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🐈
There is approximately five kilos of dishevelled, matted fur crushing Draco’s oesophagus when he wakes up.
His first thought is no. And his second thought is can’t breathe. And then he thinks no again.
It doesn’t compute so he shoves the furry thing off him without any further deliberation and rolls over onto his side with a groan.
The lump of fur hisses its displeasure.
Wait… hisses?
It’s the sound that wakes him up properly - as in, he actually opens his eyes - an action which he immediately regrets.
The bedroom he is in, is sunny and bright and wholly unfamiliar to him. In fact, it’s too sunny and bright. It takes him a few moments to blink away the spots in his vision before he can see it. The ugliest creature in all of Britannia glaring down at him with its two beady, yellow eyes.
It’s a cat- well at least he thinks it’s a cat, but he can’t be sure. Cats are sleek and elegant and take great pride in self maintenance and grooming. And this creature before him fits into exactly none of that criteria.
Its fur stands on end, mangy and wild. Its hind legs are gangly and long, almost in complete opposition with the rest of its lithe frame. And, horror of all horrors, its face looked as though it had run headlong into a brick wall and never recovered. Physically or psychologically.
It is, in short, a beast.
And this beast looks none too pleased with Draco.
Currently, its monstrosity of a tail is slowly wagging back and forth. Almost pensively. Like he’s contemplating the full treachery of Draco’s crime of manhandling him and calculating a fitting punishment to serve out.
“What?” he mouths at the beast defensively.
The stupid thing could have laid down anywhere on this bed, or in this room for that matter, but it chose to make itself at home right on top of his larynx.
The creature is unmoved by this logic and continues to glare at him indifferently.
But then quite abruptly, he turns away from Draco with his bushy tail held high, as if concluding this whole ordeal has been beneath him, and leaps off the bed out of sight.
Draco falls back onto the pillow with a low exhale and massages his temple, waiting for his sleep-addled brain to play catch up.
This is not how he imagined waking up this morning.
Last night had been the single most magnificent night of his entire existence. He had finally shagged Granger, and it had been everything he’d ever imagined. More than that. She had been… divinity herself. Her skin so smooth, her lip so soft. She had been so responsive to his touch and the things she had done to him in turn with that sinful tongue of hers – Merlin, he was half hard just remembering it - will forever be imprinted into the back of his retinas.
Her body had been lush and tan and freckled everywhere. On her shoulders, between the valley of her breasts, on the dimples of her back. Next time he would kiss each and every freckle on her heavenly body before finally putting his lips to work on that glorious cunt of hers.
For many minutes, Draco quietly luxuriates in the likely possibility of a ‘next time’ with Granger - preferably it would have been first thing this morning had it not been for that blasted cat nearly suffocating him to death – and turns over to the other side of the bed expectantly.
But- she isn’t there.
He peers over at the empty space beside him with a frown. The pillow is still moulded to the shape of her head and the covers had been pushed back as if she had only just gotten up, but when he reaches out to touch the bedsheet, it is cold.
Whenever she left it had been some time ago. He spies a clock on the bedside table that tells him it is only six thirty in the morning. Is Granger an early riser? Or… did she just not want to be here when he woke up?
A chill shots down his spine and his erection which was already at half mast, promptly flags at the thought. Maybe she had left because… she hadn’t enjoyed last night? Or maybe she felt regretful for being with him? And she didn’t want to be here at all when he woke up. Was this… the brush off? Was he meant to just collect his things and leave?
Draco felt something knot tightly inside his chest. His mouth puckering as though he’d tasted something sour.
This wasn’t just a one-night stand for Draco. It was never going to be a one-night stand. First of all, he wasn’t the type for that sort of thing, no matter how many ‘Witch Weekly’ articles out there tried to paint him as the debauchee Malfoy heir. And secondly, this was Granger. You know, the woman he had only spent the better half of his entire adult life silently pining over. And ok- the majority of his adolescence too, if he was being honest, which is not something Draco is in the habit of being.
There is no way this was happening to him. He couldn’t- this wasn’t-
He had to put this right.
Draco leapt out of the bed in search of his clothes. Determined to chase down Granger immediately and confess his undying love for her. And possibly offer her his hand in marriage too. Or if that failed, he’d give her his key to his Gringotts vaults, that usually did the trick according to Blaise, but- he stopped short at the sight before him.
That beast, that… furry monstrosity was in his way again. He was purring contentedly as he kneaded a pile of black clothing on the floor. An all too familiar pile of black clothing.
“Get off,” he hisses, “Out of the way, you brute! Those are mine.”
The creature didn’t even spare him a glance. He just continued moulding Draco’s discarded three-piece suit into a makeshift bed with his paws before finally curling up into the pile for a snooze.
Draco scoffs and yanks the clothing from right out under him. The animal tumbles to the floor with an indignant yowl.
“Serves you right,” he grumbles as he made quick work of buttoning up his shirt. He is halfway through pulling up his trousers when he notices that his black cashmere suit is utterly covered from head to toe in little white and orange hairs. “You’re going to pay for that,” he vows.
But the little demon is not paying him any mind.
He is, as it so happens, gently batting Draco’s tie that is hanging over the doorknob. It had been thrown off last night in a desperate fit of passion as Granger had practically torn off every scrap of clothing between the two of them. Now it is dangling precariously on the handle and Draco knows even before it happens what was coming next.
“Don’t you d-”
Too late.
Quick as lightning, the beast snatches his tie and dashes out of the room.
Draco curses a colourful string of obscenities and immediately chases after him.
He runs down the hall, still half dressed, and darts into the kitchen where he last saw a glimpse of the little beast’s bushy tail. But, again, he stops short at the sight before him.
There is bacon sizzling in a pan and another saucepan is cooking pancakes with a spatula magicked to flip them over when required. He can smell coffee brewing and scrambled eggs and bread heating in the toaster. And-
Granger is crouching down and- petting the beast, crooning nonsensical words of praise.
“What’ve you got there, Crooks?” she asks happily, picking him up and holding him like one would cradle a newborn.
The sheer sense of relief Draco feels at seeing her there, washes over him with all the subtlety of a tsunami. She had not left him. She is still here. But any sense of calm he might have restored is immediately overshadowed by his utter indignation of seeing Hermione croon over that villain. That tie-stealing, cloth ruining fiend!
“Oh,” she stops short when she spies him standing at the threshold of the kitchen, looking nothing short of agog, “good morning, I thought I’d cook us breakfast…” she trails off, looking mildly perplexed at his state of undress.
The buttons of his shirt are mismatched. His slacks are barely held up around his hips. This is… not his finest moment.
“He stole my tie,” he explains after a pause, feeling his cheeks heat.
The beast looks up innocently at Hermione, blinking and batting the tie in between his paws. She extricates the tie from the little monster’s grasp effortlessly, handing it to him with a smile.
It nearly knocks the breath clean out of him every time she does that. She always looked so dazzling when she smiles. Like stepping into a ray of sunshine.
“Sorry,” she says, a lilt of laughter in her voice, “he doesn’t usually do things like that.”
I seriously doubt that. Is what he immediately thinks in reply but just by merit of her speaking those words he is inclined to agree with her. He is already nodding in understanding. Merlin help him, he really does have it bad.
“Crookshanks, meet Draco,” she says stepping forward into his personal space.
Crookshanks blinks and regards him silently. Tilting his head to the side and looking positively cherubic in her arms.
Draco narrows his eyes distrustfully.
Oh, he is a deceptive little blighter, isn’t he? No one would guess at the havoc he had just unleashed moments before, looking at him now.
Crookshanks extends a claw to swipe at him. Or possibly he is just being playful. Personally, Draco is banking on the former.
‘Aww, he likes you,” Hermione coos, lightly rocking him in her arms.
He smiles with her though it is pained.
This isn’t over. He silently vows to the cat. I’ll get you back for this, beast.
🐈
He’s not sure how he got this lucky. Really, he’s not sure. He must have been some saintly Gryffindor in a past life or something because Draco has taken Granger on a total of three dates, all of which have ended in sex, and now, as a conclusion to the third, he is sitting on her hideous threadbare sofa, while she is kneeling between his legs and sucking him off.
There is nothing innovative about her technique. No oral gymnastics here. She is just gradually taking him inside her mouth, bit by bit, with kittenish little swipes of her tongue stroking the underside of his cock. Her movements are almost methodical. Determined and intentional in their objective.
And usually, Draco would pride himself on showing more restraint (and longevity) but because it’s the formidable Hermione Granger sucking him off. Because he is quite literally surrounded by the delicious honey scent of her skin and the molten warmth of her lips. Because it’s her. He is in imminent danger of busting his load and making a complete mess of this in less than a minute.
There is a fine sheen of sweat collecting on his brow, and he is clawing at the worn upholstery in order to restrain himself from bucking into her mouth or pushing her head forward to make her take all of it. All of him.
And then just as she’s about to take him in a deep as she can go with those perfect, sinful lips, she moans, and the vibrations of her vocal cords tingle up the length of his dick in a way that is positively lethal. The only thing he can think of doing to abstain from coming right there and then is occlumency.
If he knew, all those years ago when his aunt first taught him the basics of craft, that this skill would be integral to not prematurely ejaculating on the face of the one true love of his life, he would have paid more attention. But as it were, he is struggling with the very first step: Clear your mind. Discipline your thoughts.
Not as easy as one would think when his brain is nothing but a raging maelstrom of lust and desire. Chanting forbidden thoughts like take her, now and mine, mine, mine.
He looks around the room frantically. Trying to focus on anything other than this beautiful, perfect creature before him, torturing and thrilling him all at once. When his eyes catch on a pair of glowing, menacing orbs staring directly back at him, in the dark of the hallway.
Draco almost jumps out of his skin. But then it clicks.
It’s him again. The beast.
“Hermione,” he begins uncertainly, his voice jumping up several octaves. “Your cat. He’s staring at us.”
She pops her mouth off his cock and the wet suction sound she makes in the process threatens to undo him completely. A pleasurable shudder works its way down his spine and he thinks he comes a little bit just from that sound.
“Crooks, shoo,” she says dismissively and then - like she can’t bear being parted from him for a moment more - her lips are wrapping around the head of his cock again. He can see a small trail of white precum dripping down her chin which she licks it off with a deft dart of her tongue. Draco’s eyes almost roll into the back of his skull.
She’s more focused now. Clever witch that she is, she can sense he’s getting close. But-
The damn cat is staring at him. Still.
Looking like some abominable- albeit small- banshee lurking in the shadows. His gaze is so palpable, so direct, it’s hard not to feel judged. If the cat could talk – and thank Salazar himself that he can’t - Draco would half suspect him to make some quip about the size of his length.
And just like that, Draco doesn’t need occlumency. He is no longer in trouble of embarrassing himself by finishing early anymore because he can already feel himself going soft under that damn beast’s inscrutable gaze. His balls, however, are screaming at him. Blue and aching.
Granger feels it too. How could she not when her mouth is literally wrapped round the length of him? She moves away, raising a questioning brow.
“Ignore him,” she purrs, her voice raspy from her previous ministrations. “He’ll leave. Don’t worry about it.”
Draco is- conflicted to say the least. He wants to come in Granger’s mouth more than he has ever wanted anything but… the cat. That little, meddling demon spawn of a cat.
“Look at me,” she whispers, and how could he do anything other than obey her with a command like that? Her big brown eyes are so bright, and he thinks that maybe she’s amused by this situation too, judging from the mischievous glint. But he’s in no position to object when he feels her hand move up his thigh to cup his balls, palming and tugging them gently. “It’s ok, you can come. I want you to.”
Draco’s cock twitches to attention again at hearing that, despite knowing how bizarre and quite frankly inappropriate this situation is. Yet all the wind is knocked out of him, when he watches her lower her head again to take his come in her mouth, like the good girl he always knew she would be.
And- it takes so very little. With one hand massaging his balls and the other holding the head of his cock to swallow down his come, he breaks. The damn waters crumble. And he watches her, almost unbelieving, as viscous white ropes of his come land on her face, lips and tongue. And she sets to work on cleaning up every last bit of it.
He is a wreck. Heart hammering. Blood pumping. How he has the presence of mind to do anything other than stare at her in reverence, he doesn’t know. But when he checks the doorway again, to see if the beast is still there, he sees that the damn thing still staring at them in belligerence. And Draco can’t find it in himself to care.
All things considered; this isn’t even one of the top five weirdest scenarios in which he’s busted a nut before.
🐈
He has really out done himself this time.
Truly, he's the world’s most perfect boyfriend. Someone should award him an Order of Merlin for this.
So far, Draco has transfigured Granger’s kitchen bench into a lovely rounded, chestnut table with a pristine white tablecloth. On top of this elegant display is a vase with a single red rose, two crystal flutes eagerly awaiting the sparkling champagne in an ice bucket beside it, and a sumptuous three-course feast is laid out under stasis charm so that it will remain warmed and ready for the guest of honour to arrive.
There is a trail of red rose petals, leading from the front door to the bedroom. And in the bedroom, Draco stands, floating candles into the air and alighting them all at once with an expert flourish of his wand.
He steps back to appraise his work with a self-assured grin.
This is going to earn him the shag of the century.
Initially, Granger had waylaid any Valentine’s Day plans Draco had offered. Claiming she was far too busy with work and organising some Ministry Gala he would never be invited to on account of him being a former Deatheater and all. He understood, of course. Optics and good press where crucial if you wanted to climb far up the political ladder. It hardly wounded him, but more and more Draco couldn’t fend off the fantasies of walking into a ballroom with Granger on his arm.
This thing between them was still new. Tentative. They had only been dating officially for a few months now, so he wasn’t about to go ahead and ruin it by pressuring her to do anything she didn’t want to do. No matter how much he secretly wanted to spoil her rotten for Valentine’s. Or any other day on the calendar year for that matter.
Everything changed when Pansy came into the picture though.
When she had discovered he wasn’t going to take Granger out for a date, she had declared he was an idiot. A total, abject idiot. Didn’t he know this was a test? Of course, Granger said she didn’t want to make a fuss over Valentine’s Day. They all say that.
All? Surely not all. He believed Granger when she said she was too busy. How could he not when he could plainly see that her eyes were perpetually bruised from lack of sleep. A coffee mug permanently affixed to her hand. The witch had a lot on her plate. And besides, she herself had described Valentine’s Day as nothing more than an inane corporate excuse to pressure couples into spending as much of their hard-earned money as possible. A total sham, she had called it. Capitalism at its finest.
Pansy had just scoffed and called him an idiot again (and a number of other insults far more degrading than that, which he’d prefer not to dwell on). Granger only told you all so she could find out if you wanted to do anything. To see if you could be bothered. Don’t you understand, she’s trying to gauge how serious you are about your relationship! This could make or break you two, if you don’t do something special. You simply must do something.
Now that caught Draco’s attention. He certainly wasn’t going to risk his relationship with Granger going to the dogs just because he made such a rookie mistake of taking her word at face value. Damn it all, he was going to get this witch the best Valentine’s gift money could buy.
Should he send her flowers at work? A box of chocolates? Two boxes of chocolates? How about a card that spews heart shaped confetti and sings limericks when you open it?
No, no, no, that’s all far too provincial, Pansy had sneered. Granger won’t like that. You need to do this. And together they she formulated a plan. Draco complied with this plan because Pansy was smart about these things. Also, Pansy was scary. Very scary.
And now, the stage is set. The time is- late. But that hardly mattered. This little romantic evening he had planned was surely going to blow Granger’s socks off. And -hopefully- the rest of her garments off as well.
There was however a slight kink in the plan. Namely, the cat.
Getting that beast out of the way would be crucial to pulling this off.
As if on cue, an almighty crash sounded off from the kitchen. Draco sighs resignedly and goes to investigate.
The first thing he discovers, much to his irritation, is that his rose petal trail had been shredded to pieces. The second thing is that the two crystal glass flutes have been smashed on the floor, broken into a million tiny shards.
Crookshanks, caught red handed, was still toying with the white tablecloth. He had so clearly dragged the glasses off the tabletop onto the floor with his claws.
Draco reigned in his temper. Taking a few deep, fortifying breaths before vanishing the mess with his wand and arranging the table back into place. It would not do to get into a row with the little beast now. If he wanted to cage the cat in its crate, he would have to be cool, calm collected. He would, in short, have to get on Crookshanks good side. That thought alone sent a shudder up Draco’s spine. The idea repelled him.
When he’d finished clearing up the mess down the hall, he went searching for the little beast in all his usual places. He wasn’t under the sofa. He wasn’t sitting high on the kitchen counter. He wasn’t dabbing his paws into the dank water of the lavatory. That left only one other option. The bedroom.
Draco felt a keen sense of foreboding as he entered the room. And his suspicions were indeed validated when he saw Crookshanks staring up at the levitating candles. Jumping up on his hind legs and trying to bat the flames with his paws.
“Don’t-” he barks but it’s too late.
The candle tips, wax drips and flame catches.
When Hermione arrives home moments later, she is holding a metric ton of binders and paperwork in her arms, but she drops all of it in horror when she sees Draco and Crookshanks chasing each other around her bedroom. And her curtains are on fire.
“What is going on here!”
She sounds- enraged.
Never a good sign from Hermione.
But he has other priorities. Namely, trying to catch a partially singed, yowling cat running around the walls and heal its paws from a wax burn. Crookshanks, of course, is unobliged to help him in this regard.
Later, when the fire is put out. Crookshanks’ paw is bandaged and he asleep in his crate. Draco receives an earful from Granger about respecting boundaries and her stressful workload and rights to privacy and-
He really has out done himself this time.
🐈
The problem with Draco Malfoy, ponders Draco Malfoy, is that he is always, without fail putting his dragonhide boot into that gigantic, blabbering mouth of his.
It doesn’t matter how good things are going for him. Nimbus 2001s gifted to him and his whole quidditch team from his father. Tickets for the Quidditch World Cup in the top box (also gifted to him by his father). Head position of the Inquisitorial squad. He cannot in good conscience let a decent taunt go unsung. And he can never quite reign in that inflated ego of his. Call it a hang-up from his pampered childhood. Call him a pathological narcissist without hope of a cure. It honestly doesn’t matter what narrative you spin. The result is always the same.
The front slams shut, and Draco is left sitting in the lounge room of Granger’s apartment, where a destructive whirlwind of his own creation settles down with a grim finality over the room.
He really is incapable of keeping his big mouth shut. And now look at what he’s done. The best thing that had ever happened to him, or will likely ever happen to him in his thus far pathetic life, has stormed out the house in a fit of rage.
Crookshanks pads over and sits directly in front of him. He glares up at Draco. Which- is not too out of the ordinary. With a face like that when is this beast ever not glaring at something? But he can’t help feeling that this particular glare is somewhat pointed given the circumstances.
Draco sighs and runs his fingers through his hair.
“Fine,” he bites out. To himself or the cat, he doesn’t know.
But he’s running out the house and chasing Granger down the street in under a split second. Damn it all, he will not sit by and watch his whole life self-destruct. Not this time.
“Granger wait,” he tries to flag her down.
She ignores him and continues stomping down the street, seemingly uncaring of the fact that she is dressed in only her slippers and a pink dressing gown with a pygmy puff pattern.
“Hermione,” he implores, “please just- please wait.”
He can see the moment she hesitates, the way her shoulders perk up a little at hearing her first name, how her pace stutters for a beat, and he seizes this knowledge like it’s his one and only lifeline.
“I’m sorry,” he all but wheezes. Running is- really not his forte.
She turns around, her eyes looking suspiciously red, and her arms crossed defensively.
“And?” she prompts, with that imperious tone of hers.
Merlin, she’s even beautiful when she’s hacked off. It’s so unfair, the advantage she has over him. He thinks his heart actually stops for a beat every time he looks into those big brown eyes of hers that always burn so bright.
“And… I suppose I could let you pay for your accommodation at my Mayfair hotel if you auctioned off your railroads to me.”
Her eyes narrow in disapproval. “And…”
Geez Granger, can’t you see I’m down on the ropes here?
“And the thimble is not a ridiculous game piece. It’s very… nice. Sensible.”
Hermione fidgets while she mulls over his apology.
“Alright, but I’m auctioning off Trafalgar Square, not my railroads.”
He lifts his hands up in surrender, “fine.”
Bloody muggle board games.
🐈
Cats, Draco surmises, are the worst of all familiars.
There is simply no rational reason any sane witch or wizard would choose to have a cat, over an owl or toad.
Owls clearly being the superior option in this equation. They can carry your mail to any address you tell them, obey commands and require little maintenance.
Toads are...
Draco can’t think of a single reason why someone would choose a keep a toad but given the ultimatum between toad or cat… he’d choose the toad any day, hands down. They’re at least handy to have around when testing spells and potions.
But cats?
There are simply no benefits.
They scratch all your furniture. And stay up practically all hours of the night. They’ll bring dead vermin into the house and then scream at you to refill their food bowls when you can plainly see that there is still kibble inside. They glare at you for simply existing. And Salazar forbid, you deign to pet one of them when they’re not in the mood for that kind of attention.
Since moving into Granger’s apartment, Draco’s hands are perennially littered in scratch marks. His clothes are always covered in fur. He left the closet drawer open once, and all his ties mysteriously vanish. And when he comes home, hoping to relax by sitting in his favourite armchair to read – it’s one of the few pieces of furniture he bought over to Hermione’s apartment, a treasured Malfoy antique he’s loved since childhood - he’ll find Crookshanks curled up on it, digging his claws into the leather upholstery.
“Fine,” he always mutters under his breath, “Suit yourself.” Because there is no fighting Crookshanks on anything. Not if you want to keep all your fingers attached to your hand.
But really, what is the point of having a monster like that in the house? They do nothing. They serve no purpose.
These are the thoughts circulating in Draco’s head when returns home from yet another unfulfilling day at work in the Ministry. Maybe it’s time he had the talk with Granger. Politely suggest Crookshanks might be happier being an outside cat. Or living out on a ‘farm’.
When he shuffles inside and dejectedly throws off his outer work robes onto the hatstand, he stops dead in his tracks when he sees them.
Hermione is cuddling crookshanks in her arms and slowly swaying in time to the music playing from the radio. Her hair is loose, and all those riotous brown curls are softly trailing down the length of her back. She’s wearing nothing but an old shirt, one of his own he thinks, and knee-high socks. She is mouthing the words to a song about forbidden love and smiling down at Crookshanks as he affectionately paws at her face.
Oh. He thinks. That’s why.
🐈
She is so tight. And wet. And her cunt is fluttering around his cock in a way that eclipses his brain from producing any other coherent thought other than how good she feels.
He has made her come at least five times during this particular romp under the sheets. Once by just grinding against her knickers with his thigh, twice with his mouth, another time with his fingers and the last time was when he shifted the angle of his hips and his pelvic bone bumped into her clit - quite unintentionally - but nevertheless he had been thrilled to watch her topple over the edge into another mind-bending orgasm.
She is always so beautiful. But especially when she comes. She arches into him, as taut as a bow string and her cunt squeezes him like a velvet vice. She moans and writhes and tells him, ‘Don’t stop, Draco. Please. Don’t stop,’ and he is powerless to do anything but obey her. Her slave. He is her abject slave.
Now with her lying beneath him - boneless and pliant and blissed out - Draco is still contemplating whether he could possibly make her come for a sixth time before he unravels completely when he hears it.
“Yeeeoowwww.”
Hermione is moaning but also- giggling.
“Hermione, this is -ah” – her cunt squeezes down on him again making him momentarily incapable of speech - “so not funny.”
Her shoulders shake with barely repressed laughter, “I think he needs to be let out again. We’ve been in here for hours, Draco.”
“Did you not install a cat-flap on the back door for him just last week?”
He cannot believe he is having this conversation while he is still inside of her. He simply cannot.
“Yes, but you know he needs time to learn how to use it. So, you know, when you’re finished, we better-” she trails off.
Another low and urgent yowl emerges from the other room.
Fucking Salazar Slytherin and all his snake friends, his sex life is being derailed by a fucking cat. Again.
Draco grabs his wand from the nightstand and mutters a quick muffliato in the direction of the door. Granger is full on laughing now and he sees fit to punish her for this by pounding into her none too gently. Her breath catches in her throat, and she mewls her pleasure. Urging him on by scratching her nails down his back and meeting him thrust for thrust.
He does in fact get to make her climax for a sixth time before he comes.
🐈
“You do realise that there is an entire subbranch of magic dedicated to conjuring light that is very much at our disposal?” Draco drawls, leaning against the kitchen counter in what he hopes is a nonchalant fashion, “wait- no, scratch that. I forgot who I was talking to. I know you know there is. I can think of at least ten spells we could use right now to fix this situation in a heartbeat. Which means that you could definitely think of at least twenty more than me ten times quicker, with that great, big, enormous brain of yours. So, the real question is- why?”
“Why what?” She asks distractedly.
If there was any light in this kitchen, Draco would be able to see his girlfriend crouched down, rummaging through the bottom drawer of the pantry, wearing nothing other than his old Slytherin Quidditch jersey but, much to his mounting disappointment, the apartment is entirely pitch-black.
“Why are we not, you know, just using our magic?” he asks trying not to sound too exasperated.
Really, he is beginning to feel a bit put out by this whole situation. Here he had been enjoying a lovely evening in with Granger, nestled up together on her couch, pretending to watch some droll muggle movie while in reality it had just been an unsubtle pretext on his part to snog her uninterrupted for a couple of hours, when a thunderstorm struck.
One moment he had been enjoying watching Granger squirm on top of him, getting increasingly handsy and urgent with her caresses. And the next, they had both been plunged into total darkness when a clap of thunder as loud as a giant’s sneeze boomed over them.
‘A blackout’ had been her one and only explanation before she darted off the couch and blindly felt her way forward into the kitchen. Draco had followed her with far less adroitness. He had stepped on Crookshanks tail no less than two times already and his nose still felt tender from when he walked face first into a wall.
He had initially inquired whether she was looking for either of their wands to rectify the matter, but no sooner had he broached the subject then had Hermione’s shrill voice fired back from somewhere within the blackened abyss to strictly forbid him from using any magic.
But why?
It was, Draco had thought, a fair question. And yet she continued to skirt around the issue. There was an entire litany of spells at either of their disposal - lumos, bluebell flames, hell even a Patronus charm would do the trick - and yet Hermione had insisted they stay submerged in total darkness till she found her old flashlight device, whatever that was.
“Because,” she extrapolates, after what had to be the longest minute of Draco’s life, “you’d be missing out on a quintessential muggle experience, if we did any of that.”
Draco snorts, “And that would be what exactly? …sitting in total darkness while a storm rages outside? And here I thought muggles had advanced somewhat since the stone ages but apparently not. What are we going to do next, Granger? Rub some sticks together to see if we can make that new-fangled technology called ‘fire’ everyone’s been yammering on about?”
He did not need any light right now to confirm that Granger was rolling her eyes at that comment. He knew she was.
Draco could make these kinds of jokes now. They had been living together long enough for Hermione to understand that these comments didn’t come from a place of blood prejudice like they used to when they were in school, but of a deeply seeded impulse within himself to be as snarky as possible. At all times.
“Aha!” Hermione cries, making Draco jump.
A small clicking sound is the only thing that proceeds the flash of white light being shot directly into Draco’s corneas.
“Merlin, Granger,” he winces, “give a man some warning before you blind him.”
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. “But now I have this, the real fun can begin,” Granger directs the torchlight under her face and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. The light casts her features into sharp relief making his girlfriend’s usually beautiful face, look almost demonic. The hammering rain and thunder outside certainly isn’t helping ease the eerie atmosphere either.
Draco shifts nervously.
“I was already having fun before all this,” he counters pointedly. The fact that their snogging sessions had ended so abruptly was, quite frankly, criminal. His dick is still yelling at him. “I don’t know whether I should be insulted or disturbed that you’d prefer to spend your time sitting in the dark rather than kissing your boyfriend.”
“Aww come on, Malfoy. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark,” she teases good-naturedly.
He hesitates, only for a second, but it’s enough for her catch on. Brightest witch that she is.
“Oh Merlin!” she claps her hands over her mouth “you are, aren’t you?”
“No,” he bites out.
“You are!”
“I am not!” he protests hotly, “Just because I dislike the dark doesn’t mean I’m… frightened of it. It’s merely- an annoyance. Nothing more.”
Hermione just smirks back at him before she digs out another flashlight from the drawer and hands it to him. “Come on,” she chuckles and takes his hand in her own. “You’ve got to see this.”
This, as it turns out, was a game of chase involving a. Crookshanks and b. the point of Hermione’s flashlight.
She’d dart the light back and forth along the carpet and Crookshanks would valiantly attempt to catch it. When the light settled on one spot for too long, Crookshanks would stalk up to it like an apex predator hunting down its prey and then pounce on it for the kill. Then he’d dig with his paws at the spot of light in vain, unable to understand that the light itself had no substance. This is when Hermione would wiggle the light back and forth some more and them game would start over afresh. Occasionally she’d cast the light on the wall or the ceiling where it was out of reach and Crookshanks would yowl in frustration, his eyes never straying from that orb of light.
It was… hilarious. Crookshanks is an idiot. He’d always known this, of course. But seeing it reaffirmed was highly gratifying. Hermione doesn’t seem to agree with this assertion, however, always praising him and calling him ‘clever crooks’ whenever he so much as lifts his paw to the light beam.
One could even say that it was almost- cute. Not that he ever would. But still, there was a sort of endearing innocence to the way he so persistently observed the flashlight. The way he meowed at it curiously.
Stupid Beast. He thinks, but with affection.
By the time the electricity switches back on Draco has all but forgotten his sense of unease about the dark, gloomy night and the storm.
🐈
“No.”
“Aww, come on Draco please-”
“No.”
“At least just try it on. For me?”
Granger is looking up him pleadingly with those big brown eyes – the same eyes that will forever mutually be his own downfall and salvation from the rest of time – and holding what is quite possibly the ugliest knitted beanie in existence.
It’s a red and green stiped monstrosity with bells embroidered onto the hem and a golden pompom on top. She has been working on this little number for over a month. Hiding it away whenever he enters a room which he had diligently pretended to not be aware of. And now, it’s finished. And it’s awful. Just awful.
He really doesn’t have the heart to tell her though, so he snatches the beanie out of her grasp and puts it on, careful not to ruffle his hair.
Granger grins ear to ear at the sight, “you look great, now all we need to do is put the other one on Crooks and-”
“Excuse me?”
“-then you’ll both match and-”
“Match?”
“-make the prettiest picture for this year’s Christmas card,” she says cheerily as she skips out the room.
“Now hold on right this instance, Granger,” Draco protests, stamping his foot down. He can’t help thinking that the severity of his tone is undercut by the multicoloured monstrosity sitting atop his head. “What’s this about Christmas cards?”
“Just one card. Singular. For my mum and dad. All you need to do is sit with Crookshanks on the sofa just there and-”
“And you’ll photograph us together and get all the blackmail material you’ll ever need on me? Yeah, no thanks Granger, I’ll pass.”
“And,” Granger cuts in sternly, “I’ll take one photo of you and Crooks together so I can send a lovely Christmas photo of my fiancé to my doting parents.”
Oh, that was a low blow. Even for her. Only Granger knows how much he craves for her parents’ approval. How often he’s hand hovers and caresses her ring finger in unspoken adoration. She really knows how to get what she wants out of him. It’s probably why she’s been pegged as the next Minister of Magic. Crafty witch.
“Fine. But just one.”
She crosses her heart with her pinkie finger, “I swear on my magic.”
Ten minutes later, after Crookshanks had valiantly put up a fight in donning his matching hat and Granger had some considerable scratch marks up her arm, Draco is sitting stiffly on the couch with the little beast astride his lap. He has no doubt that Crookshanks’ expression right now is just as murderous as his own.
“Draco,” she laughs, “at least pretend to smile, would you?”
He just glares in response.
But as he eyes the sapphire engagement ring that has been his family for centuries on Hermione’s ring finger as she presses down the shutter-release, he can’t stop the corners of his mouth twitching upwards into a secret smile.
🐈
On good days he’ll roll over in bed to find Hermione there next to him. He’ll see her bare back, strewn with freckles and watch, for an immeasurable amount of time, how her shoulders rise and fall in time with her breath. Or she’ll be facing him. Her mouth slightly ajar and features softened by a peaceful slumber. He’ll observe how her long lashes fan out over her face and note, with some amusement, how much of a bird’s nest her hair is.
On less good days he’ll roll over there’ll be a massive lump of ginger fur blocking his view of his lovely wife. He will see how this lump of fur also rises and falls with each breath, though somewhat unevenly given its advanced age. Sometimes it will be gently purring or fastidiously licking its paws. On those days, Draco will roll his eyes and grumble as he gets out of bed.
On this particular morning, however, he wakes abruptly as he feels approximately five kilos of fur settle on his chest. He can feel the little menace vibrate like a muggle motor engine against his torso as he purrs contentedly.
Draco turns his head to sneak a look at his one true love and finds her already awake, watching him and Crookshanks with a soft smile pulling at her lips.
He returns it and then settles back down in bed to rest for a few minutes more.
He lets Crookshanks stay.