her ghosts in the dead of night, he had been fighting his own demons in the silence of an empty house.
She reached for him then, fingers brushing over his arm with a gentleness that surprised even herself. You will not absolve him, a voice inside her sneered. You will not forgive what cannot be forgiven.
But another voice, quieter yet far more powerful, whispered back: Forgiveness isn't about him. It's about you.
"Draco," she began, her voice steady, unwavering. "I forgave you years ago."
His entire body went rigid. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes wide, disbelieving. "You did?"
She nodded slowly. "Not because you deserved it. Not because it was easy. But because holding onto that hatred kept me chained to this place. To them. It poisoned me in ways I refused to let fester." Her voice softened. "I forgave you, Draco, because of me."
His breath came out in a sharp exhale, like she had just knocked the wind out of him.
"I knew you were a pawn. A child shoved onto the board of a war you didn't want to play in," she continued, her tone steady, each word laced with something he could only describe as understanding . "The apology isn't for my sake. It's for yours."
He let out a shaky laugh, the sound lined with disbelief, with something dangerously close to hope. "And you think that'll fix me?"
She tilted her head, eyes glinting with something sharp, something real . "No. You have to fix yourself."
A beat of silence stretched between them. Then another.
And then, finally, she asked, "Tell me, Draco… was it loyalty that kept you from helping me that night?"
His breath stilled in his throat. She had never asked him this before. Not in all the years that had passed, not even when they had first started this twisted, reluctant partnership.
He clenched his jaw, staring at the floor. "It didn't matter," he muttered. "Family comes first. That's what I was raised to believe." The words felt bitter, wrong, even as they left his lips.
Her expression softened, the challenge easing into something more patient. "And now?"
He lifted his gaze, locking onto hers with a weight that made her breath hitch. His answer, when it came, was devastatingly simple. "Now, you come first."
Years of carefully constructed walls crumbled beneath the weight of her forgiveness and the undeniable bond that had taken root between them. He swallowed hard, his voice rough with emotion as he finally spoke.
"Now…" he began, hesitant, as if the words themselves were too fragile to hold the depth of what he felt. "Now, it's different. You're my family, Hermione. More than that, you're…" He faltered, struggling to articulate what had been buried inside him for so long.
"You're the strongest, most brilliant witch I have ever known," he finally choked out, the frustration of inadequacy laced in his voice. "You challenge me, you infuriate me, and yet, you make me want to be better—more than I ever thought I could be." He exhaled sharply, his silver eyes locking with hers, raw and unguarded. "I would take a thousand Crucios, endure a lifetime under the Imperius Curse, and stand before a dozen Avadas aimed straight at my heart if it meant keeping you safe."
The confession hung between them, heavy and unpolished, stripped of all arrogance, leaving behind nothing but truth. A single tear traced its way down Hermione's cheek, her lips parting as if to respond, but no words came. Instead, she reached for him, cupping his face with a tenderness that sent a jolt of electricity through his entire body.
"Draco," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, "you are a stubborn, insufferable git." A wry smile trembled on her lips, even as her fingers brushed away the moisture collecting at the corner of his eye. "But you're also brave, impossibly kind in ways you don't even realize, and the most loyal man I have ever known."
The weight of unspoken words lifted, replaced by something delicate but no less powerful—hope. A future yet unwritten, a love that had survived against all odds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They walked out of the Manor together, she leaning into his steady presence. Her body still trembled, her breath uneven, but she didn't collapse—she kept moving. Moonlight traced silver along the tear-streaked paths on her cheeks, a quiet testament to the storm she had just weathered. He held her closer, not guiding, but grounding her.
As they left Malfoy Manor behind, the weight on his shoulders didn't disappear, but it changed. No longer a solitary burden, but a shared one—still heavy, still aching, but lighter now that it was carried together.
The road ahead wouldn't be easy. The scars of the past wouldn't fade overnight. But for the first time, something new flickered in the space between them. A hesitant trust in her eyes, a quiet understanding in his.
A silent vow passed between them, unspoken but resolute. They would tend to this fragile thing between them, this tentative bloom of hope that had somehow grown from the ruins of their past. The winter garden—the grotesque monument to her suffering—would always be a part of their story, but it would not define their future.
They Apparated into the warmth of their living room, the soft golden glow a stark contrast to the cold memories they had left behind. Her steps were steadier now, her grip on Draco's arm no longer desperate, but firm.
The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the cozy sitting room with its gentle warmth. He guided her to a plush armchair, moving with quiet efficiency as he poured two cups of tea, setting one in front of her. The city lights outside twinkled against the floor-to-ceiling windows, dazzling and bright, but to Draco, they paled in comparison.
Oh, darling, all of the city lights never shine as bright as your eyes.
They shed their cloaks in silence, the weight of unspoken emotions still thick in the air. He hesitated at the entrance to the living room, his fingers flexing as if he wanted to reach for her but wasn't sure if he should. The firelight flickered over Hermione's face, painting golden hues along the curve of her cheek, the delicate strength of her profile.
Settling into the cushions, she closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep into her bones. The cup in her hands trembled slightly, but she inhaled the fragrant steam, grounding herself in the present.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft pop of the fire and the distant hum of the city beyond the glass.
Finally, he broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm so sorry, love," he murmured, his fingers curling around his own cup like a lifeline. "I should have prepared you… I should have warned you."
Her lashes fluttered open, her gaze steady despite the rawness that lingered there. A small, wavering smile ghosted her lips as she shook her head. The last remnants of tears still clung to her lashes, catching the firelight like tiny stars.
"This isn't your fault," she said softly, her voice husky but certain.
She hesitated, then glanced back toward the window, her reflection barely visible against the night. "I needed to see it. To face it." Her fingers tightened around her cup. "And maybe…" A spark of something fierce, something defiant, flickered to life in her eyes. "Maybe I needed to show her that I walked out of that place stronger than she ever could have imagined."
Her, as Bellatrix Lestrange, that deranged, batshit bitch, worshipped Voldemort with the kind of dedication that made cult leaders look lazy. Let's be real—she was probably on her knees for Tommy more than she was on her feet.
He nodded slowly, his gaze steady, filled with an understanding that needed no words. "I'm just glad I could be there for you," he murmured, sincerity threading through every syllable.
She offered him a small, grateful smile. "You have been, for months now," she admitted, her voice softer, more vulnerable than she intended. "Thank you, Draco."
They sat in the warm glow of the firelight, the flickering flames casting shadows across the room—echoes of their past that lingered but no longer held dominion over them. The silence between them wasn't heavy; it was comfortable, the kind that spoke of trust, of companionship, of something unspoken yet undeniable.
Then, with a wry, almost self-deprecating chuckle, she tilted her head. "Well, this certainly wasn't how I envisioned your birthday going," she mused.
He blinked, then let out an incredulous laugh. "Merlin, Hermione," he groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "You really had to bring that up now?"
She shrugged, taking another sip of her tea. "Well, considering the absolute disaster of an evening we just endured, I figured a little perspective wouldn't hurt."
He huffed, but there was a warmth to his exasperation. "So, what you're telling me is, my gift this year was an emotional exorcism followed by watching my mother silently weep in a doorway?"
She smirked. "Yes, darling. Happy birthday."
Despite himself, he chuckled, shaking his head. Then, more seriously, he reached for her, his fingers tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. "You didn't ruin anything, love," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "You faced something that most people would run from. And you let me be there with you. That means more than any gift ever could."
A breath hitched in her throat, but she covered it with a scoff. "That's quite a dramatic way of saying 'thanks for the trauma bonding.'"
He smirked. "Well, what can I say? You looked heartbreakingly beautiful while conquering your demons. Nearly killed me on the spot."
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her lips twitched upward. "Always the charmer, aren't you?"
His smirk softened, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheek. "Only for you, dearie."
For a moment, they simply sat there, wrapped in warmth, in understanding, in something that felt too big to name but too precious to ignore. Then, he spoke again, his voice gentler this time. "We can talk about it, if you want. Or we don't have to. Just… whatever you need, I'm here."
She let out a slow breath, nodding. It wasn't an easy path ahead, but for the first time in a long time, she wasn't walking it alone. And that, more than anything, felt like healing.
Is the room still the same? Is Hermione still the same? What a fucking paradox.