This is a Mature rated romance, and I want to reiterate that they are consenting adults. If you need a backstory, then we can say that the Hogwarts Owl didn't make it to Hermione's or Draco's house until a year or three later. Don't worry, this is the only non-explained artistic license I'm taking. Feel free to reach out if there is interest, I am quite responsive.
But no, he was not the type to permanently harm himself. He just needed to brood, and brood he did often, finding solace in the high altitude and crisp, clean air of the Astronomy tower.
He would look up at the stars he could not name and lose himself in the quiet of the night. Quiet, despite the nagging voices in his head reminding him of his impending doom. Reminding him that regardless of how calm his environment may be, he had a task he could not fail.
His family, his safety, his life, everything was riding on the impossible task to… to… He shook his head. That's enough, he didn't need to think about it anymore. All he could see was the ghost of his breath as he exhaled. The dense white mist lingered before his face and contrasted against the midnight navy Scottish night. He exhaled again until there was no more air to expel from his lungs.
His fingers tingled from the cold and he could no longer feel his nose. Perhaps it was time to turn back, after all, he had his sixth year courses in the morning. He hardly felt his legs move beneath him as he made his way back inside, his heels clicking loudly against the tile floor as the weight of his body eased the Astronomy Tower door open. Down a flight of stairs and past the divination classrooms.
He could map his route blindfolded. And yet something was different about this evening. Though the dim halls appeared still as always, the air buzzed with the faint echo of a murmur. Transfixed, Draco followed the sound until it revealed itself, the faint words flowing in a rhythmic chant. His hand pressed against the cold heavy wooden door and his eyes scanned the room. His nostrils burned with the scent of musk, earth, and spices. Draco recognized the voice and moved closer toward it, curiosity besting him.
She's off her rocker, he told himself. Professor Trelawney's actions had always baffled Draco, though he never cared enough to try and understand them. Her oddness was difficult to deal with during normal class hours, let alone in the middle of the night as she chanted and held a chestnut-hued glowing crystal ball. Her face snapped up at him, her normally blazing green eyes misty and out of focus behind her thick spectacles.
Draco's eyes stung. He realized that he had not blinked in several moments. The hovering line of smoke from burning frankincense swirled around the doe-eyed messy woman before him.
In an instant, she shook her head, causing the fog to disperse. Mister Malfoy," he jumped at her words, "what on earth are you doing here? He noticed her eyes had returned to their cloudless state and her voice had settled to the ethereal pitch he was used to.
You know, prefect duties. I didn't see you come in, though to be perfectly frank, I feel a bit funny. Saturn must be in Sagittarius now…". The more she spoke, the less Draco understood. Whose love will vanquish what? What does all that mean? You are making no sense at all! The lunar cycle must be altering your aura, dear. Ah, but I must head to bed anyway, I must be experiencing some dizzy spell. Without another word, she slipped out of her seat and headed for the door, her swirling robes making her appear to float rather than walk.
The fire crackled and roared as Hermione's toes finally warmed up in front of the fireplace. She, Harry Potter, and Ronald Weasley were all seated in front of the red flames. The two boys engaged in wizard's chess while Hermione flipped through her Potions book, attempting to memorize the recipes before she reached the Draught of Living Death. Her lips formed a scowl. But that's alright, I have a date with the library soon and I don't intend on coming back until I learn how you crafted that draught without any issues, Harry.
You two should start on the Defense Against the Dark Arts homework, it takes at least three hours. She excused herself and grabbed her book bag, making her way to the library. The familiar scent of the library was always nostalgic to her, taking her back to First Year when she'd spend nearly every day pouring over every textbook.
It's not that she wasn't as studious in her sixth year, but her obsessive demeanor had mellowed as she grew up, her priorities shifting with each year that Voldemort's threat grew. Life seemed more and more fragile. Still, she relished in the solid stillness of the library and the hushed whispers of the students attempting to learn something new. She picked her favorite spot, deep within the library near the window that overlooked the lake.
With a thud, she dropped a pile of four or five books specializing in the potions that sixth years were expected to make for Professor Slughorn's class. She dove in, scribbling notes in her leatherbound journal about the history of each potion, the people who crafted them, and the ingredients based on location and season.
She struggled to find some edge, any edge that would prevent her from failing another potion. It's not as though she wasn't proud of Harry. In a way she felt she should be ashamed by how upset and jealous she was at not completing the potion correctly, but years of success through diligent effort left her feeling she should have done better. Hermione looked up to see smoky grey eyes peering down at her. As she looked at him again, she noticed how much he'd changed over the years.
His once child-like pointed features were now chiseled and rigid. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his hair - although still his slicked back trademark - was now a bit messier and covered some of his forehead. He wore black now, at all times, and although he had always been a healthy child he had thinned, and his broad shoulders were prominent against his lithe frame.
You'll have to find another copy. You're already the smartest in our year, why bother anymore? There was something different about him entirely.
The way Draco Malfoy shifted in his seat, hurriedly skimming through pages as he located the one he was looking for. His eyes scanned as if there was nothing in the world that could distract him anymore, as if nothing could penetrate his focus. It was unnerving, and Hermione found herself distracted by his presence. What is he looking for, anyway? She thought to herself, peering at the pages that Malfoy had landed on and was now intently immersed in. Felix Felicis?
Why is he trying to learn about that? It's in our itinerary, we're going to attempt to craft that in a few weeks, Hermione thought. Her gaze wandered. His long fingers were tracing the lines of the pages and she found herself entranced in his languid, fluid movement.
He looked like a man, like he had never looked before. His fingers were long, thin, and adorned in silver and black rings. A leather cuff was wrapped snugly around his wrist. He reminded her of someone, like a muggle rockstar, or Gilderoy Lockhart if he had been sorted into Slytherin. Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter See the end of the chapter for notes.
Hermione stared at herself in the full-length mirror, shrewd eyes scrutinizing the girl who looked back. It was just The way her waist still dipped in, her hair still fell in messy curls, and her skin seemed to be equally fair. With the exception of a bit of roundness that had accumulated around her mid-section, she looked practically the same.
The door to the bathroom creaked open and Draco stepped into the room, half-dressed in dark grey slacks and no shirt. His hair was strewn to the side, raked hastily back as he glanced up at her with a short huff. He held up a silk black tie with a faint shimmering fleur-de-lis pattern in one hand, and a stark, sleek silver one in the other. She could sense his nerves from across the room, from the way his eyes darted from one piece of fabric to the other and the tension in his lips as he chewed the inside of his cheek.
He was normally quite decisive with his fashion choices, and had been pouring through his closet all morning with short sighs of frustration. Draco wasn't listening. The ties were all but forgotten as his hands fell to his sides and he prowled toward her, his eyes blatant in their admiration of her half-naked form. She wondered if he could see the difference in her body; whether he had any indication of what she knew, or if he was blissfully ignorant of the secret she kept to herself for the few days that it took her to process what she now knew was going to change both of their lives forever.
His palm drifted over her ribs and up toward her breasts which had grown unpleasantly sensitive over the past week. Their tips hardened effortlessly under the suddenly constraining bra as Draco buried his face in her neck. Her spine arched and a sigh passed her lips as he pressed hot kisses down her neck.
I can help. First, we need to get rid of this wretched bra. Undeterred, Draco reached forward and twirled a curl around his finger, eyes trailing over the curves of her breasts. If Hermione wasn't in the midst of a tidal wave of shivers, she would have rolled her eyes at his absurd statement. A rosy hue had suffused across her face. She was. Not for the same reasons as he - Draco had been vocal about the fact that he dreaded the event for months now.
It was a significant evening, a celebration of the fall of Voldemort, a gala meant to gather the Order members and press in an effort to show the Wizarding World that good had, after years of violent war, prevailed. Beyond that, it was an opportunity for the Malfoy name to be finally redeemed in the eyes of society.
Draco had, after all, spent two years with Harry, Hermione, and Ron finding and destroying Horcruxes and Narcissa's intel on Death Eater safehouses and strategies had all but helped them secure victory. Many were lost in the final battle against Voldemort, who had returned as predicted, weakened and withered.
This night - this opportunity to finally celebrate an end of an era of tyranny and chaos, was much needed and appreciated.
It was Draco's decision to host the event, at Malfoy Manor no less, but that didn't help quell any of the anxiety Hermione felt. It was significant and magnanimous, and not exactly Hermione's cup of tea - though, it seemed, it wasn't exactly Draco's idea of a fun evening either.
After being raised in the glamour of Pureblood society, all he seemed to want was a quiet life as newlyweds, enjoying each others' company. Hermione couldn't disagree with that.
Hermione smiled at her husband, trailing her fingertips over the sharp line of his jaw when she turned to press a kiss to his lips. Draco's palm trailed over the dip of her waist. His fingers hooked in her knickers as his lips found her neck again before he trailed hot kisses over her throat.
She threw her head back. Her hands drifted over the broad expanse of his back and shoulders, over the faint scars that had faded to silver, up into his hair as she gently led them both into bed. His lips found hers, his familiar hands still exploring her body though he knew every inch of her skin.
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