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It was one of those days.
Most of the time, she was fine. Most of the time, Hermione could delude herself into thinking the war was behind her—behind them all. As an Eighth Year student, it was what Headmistress McGonogall had tried her best to mimic for them—and sometimes, she did feel that way. In the Eighth Years’ shared Common Room playing Exploding Snap or snickering amongst each other, laughter breaking out between Hermione’s longtime friends and the students she had fought on different sides of a war with. The day the Gryffindors and the Slytherins made a formal, terribly awkward truce, the tension of which had only been dissolved with a bottle of (very likely illegal) Firewhiskey. Every weekend game of Inter-house pick-up Quidditch that had slowly become a tradition, as Hermione watched her friends, old and new, with unbearable fondness. When Neville and Pansy first announced that they were dating, both of them blushing but defiant, to deafening roars from their friend group over breakfast in the Great Hall. It was a glimpse into an unbroken, hopeful childhood, when none of their lives had been shattered by war, a chance to simply be teenagers—reckless, brooding, and hopeless.
Hermione treasured it. Every moment. But every so often, she would be back.
She’d awaken with tears streaked on her cheeks and unborn screams on her tongue. Nightmares—they were terrible, frequent, and more than once she saw herself back in Bellatrix’s death grip, screaming until she wanted to pass out. Or she was watching Lupin and Tonks die over and over again. The Ministry had ushered all eligible students immediately back to school, but seemingly without much thought into how they could possibly acclimate back to normal life—with only a meager summer to prepare for yet another school year, and a suddenly sprawling number of years ahead of them all of them thought they would never have. Headmistress McGonogall had requested Mind Healers, healing potions, all sorts of new measures for her new students; requests denied again and again. But they made do, most of the time. Most of the time, Hermione was overcome by emotion at just how much they had overcome; how much new laughter, hope and brightness that shone in her classmates’ eyes, that were reflected in her own. Most of the times—despite the ache in her chest—Hermione was happier than she had ever been.
But sometimes.
Sometimes, she felt like the pain in her chest would split her apart, and all she could do was wait for the knife to fall.
Hermione had been fine, that day, until Potions. The Wit-Sharpening potion required ginger root to be sliced and chopped with a silver knife. Hermione had reached distractedly for the ingredients, searching for her own knife, when she caught her eye on Malfoy’s hand and froze.
He was cutting the root, diligently and meticulously, and dimly Hermione deeply appreciated the care he took in his Potions work. None of her partners before had ever been so competent. But his hand—gripped around his silver knife, that was of much higher caliber than hers, and on the end was engraved the Malfoy signet—eerily familiar to the knife that Bellatrix had used.
Hermione’s vision blacked out.
She came to, a moment later, breathing heavily, feeling the beginnings of tears on her cheeks. She realized a moment later that Draco had caught her arm, steadying her. The knife had fallen from his hand and clattered to the floor. She gazed up at him, terrified.
His eyes were wide. Worried. “Granger?” He squeezed her arm, gently. “Hermione? Are you okay?”
Suddenly, Hermione realized his hand was gripping her left arm, where she felt the scar underneath nearly burning. She pulled away from him, scrambling back immediately.
She couldn’t bear to see the expression on his face. Schooling hers into one of determined calmness, Hermione reassured herself as well as him. “I’m alright,” she managed, voice wavering slightly. “Just—it’s hot in here. I guess I’m just,” her voice broke off. “A little lightheaded.”
Malfoy looked like he wanted to reach for her again. But he clenched his hands into fists by his sides. He nodded mutely. Hermione spent the rest of class distracted, blinking rapidly to remind herself where she was, until she realized belatedly at the end of class that Malfoy had essentially single-handedly brewed the potion himself.
His silver knife was nowhere to be seen.
“I’m so sorry!” She only belatedly apologized, when Slughorn asked for samples at the end of class. Malfoy was already pouring some into a small flask. “I was so distracted—you ended up doing all the work—”
Malfoy grinned uneasily at her, his eyes dancing across her panicked expression. “Don’t worry, Granger,” he said. “I can more than hold my own, just for one class.” He smirked at her still-worried expression, softening slightly. “If you want to practice for N.E.W.T.S., we can always come down after patrols, even though I’m sure the last thing to stump Hermione Granger would be something as elementary as a Wit-Sharpening Potion.”
Her chest fluttering confusingly at his open compliment, Hermione beamed at him. “I’ll hold you to that—even if not for N.E.W.T.S., it’s such a handy potion to know how to brew. Can we try tonight? Oh, thank you so much, Malfoy!”
Instead of teasing her, or calling her a swot as she was sure he would do, for her decidedly extremely swotty behavior, Malfoy only shook his head at her, smiling as he put away his potions supplies. “I have Quidditch practice tonight, but tomorrow?” Malfoy’s eyes danced with mirth, before melting into something more serious, tender. Then, so low she almost thought she imagined it, Malfoy said quietly, “It’s the least I can do for you, Granger.”
Confused butterflies danced in her stomach the rest of the day.
That was the other new thing about this year. Draco Malfoy. She had seen him once, over the summer at his trial, his jaw clenched tightly as Hermione, Ron, and Harry had all testified how he had helped them at Malfoy’s trial. His father was already in Azkaban—but Hermione saw the faint sheen in Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes and heard the soft gasp when they read his sentence: no time in Azkaban, but a year of probation, and mandatory return to Hogwarts for an Eighth Year. A glistening of tears that matched her son’s—as he squeezed his mother’s hand. It was more than any of them had expected, Arthur Weasley told them later that day, his eyes tumultuous.
The trial was when Draco had apologized to her. They were in the same lift together—Narcissa, Draco, Arthur Weasley, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione. It had been a horribly awkward life ride—the tension only heightened by the ear-splitting jolly lift music in the background. As they stepped out, all of them relieved that the shared space together was about to end, Hermione heard a voice call her from behind.
“Granger.”
Malfoy’s voice was strained, slightly hoarse. When Hermione turned, she saw that he had stayed a little ways back. Narcissa let go of her son’s hand, her eyes unreadable as she glanced at Hermione, walking past her, leaving her son alone for a moment. Harry and Ron looked at her and Malfoy in alarm. Ron opened his mouth as if to say something. Hermione shot them both a firm glare, and gestured for them to continue without her. When she turned back to Malfoy, his eyes were downcast, his lips set in a firm line.
There was a little privacy on the otherwise deserted floor. Hermione took a step closer. “Malfoy?”
He was so tall, she realized. Perhaps she was misremembering? He had to crane his neck just barely to look at her, and it made Hermione shiver despite herself. When he met her eye, Hermione was shocked again to see tears glistening in the grey.
“Look, Granger—” he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”
His voice was rough, but there was painful sincerity lacing it, that seemed his only strength to continue. Hermione saw the turmoil in his eyes, and her heart filled with a softness she couldn’t explain even to herself. She always had a bleeding heart, that she had been taunted for many times. But she didn’t will herself to dismiss the emotion in her chest. Perhaps they were all children, after all.
Malfoy’s voice wavered, but his eyes stayed fast on hers. “I’m sorry—for everything that happened in the war. And everything before that. And my aunt—” his voice broke off, and he blinked rapidly.
Seeing him struggle to continue, Hermione took pity on him. “Malfoy,” she said, hearing her voice soften. “It’s alright. I can’t say I forgive you yet, but I hope sincerely,” her eyes met his. “That you’ve changed. We were all children. I hope you’ll prove me right.” She blinked herself, wondering what to say next. Without thinking, her hand reached up to squeeze his arm.
Malfoy gasped slightly, and Hermione’s heart hardened and sank for a moment. Was he still so set in his ways, that he would react like this to someone of her blood so much as touching him?
But Malfoy didn’t pull away, until Hermione did. “I’ll see you at Hogwarts, then—?” Her voice wobbled with uncertainty, eyes roaming his face, unsure where to look.
Malfoy gave the smallest nod. “See you.” He cleared his throat, seeming to find his voice again. “I—I look forward to seeing you, Granger.”
Hermione gave the smallest smile, feeling a weight brace off her chest. Only as she turned to join Harry, Ron, and Mr. Weasley again, her best friends both eyeing her with a strange look, did Hermione realize that she had squeezed the arm where Malfoy’s Dark Mark had been.
That was over the summer. The new Malfoy she had come to know in Eighth Year—well, she didn’t even know what to think. Malfoy was quiet, reserved, and seem to curl inside of himself. At the beginning of term, he had scarce few words to say. McGonogall had made them Head Girl and Head Boy, and at first Head Duties were the only thing that made him break out of his shell, which he handled with a competence and authority that impressed her, though Hermione would never admit it. They worked together with surprising comfort and efficiency, and Hermione, for once, found herself not looking forward to—but certainly not minding—Malfoy’s company.
He finally cracked after the first Quidditch game of the season, when Hermione glimpsed the first rare smile on his face after he had caught the Snitch, the entire Slytherin team running to embrace him, yelling themselves hoarse. Even Ernie MacMillan thumped him good-naturedly on the back, even though the Hufflepuffs had lost. In the post-game party in the Eighth Years’ common room, Malfoy seemed to close in on himself again, Blaise and Theo goading him with increasingly alarming severity, until Malfoy snapped at something Theo had said.
“Shut your mouth, Nott,” Malfoy had sneered, his face red, before the entire common room burst into raucous hollers.
“He speaks!” Theo roared, clearly drunk, and for the second time that day, Hermione caught the brilliant flash of Draco Malfoy’s smile.
After that, he finally returned to some of his boyish, expressive self—much more like what Hermione had been used to before. He and Hermione found herself partnered in a surprising number of classes, though it pleased Hermione greatly when she learned he was nearly as diligent and competent in his studies as she, and when he finally opened up, made a delightful and charming conversational partner. She began to appreciate his dry humor and sharp intellect, and they made a frightful pair in every class they were partnered in. From in-class banters to Head duties after hours, she learned to fully appreciate the company of someone she could feel completely herself around. Malfoy also seemed to have entirely abandoned his previous prejudices, and Hermione never felt inferior to him, a change that she very positively noted, as well as his quick, easy companionship with her.
Perhaps she wasn’t so wrong to fancy him. Not when each smile they shared as Hermione answered a question correctly, or they earned top scores on their projects made her stomach flutter. Or when his shoulder or hand brushed his as they passed each other in the hallway, or side-by-side completing tedious Head paperwork. Hermione felt like a normal, blushing teenage girl. With Malfoy, she felt normal—but fuller, like she finally had the courage to leave her past behind. Ironically, she knew, but embraced nonetheless, Draco felt like hope.
But the nightmares. That was what made them so much worse. Occasionally, she would find herself back—in the Drawing Room of her own classmate’s house. Screaming her lungs out, the pain making her body feel limp, making her feel like she would tear apart. And there was his face. Dream-Malfoy never moved. His expression was blank, stoic as she was tortured, begging him to please help her, she was his classmate, please do something, please, please. It had only happened a few times. But each time she woke up, gasping from the tears, her blankets a mess from where she had been thrashing in them. And every time, Hermione gave herself exactly five seconds to collect herself, before steeling for the rest of the day.
This time, though.
Seeing Malfoy’s knife—and in his hand—was a new trigger, she hadn’t even fathomed. She had been as careful as possible the first few months of school. It made her furious, helpless—that any small thing could trigger a full-blown panic attack. That she was still so fragile, despite everything she did to convince herself otherwise. All of her safeguards were merely paper walls, in the end.
She had been exhausted, that day, partly from the energy of keeping her emotions in check as she moved on autopilot through the rest of the school day. So tired that she fell asleep, book still in hand, in the armchair of the Heads’ Common Room in front of the fire, wrapped in warmth and feeling safe and that nothing could ever touch her.
She was wrong, of course.
Bellatrix. Her cruel, empty smile. The air filled with the scent of Hermione’s fresh blood. She gagged. Lungs filling with the stench of flesh—but as she opened her mouth to beg, it turned into a scream, as Bellatrix feasted on her endless pain—
Pain—
“Granger—”
She looked up to see Malfoy’s face, and this time, his hand also held a knife, and the silver shone on his pale skin; oh, it was so pretty, and a sob wrenched from Hermione’s throat, he had come armed now, would she also feel his cruelty, cutting pain into her body—
“Hermione! Hermione!”
But when she met his gaze, it wasn’t to blank, stoic eyes—Malfoy’s eyes were frantic, and she felt hands clutching her upright. She frowned. This wasn’t in the dream. Slowly, she came to. There was the crackle of the fire, merry in the background. The smell of—expensive shampoo and the grass of the Quidditch pitch. Hermione realized she was in the Heads common room. She blinked again.
And saw Malfoy looking at her, eyes unreadable, his hands gripping her like he was afraid she’d disappear.
“Are you alright?” His voice low, worried.
Instead of a coherent response, Hermione’s tongue seemed to freeze, and she burst into tears.
Tears that she hadn’t allowed herself to cry all day, now breaking free with a vengeance. Before she realized what was happening, Hermione was pressing her face into Malfoy’s chest, her arms wrapping tightly around his body.
He didn’t pull away. He didn’t move, either, for a long moment. He was warm, and he smelled nice, something spicy and clean that comforted Hermione, grounding her. Then, she felt his arms settling around her as well, bleeding warmth through his clothes. They held her close. She felt his hands rubbing circles on her back.
It sent fresh tears to her eyes, and Hermione kept her face buried in his chest, afraid of the expression she might see on his face.
Suddenly, she felt her feet lift off the floor, and she realized Malfoy was lifting her in his arms, and he walked them over to the sofa, sitting both of them down. Hermione pressed into his side, hiccoughing lightly. She felt her breathing slow, Malfoy’s hands still rubbing her back.
When she glanced up, there was nothing but tenderness in his eyes, a darkness, and a flash of something more.
“Better?” He whispered. Absentmindedly, his hand reached to tuck a curl behind her ear.
Hermione’s heart was in her throat. She nodded mutely, heart pounding, the remnants of the nightmare forgotten. She realized she was exhausted. Before Hermione realized what was happening, she was tucking her head back into Malfoy’s shoulder, giving a shuddering breath.
“Do you—want to talk about it?” Malfoy’s voice was hesitant. His hand hovered next to her, as if unsure what to do with it.
Hermione shook her head resolutely. She felt her eyelids drooping. Absentmindedly, she caught his hand that was still hovering in the air, tucking it to her chest.
Her cheeks flamed when she realized what she had done. Malfoy’s breath hitched, and he went very still.
But he was so warm. It was baffling. And she was too tired and worn-out to care.
“Don’t even remember,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
She felt his exhale, soft puffs of breath on her cheek. A moment later, he spoke again, and Hermione wondered if she was imagining the unbearable tenderness in his voice.
“Is there anything else I can do?”
Stay, she thought drowsily.
“Just—don’t leave,” she murmured, letting sleep overtake her. “Stay for—a while.”
Hermione felt a hand brush her cheek, before her eyes closed.
They didn’t talk about it after.
The next morning, Hermione had awoken, alarmed, finding herself in a different bed than her own. But when she came to, she realized—cheeks aflame—that it was Draco’s. If the copious Slytherin green decorations were anything to go by. It was the best night of sleep she had gotten—in a long time. Hermione tried not to think about how that made her feel. Seeing the time, she yelped, hurrying to get ready and get to her first class on time. Rushing to the Great Hall for breakfast, she slid distractedly into an empty seat, realizing too late which seat she had chosen.
Malfoy had stopped talking when she sat down. When she swiveled to her right to reach for the toast, Hermione found her breath catch as she stared into a pair of grey eyes.
They searched her face. Hermione just realized the dark circles under them. Recalling the state of her bedsheets, it just occurred to Hermione that he must have slept on the sofa in their common room.
Warmth flooded her chest. Draco’s eyebrow lifted, his eyes imploring the question—are you okay? Hermione sent her answer with a grateful smile, resisting the urge to melt into his arms again.
They hadn’t talked about it. But as breakfast ended, Hermione felt a hand pressing into her own, squeezing it once and leaving a small square of parchment.
Try black dragon tea. I find it helps with nightmares.
In Draco’s delicate, slanting handwriting.
He must have nightmares too, she realized. Hermione reached to squeeze his hand, sending all her unspoken thanks into the gesture. The corner of his mouth lifted. Butterflies erupted in her chest.
The next day at Potions, his old knife was nowhere to be seen.
Hermione couldn’t sleep.
Not for a lack of trying. Head down. In the blankets. Counting sheep, Kneazles, Pygmy Puffs. Nothing worked. She missed—fine, she missed Draco’s bed. It smelled like him, it was warm, and it felt safe. Not to mention it was like sleeping on a damn cloud. Was there some charm he used? Surely it was illegal, since all the Hogwarts beds were the same. Maybe the sheets—?
No. No. She couldn’t think about that. Because all Hermione wanted, truly, was to sleep in a nice bed, get a good night’s rest, and not—not imagine herself in Draco’s sheets, for Merlin’s sake. She felt her face flaming and suddenly her bed was too hot. Hermione flung her sheets off her chest and breathed through her curls, frustrated. She could do it. She was Hermione Granger, for Morgan’s sake—she could get through a single night’s sleep without crawling into the bed of her former enemy. Though, admittedly, he smelled very nice. And his skin was so soft—
Hermione rolled herself over, and screamed into her pillow.
Deep down, she knew it was deeper than that. For the past few days, the nightmares had come back, a low thrum instead of an explosion of pain and feeling, but—still there. She still awoke fisting the sheets. The black dragon tea had helped, significantly. But it wasn’t until Hermione had zoned out, again, during one of her and Draco’s Head meetings, that she realized she had to do something about it.
And what she could do about it, her mind through traitorously, was just a room away, so close she could nearly feel—
Hermione flopped over again, determined to succeed this time, shutting down her brain so hard she thought she might unlock Occlumency.
Only this time, her thoughts wandered to Draco again. His hands. Pale fingers. Very nice forearms. His eyes were very pretty, and his hair, left longer and not as meticulously styled as had been in his youth, that had an alarming number of times made Hermione wonder how they might feel under her fingers. A broad chest, muscles under his slender frame—had he ever caught her ogling at him during Quidditch—? Or even patrols, Head meetings, his voice low and serious, that had those stupid butterflies fluttering uncontrollably in her stomach.
And of course—the way he held her that time. Draco Malfoy being soft, soothing, was not something she had ever expected, ever expected to account for. But the way he—Hermione’s face burned. He was just being—nice, comforting, and here she was, thirsting over—her colleague, Co-Head, fellow classmate, for the sake of all that was—she turned again restlessly. Not to mention her former enemy, the subject of so many of her nightmares, who—had simply watched as a part of her withered away, in the worst moment of her life.
But Hermione’s chest deflated even at the thought. He wasn’t the same person, and no matter how much Hermione tried, she couldn’t hold it against him. Not when all he’d shown her this year was kindness, a warmth she had never thought to be ensconced by. But now—now what? There was nothing to it. He comforted her once, and as a result she thirsted over him daily and repressed her feelings until they were slowly driving her insane. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would push Hermione to the delirious brink of requesting to be let into Malfoy’s bed again.
Well, when she put it like that—
Punching her pillow into submission, Hermione flopped back into her bed, resolutely shutting her eyes.
This time, there was only the Cruciatus.
Everything felt like it was underwater. Bellatrix’s laughter. Her own screams. Hermione heard nothing, and saw her body being tortured, withering, as if she wasn’t even there. At least, Hermione thought numbly, at least this time, she wouldn’t have to see her own blood.
Draco was kneeling. This caught her off-guard. For as long as she had been reliving this nightmare, he was always standing stiffly, frozen, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. But this time, he cried out—she couldn’t hear him—and his face was stained with wet tears. He reached for her.
She felt his arms, pulling her tight to him, and the pain stopped.
Hermione jolted awake, gasping.
The nightmares had been coming like this. As if in a haze—an out-of-body experience. Hermione’s heart was racing and before she knew it, she was scrambling to her feet, and before she realized, she was standing, chest heaving, in front of Draco’s door, her fist already raised to knock.
What was she doing? It was bad enough that she had bothered him that one time—here she was again, with no self-control whatsoever, and Hermione had to stifle a sudden laugh, at the thought of what Ron and Harry might think, if they knew she was itching to be wrapped in Draco Malfoy’s sheets, or even better, his arms—
She had to shake her head to snap herself out of it.
But the hallway was cold. And it had been—him—that broke her out of the pain, this time. It had never happened. Always, it ended in the same, paralyzing dread, the certain belief that she was going to die, a thought that she welcomed, if only to end the pain. This time, she had only felt warmth, and the beating of her heart. The new, certain belief that—she was going to live.
What more was there to it?
Hermione closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. It was a nightmare. He would understand. She—needed him. Or, she amended mentally, she just needed comfort, the kind that seemed most available to her, in this moment. Stilling her pounding heart, or at least trying to, Hermione knocked.
Nothing, for a moment. She nearly bolted. But then, she heard shuffling, and before she knew it, the door was opening, and Draco Malfoy was standing before her.
This was a mistake, Hermione thought instantly. Just—knew. Because—he wasn’t in his school robes anymore. Even his Quidditch uniform would have been better, Hermione thought with dawning dread. At least that—it wouldn’t have been enough to induce cardiac arrest. Because this—she struggled, regrouped her thoughts, tried again. This—
Draco Malfoy stood in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, and—thankfully—a cotton shirt over his chest that looked soft to the touch. That she wanted to touch, Hermione thought, before she could expel the notion somewhere deep in the pits of hell. But he was more undressed than she had ever seen him. Normally, Draco was posh as she had ever known him, clad in nothing but dress shirts even on the weekends when school robes weren’t mandated. The occasional jumper was a sight of great rarity. So, it made sense that Hermione had never prepared for seeing Draco in anything other than his stiff, albeit very dashing, formal clothing. She swallowed, taking in how she could barely see the contours of his chest under the shirt, and how low his sweatpants hung on his hips.
Very belatedly, she realized Draco was staring at her.
His hair was mussed with sleep, and Hermione immediately wanted to run her fingers through it. Her second immediate thought was to castrate herself. But his eyes held nothing but concern, a warmth that Hermione instantly wanted to gravitate toward. Because—he was so beautiful. Relaxed for once. For a moment, the famously goal-oriented Hermione Granger had forgotten why she had made the perilous journey to Draco Malfoy’s room in the first place. All she could do was stare.
“Granger? What—” Draco’s eyes roved over her face, his breath catching. “You’re crying.”
Then, the memories of her goddamn traumatizing nightmare returned, forcing her rudely away from her ogling, and Hermione was suddenly aware of the tear tracks along her cheeks. The way she was trembling in the cold, in nothing but her pajamas. The way she still wanted, desperately, for any semblance of comfort.
Without another word, Draco had stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around her. Hermione could only be shocked for less than a second before she responded instinctively. She squeezed him back, breathing a sigh of relief that he was still as warm as she remembered. All the tension left her body. Draco rocked her gently, still rubbing hypnotizing circles on her back, and she hid her face in the bare expanse of his neck, feeling the way it burned instantly.
How was it that she felt instantly better, all her thoughts quieting as soon as she was in Draco’s arms? It should be illegal, she decided, that he made her feel like she could never step away again.
Draco lifted her chin, and thumbed away the fresh tears that had sprung on her cheeks. He hesitated, before leaning impossibly closer, Hermione’s breath disappearing, and pressing a light kiss to her forehead.
“What do you need from me?” He glanced at her expression, lips parted, eyes wide, and panic flickered over his face. “I’m sorry—if that wasn’t okay—”
“No,” she answered immediately. “No, that was—it was okay. I—I just couldn’t sleep.”
His eyes softened, and she fought the urge to bury her face in his neck again. Hermione took a deep breath. “I wanted to—if it’s alright—could I—”
At a loss for words, she simply gestured at his bed, her cheeks aflame.
Draco stared at her, before he cleared his throat, his voice slightly hoarse. “Of course,” he murmured. “Anything—if it helps.”
She found herself being gently lowered, before Draco took her hand tentatively, and led her to his bed.
The covers were bunched from where he had gotten up abruptly. Draco drew them back, hesitating, before sinking under his blankets, holding them out so she could climb under. The bed dipped where he had gotten in, and he waited for her, propped up by his arm, eyes cautious, patient.
Hermione climbed in. Instantly, her senses were filled with his scent—the same one she had woken up surrounded in, one of the best nights of her life. It comforted her instantly, and gave Hermione the courage to sink fully in, exhaling with relief, feeling warmth wrap around her and seep into her bones.
When she finally opened her eyes, Draco was looking at her, and Hermione felt the butterflies again.
Maybe she needed to go to the infirmary. Maybe it was for some medical reason that she always felt this way around him.
She sighed contentedly, burrowing into the blankets, and saw a flash of a breathtaking smile on Draco’s face. He reached over to draw the blankets more securely over her, and Hermione breathed in more greedy lungfuls of his scent, like a deranged person, before he settled back beside her.
Draco seemed unsure of where to look. He was very still.
Hermione felt herself getting drowsy immediately. It was like chugging an entire bottle of Butterbeer. But still—she could be warmer, she reasoned, and there was a human heater not even a foot away from her. She had come this far.
The cautious distance that Draco had set between them, unwilling to go where she wasn’t comfortable with, was suddenly too much. Overwhelmingly so.
Hermione found his hand, and tugged it to her chest. It was so large—a very nice hand, her sleep-addled brain decided. It curled immediately around hers, making Hermione smile instinctively.
“Draco,” she murmured, quiet from both her exhaustion as well as shyness. She saw him react instantly, lean in to hear her. “Could you—hold me?”
She heard nothing from him, for a long moment. Hermione opened an eye, expecting the rejection, the thought tight and cold in her chest even as she basked in warmth.
Instead—the expression on his face nearly took her breath away.
No one had ever looked at her like that before. All Hermione could see—was open adoration. So soft she thought she might break him. But before she could revel in it longer, Hermione felt his arms instantly draw around her, and she sighed in contentment, burrowing into his chest. As if of their own accord, his legs tangled with his, and she was so close, so warm, she could feel nothing but Draco’s steady heartbeat, in tandem with her own.
He was very good at this, Hermione thought drowsily, before hearing the rumble of a sleepy chuckle, and realizing she must have said it out loud. She didn’t mind, she thought again. He deserved to know. Draco’s arms curled even tighter around her. She had never felt so safe. As she felt the ghost of lips pressing to her forehead, then her cheek, Hermione drifted off into sleep, dreaming of soft smiles and a hand drawing soft circles over her face.
She woke up in his bed.
It was a familiar feeling—the familiarity, one that she immediately welcomed. It was the first time her nightmares had fully subsided—retreated to somewhere she was entirely out of reach. Slowly regaining consciousness, Hermione noticed arms wrapped around her body—one secured tightly around her waist, holding her close to his chest. She breathed in a familiar warm, spicy smell. Like spearmint, cinnamon, and something she couldn’t quite place. When the arms curled tighter around her, Hermione realized with a jolt that she was, again, in Draco’s bed.
Scratch what she said earlier—this was the best night’s sleep she had, in a long time.
Possibly forever.
Instead of expelling that thought, she let it marinate for a second, marveling at how it made her feel. Secure. With a sort of breathless certainty.
She shifted slightly, turning so she could see his face. Draco was breathing softly, his chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. He was hopelessly soft like this. Hair falling over his face. None of the tension or weariness she had seen on his face since the war. Draco murmured softly, and she didn’t stop her hand when it reached to brush the hair from his face.
Her heart was beating wildly.
Slowly, Draco’s eyes blinked open, long blonde eyelashes framing his eyes. They were pretty, Hermione noticed again. Her breath hitched as she was trapped under his gaze again. Her hand was still on his face, and she drew it away, blankets shifting under her movement. Draco’s lips parted, as he watched her.
“Hi,” she whispered, suddenly self-conscious.
“Hi,” he breathed back, and Hermione’s stomach did not swoop at the sound of his voice, deep and gravelly from sleep. He smiled at her sleepily, and it was instinct to return a small one of her own. “Did you—sleep alright—”
“Yes,” she whispered back immediately. He looked satisfied, at her sleep-mussed curls, the still-heavy pattern of her breathing.
Draco’s brow furrowed. “Anything wrong?”
“No,” she answered, but as she said it Hermione realized there was something gnawing at her. Though it almost physically pained her to do so, she looked away from him, down to her own hands, biting her lip. She no longer felt the pull of sleep. Her thoughts were going at a mile a minute.
“Hermione,” Draco coaxed, softly. She tried not to think about what it did to her, to hear her name spoken like that, in his morning voice. She felt a gentle hand on her wrist, tentative, like he was deliberately giving her space to run if she needed.
It warmed her. As did everything about this goddamn man, apparently.
“I can practically hear you thinking. Please tell me if anything’s wrong.”
His voice was soft, but firm. Hermione steeled a deep breath, before her eyes found his again.
It was almost overwhelming to be under his gaze. Almost.
“Why did you,” she swallowed, pushed through. “Why did you let me—”
Hermione couldn’t get the words out. Sleep with you? Trespass so indecently on your rest, in your space, demand that he hold her and make her feel safe, even if he had more than reciprocated, well, she still couldn’t fathom—
A hand on her chin made her look up, breath hitching. His eyes were on hers again, full of intent. “Hermione,” he whispered. “I—it’s the least I owe you, after everything.” His eyes were grey storms. “I don’t mind. Don’t mind at all, actually, if you need some comfort. I’m more than happy to be here for you.” His eyes softened again. She marveled at how expressive they were, how she felt like she could see directly into his soul, all the softness underneath. “I hate seeing you cry, Hermione. But I hear it every night.”
She felt a sense of shame suddenly overwhelm her. “I’m sorry,” she apologized quickly, accustomed to it, after she had awoken the Weasley family so many times during her summer stay at the Burrow. “I didn’t realize. I’ll cast a Silencing Charm next time—”
“Don’t you dare,” Draco snarled. He took a deep breath. “You’re hurting. We all are. But if I can help you, in any way that I can, it’s more than enough for me. You don’t have to apologize for anything.”
Hermione nodded, silently. She was warm all over. But she had another question.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. Then swallowed her nerves. “Is—is that it?”
Draco blinked at her, before she realized a pink blush had taken over his pale skin. It kissed his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears. She bit her lip to hide a smile.
“I like having you here,” Draco confessed, and she felt herself pulled closer, closer still. “You help me sleep better, too.”
Cue—butterflies. So she hadn’t been imagining it. And perhaps it wasn’t—entirely—platonic, just two broken souls seeking warmth. Hermione felt an alien happiness swallow her from inside.
She had just enough energy left, to lean even closer to Draco, hearing his breath hitch, and press a sleepy kiss to his cheek.
She saw it burn redder, and it made her smile.
Draco hooked his arm back around her waist.
“I’m glad,” she murmured, feeling drowsy again.
Still pulling her tight to him, Draco turned, and she watched him fumble at his watch on his nightstand. “What time—” Draco groaned, turning back around to settle back in the covers. He closed his eyes, smiling when he heard Hermione giggle. “Go back to sleep, Granger.”
For the second time that night, in his arms, Hermione did.
They sank into a routine after that. When it was time for bed, Hermione crept softly into Draco’s room, and he would gather her in his arms and hold her until they both fell asleep. It quickly became one of the best parts of her day. At first, Draco was always awake to greet her, but sometimes he was too exhausted after Quidditch practice, or after patrols, that she sometimes found him already asleep, mumbling softly in the sheets. So sometimes she watched him. It wasn’t a big deal—truly. And only for a moment, before she’d pull back the covers, climbing in as softly as she could, until she felt his arms pulling around her instinctively, drawing her ever-closer until her eyes fluttered shut.
Always, they awoke tangled in each other. Exchanged a few words of conversation, sleepy good morning’s, before going their separate ways.
Hermione had always been an early riser. Draco, as well, though he awoke later than her. But despite waking earlier, Hermione grew reluctant to leave before he was awake—and the result was a slightly modified rest schedule, where Hermione slept longer, and thus felt much better throughout the day.
The nightmares were gone.
It was a medical miracle, Hermione decided. One that she had no cause to complain about. She and Draco never talked about it, though she noticed, sometimes, his gaze flicking more frequently toward her, though Hermione only noticed because she felt herself drawn ever more hopelessly toward him. He touched her more. Her shoulder, her elbow, flicked her arm or brushed her knuckles as she passed. He would be holding her through the night, after all. So it was only natural if she did she same—squeezed Draco’s arm or hug him sideways when they did well on assignments, or simply when he smiled at her a certain way.
In the end, it was a simple mistake.
Draco hadn’t kissed her since the second night they—for lack of a better term—slept together. But he was looking particularly kissable, when they had kept their routine for three weeks, his hair disheveled and smiling sleepily at her. She had reached up to kiss his cheek—perfectly innocuously, her annoying inner voice screeched—but Draco turned his head at the last second, and she captured his lips instead.
Then—like that—they were kissing.
It was a soft, sweet, chaste thing. More surprise than anything, though it left Hermione gasping. Their friendship would effectively be over, Hermione thought murkily in her mind. His lips were too soft. The quiet sounds he was making were too much. She would either snog him into oblivion after this or flee the country and everyone who knew her.
Draco drew back, eyes wide and half-lidded, and Hermione thought—sod it all.
She reached her hand to the nape of his neck, drawing him back again. This time, she let herself go—kissing Draco with hunger, a fervence that made heat bloom low in her belly. She climbed over his body, feeling her curves slot seamlessly with his, and something in Draco seemed to snap.
He growled, his hands gripping her waist with a punishing force, and kissed her so hard she felt dizzy. She had never—never felt like this. He was desperate, rough, selfish—that she had never known him for, until now. She gave a soft moan under his touch, and Draco pulled her impossibly tighter, before flipping her on her back, pulling away.
Hermione decided that she would simply vehemently deny the soft whine that pulled from her lips when he did.
Draco’s eyes darkened. But he didn’t kiss her again—propping himself up on his elbows, chest heaving, staring down at her. Her lips parted, waiting for him. His jaw was clenched, as if he was restraining himself.
Suddenly, his voice broke in a laugh, and he tipped his forehead to Hermione’s shoulder, just for a moment, before surfacing again. “I can’t do this,” he said hoarsely.
Hermione felt cold dread pool like ice in her stomach.
“Draco?” she whispered. Her hand reached up to touch his face, and Draco squeezed his eyes shut, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her.
“I can’t do this, Hermione. Seeing you every day in my bed, holding you when I can’t—” his voice broke off. “I can’t keep pretending like this. I’m—I think I’m the worst friend ever.”
Both of her hands reached up, to cup his face fully in her hands. She was beginning to understand. Hermione felt her heart, beating ferociously in her chest. “Draco,” she repeated, and saw pain flare in his eyes.
“What if I don’t,” she swallowed. “Want to just be friends?”
Draco groaned, and before she knew it, he had collapsed beside her, wrapping her in his arms again, so close she could barely breathe for a moment. His eyes were squeezed shut. “What—” He shook his head ruefully. “You torture me, witch.”
Hermione wiggled her arms out of his grasp, then cupped his face again so he would just look at her. His eyes shot open. An endless expanse of blue-grey.
She was speechless for a moment.
Then she caught the vulnerability, and the words spilled out of her.
“I like you, Draco,” she said, making sure he heard. Watching hope flicker back into his eyes, and she smiled. “I like you—a rather lot, actually.”
Draco was staring at her in wonder. “I like you too,” he breathed out. “So fucking much.”
Hermione giggled, and Draco captured it with his mouth, his hands digging into her hair to—finally—kiss her again.
The rest of it—
Hermione did, finally, get to see his chest, under that stupidly thin cotton shirt, that was just as soft as it looked. She stared, openly ogling him for a moment, before she noticed Draco’s faint blush, that had reached all the way down his chest.
She smiled, overcome with emotion, and launched back to hug him again. Breathing him in.
The rest of it—
Blinding pleasure. Her back on his bed, arching off his stupidly soft bed. As she fisted the sheets, trying to keep quiet, as Draco murmured lowly over her body, making her cry from the sensation. The way he looked at her, naked want all over his face, and made her vision black out again and again.
She gasped, cried out, writhed. Mind blank. Everything was hazy.
Draco’s voice made her lose it.
“That’s it, Hermione. Come on, baby—come on—”
She let go with a scream.
Hermione awoke, a tangle of limbs and sheets. Her bare back pressed against his chest, one of his arms belted over hers, feeling his breath ghosting over hers, warm and warm and warm.
She turned, pressing a kiss to his face, mesmerized with just watching him.
When Draco woke, his face instantly broke into a brilliant smile, seeing her before him.
“Hi,” Hermione whispered, her smile uncontainable.
“Hi,” Draco breathed back, his hand already finding its way to her curls.
Then he leaned in, and kissed her smile until she was breathless.