— HIDE OUR RELATIONSHIP?!
Draco winced. He had anticipated this moment would be difficult, but did he deserve to be yelled at like this?
Hermione sat next to him on the bed—tears still drying on her cheeks. His resolve nearly wavered—it hurt him to see such an amazing witch crying because of him. She had saved his life, nursed him, fed him, looked at him with wide, hopeful eyes. And when he asked her to stay, such happiness had flared in those eyes... Until he ruined everything.
And now Hermione was drilling him with a glare that promised to bury all of Draco's immediate plans. Instead of hugs, kisses, and gradual removal of clothes—squeals and shrieks. And all his fault.
— Why? — she asked. — Why do you want to hide our relationship?
— I'll drag you down with me, you realize that. To everyone, I'll be the vile seducer, and you...
She narrowed her eyes.
— You're quoting that nasty Nott.
— He's right. I know you think I have a future, but I don't.
— So we're just having a fling? Like with Romilda? Soon you'll get tired of me and...
— I won't get tired of you, — Draco ground out through his teeth. Hermione's eyes widened, and he shifted position, leaning on his hands on either side of her, and looked intently into her face.
— Want to talk about this now? — he asked. — Fine. My reputation is complete shit, and I've accepted that. My family served the Dark Lord. I served the Dark Lord. I let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. I stood and watched you being tortured... — Hermione opened her mouth to object, but immediately closed it under Draco's gaze. — In the Room of Requirement, I tried to stop the three of you. During the battle, I did nothing but beg to be left alive, and then went over to the Dark Lord's side. You were a heroine. I was a villain.
He took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts, and to his relief, Hermione remained silent.
— Of course, I made a shitty villain, — he admitted. — You act like I'm a hero now, but I haven't succeeded much in that either. But I'm trying. And I will try, I promise. But, Hermione…
He looked her straight in the eyes—like he looked at Vane when giving orders. He wanted his point to reach her.
— Hermione, we can't advertise our relationship. We can't hold hands and walk into the Great Hall. We can't go to dinner at a restaurant in Diagon Alley. I can't introduce you to my mother so you can argue about Divination. Too many people already know about us, and there's nothing to be done about it. We can survive rumors. A public relationship—no.
He looked down at his fists clutching the patterned red bedspread, then looked up at the witch again.
— I know what future awaits me, and it wouldn't be very heroic to make it your future too.
He braced himself for a new stream of shrieks, but Hermione just looked at him.
— Are you finished? — she asked.
— Yes, — Draco sat back down. Merlin, heart-to-heart talks are terribly exhausting. How do people live like this?
Hermione folded her hands as if about to answer in class.
— I disagree with you, Draco Malfoy, — she declared. — But I've decided we can discuss this another time.
Draco didn't know how to react. "Another time" sounded both encouraging and frightening.
— For now, we will hide our relationship, — Hermione continued as if granting a great favor. — But I'm already compiling a list of reasons why you're wrong. I can name twelve off the top of my head.
— Fine, — Draco agreed. If she lets him be near, she can make a hundred lists.
Hermione still looked stern.
— You know, Draco, you didn't have to fly through an ice storm to tell me all this.
He shrugged.
— I couldn't just sit there. I hate that room without you.
Hermione's expression softened, and he realized he had spoken the last sentence aloud. She stood on her knees so sharply and unexpectedly that Draco's heart nearly stopped. Then she pulled her jumper over her head, tousling her curls, leaned toward Draco, and kissed him tenderly.
— I don't need a hero, — she whispered against his lips. — I need you.
— Okay, — Draco muttered, placing his hands on her hips. — I can be myself.
He wondered if she would now constantly expect noble behavior from him. The prospect nearly gave him a nosebleed.
Draco tried to pull off her jeans, annoyed by the unyielding fabric, but she slipped out of them herself and let him remove her bra.
— What do you want, Draco? — she whispered, gently stroking his hair.
Draco didn't answer, too distracted by the sight of her bare breasts in daylight and the scattering of freckles on her collarbone that he had noticed that first day in Divination.
— Do you want me to be quiet? — Hermione asked, looking meaningfully at his now-erect cock. — I might be too busy to talk.
— Fine, — Draco said, trying not to frown. Something was wrong.
Her hand slid down his torso.
— What would you like me to do? Ask me.
— Well, you could... Oh, no, no, no...
— What? — Hermione asked innocently.
Draco sat up straight, glaring at her.
— NO. I will not participate in Isobel's crazy study.
— Accio S.P.E.W. — Hermione wiggled her fingers, and a stack of parchment landed on the bed. — I just want to do...
— SPEW? — Draco asked and immediately regretted his question.
— S.P.E.W. Standardized Practices for Erotic Witchcraft, — Hermione replied business-like, taking out a Muggle pen. — Question one: How often do you suggest to people...
— No! Stop immediately! — Draco felt insulted. This was a romantic moment! He didn't understand much about romantic moments, of course, but he knew for sure they usually didn't involve analytical rubrics. Was he the only one here capable of keeping it together?
— I'll put down "weekly", — Hermione decided. — Now describe your level of sexual involvement with a witch or wizard...
— Wizard?
— No one is judging.
Draco grabbed the parchments and threw them off the bed.
— Now listen to me, — he told her sternly. — We are not filling out any forms. What happens between us is not part of some fucking study.
Hermione looked at him, the gaze of her honey-gold eyes softening. Had he said something right again?
— You're right, Draco, — she bit her lip. — I'm a little nervous.
Draco smirked and slowly leaned back on the pillows.
— Well, — he said, — then you'll have to take the initiative.
Her cheeks flushed, but she was a Gryffindor, after all—so she began to slowly climb to straddle him. The pose was familiar, but now instead of the gloom of the green room, Hermione was enveloped in sunlight, and her skin and hair shone against the bright draperies of the bed. She placed her palms on either side of him.
— This is my bed, — Hermione said in a low voice. — Want to do something interesting in my bed?
Draco rolled his eyes. He didn't talk like that at all.
— I don't even know, — he squeaked theatrically. — I want to wear something terrible and study Divination...
— Hush, — Hermione whispered and leaned in for a warm, sweet kiss. Draco felt her firm breasts press against his chest as he pulled her closer, his hands sliding over her body. She was already moving on him—the nervousness had clearly evaporated. Draco could barely breathe—from both the kisses and the effort to keep himself in check. If he didn't focus, he'd come right on her, and sudden memories of that night by the fireplace—his cum on her body, black lace and pink ribbons—didn't help at all.
And, Merlin, now she was touching him—her fingers wrapped around his cock while her lips slid down his neck... Easy, Draco, easy... What was wrong with him? Was he twelve? Was he even capable of fucking this woman without falling into quiet hysterics?
Hermione slowed down.
— Are you okay? — she asked, lifting her head.
— Yes.
Oh gods, did he squeak that? Fuck, now she looks concerned. Draco started worrying too, especially when he noticed his hand on her hip was trembling. He frowned, mentally ordering his hand to stop—and it obeyed.
It's all because of this room, he decided. Too bright, too cheerful—no gloomy spells, no shadows, no ominous objects. Nowhere to hide. Only warmth, safety, and a whole day ahead... And, fuck, his hand was trembling again. Stop it.
— Yes, — Draco repeated, this time more confidently. He even forced a weak smirk and ran his now-steady hand up her thigh. Better, he's in control...
— I need you, — Draco suddenly blurted out. He froze in horror. Who said that?
Hermione touched his face.
— I need you very much too, Draco.
She kissed him, and warmth spread through Draco's chest, relieving his nervous tension. He pulled her closer, feeling lust spread through his veins, and deepened the kiss. Then he flipped Hermione onto her back, ending up between her legs. His lips kissed her neck, and Draco drowned in her floral scent that had been driving him crazy all these weeks. A wandless severing spell (very useful in such circumstances)—and her panties easily slid down.
Hermione gasped, her breathing quickened as his fingers slid into her, and he, giving in to the impulse of the game they started, whispered in her ear:
— Wingardium Leviosa.
Perhaps her body lifted slightly off the bed, but Draco was too busy to make sure, and Hermione didn't seem to mind. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and he felt the familiar painful touches of those lovely nails—in retaliation, he lightly bit her neck, making the witch beneath him moan loudly.
— Draco, please… — she repeated over and over as he moved his fingers inside her. He whispered the spell again, and this time they definitely rose into the air. Neither of them cared until she finally came. Her moans echoed through the room as they both gently lowered back onto the bed.
They looked at each other in surprise, and Draco smirked again.
— Seems I have a new wand, — he murmured, kissing her body. A joke about a wand filling a magical core flashed through his mind and immediately vanished as he moved lower, not wanting to be distracted.
She tasted delicious, sweet and swollen, and when she came again, Draco let her moans wash over him, washing away all anxieties, worries, and even thoughts…
— Accio vinewood wand! — Hermione breathed, and he heard the wand fly into her palm. Draco looked up and saw the vinewood trembling in her hand as she whispered a contraceptive spell, and then repeated it again, more confidently. She threw the wand aside, and their gazes met—silver and gold.
— Now, Draco, — she said confidently.
Blood pounded in his temples. He had been waiting for this moment since the night she unexpectedly appeared in his bed, wearing only a tiny top and panties. She came back. To me. Were you gentle, Granger? No, I wasn't. Thank Merlin.
Draco covered her with his body, one hand gripping her curls, not taking his eyes off her.
— Now, — his voice sounded unusually low, and his cock entered her.
Hermione cried out, making a guttural sound, and Draco froze. Not because he thought he hurt her—obviously not—but because he was afraid it would all end right now. His eyes filled with tears, which was terrible, of course, and all he could do was bury his face in her hair, hoping she wouldn't see. He moved his hips and stopped again. Oh Merlin, he was only ruining everything.
He moved again, and now his body finally adjusted, gaining at least some control to set a rhythm. Hermione's legs wrapped around his waist, hands dug into his shoulders, leaving scratches on his skin, and a long moan escaped her chest, which finally washed away the remnants of Draco's self-control. He moaned in response.
— Fuck, Hermione, I'm going to... fast... — He clumsily tried to touch her, and when he grazed her clitoris, she cried out sharply. Her walls clenched around him, and Draco came so hard he was surprised his cock didn't tear off his body. Then he collapsed onto the witch, exhausted, feeling a sweet emptiness. Finally. Oh gods.
— Finally, — she agreed.
Draco lifted his head to look at her, but this time didn't curse his loose tongue. After all, she really liked his tongue. Draco expected her to start a discussion (according to her schedule)—he could give a positive review. Instead, she settled on his chest, and he buried his nose in her hair again, like all those nights they spent together. The familiar scent calmed his body and nerves. Finally.
Draco didn't plan to fall asleep again, but the week had been very stressful. He woke up alone, and at first didn't understand where he was. The gold-embroidered lion stretching above him was the first clue—in addition to the bright red bedding and intrusive sunlight.
Lying on his back, Draco replayed the whole night and morning in his mind. The nightmare broom flight, his certainty he would crash to death. Waking up in Hermione's room, complete confusion. How he seduced her back into bed and confessed his feelings. Her indignation at his decision to hide their relationship. He hadn't convinced her, Draco was sure of that. Hermione wouldn't reveal their something without his approval, but the topic was definitely not closed.
Draco looked around the room and saw a tray with tea and tiny sandwiches, as well as a thin spiral of steam rising from the spout of the teapot. Draco slipped out of bed, staggering slightly, and grabbed a maple bedpost for support. He ignored the large green fluffy robe lying on the sofa and stepped toward the tea tray to read the note lying on it.
A package came for you. Your owl is so cute and charming.
H.
Draco blinked at the note, then tossed it aside and tore open the package, ignoring Ollivander's scroll. Nice to see the wandmaker finally doing his job. But then he opened the oblong box.
— You again, — he hissed, looking at the dark wood wand. — Don't even hope! You already had your chance!
He threw the wand onto the sofa, and a small cabinet suddenly opened. A half-empty bottle of firewhisky floated out and landed on the table next to Draco. Following it flew a mug shaped like... a penguin?
Draco stared at the wand.
— You're offering me a drink? At... — he glanced at the gilded clock on the mantelpiece, — one in the afternoon?
He cautiously picked up the dark wood wand—and nearly dropped it when three ice cubes materialized out of thin air and fell into the mug with a light clink. The bottle tilted, splashing amber liquid over the ice. The black and white mug floated smoothly toward him.
Draco took a small sip. The whiskey, of course, was mediocre, but it would do. He stared at the wand again.
— Will you obey me without hesitation?
The wand turned in his hand, pointing at the scroll. Draco put down the mug and finally read Ollivander's letter. What rubbish? Did the wand recognize him as master only after he rejected it?
— You are a truly fucked up wand, — he declared. — And I haven't forgiven you for Tennant. If I decide to Avada someone, I expect full cooperation.
It was nice to hold a working wand again, though his chest ached at the thought of the harlequin. Finishing his tea and eating two sandwiches, Draco transfigured trousers, a shirt, and other clothing items from two of Vane's most terrible dresses. (The choice was hard, and he still regretted sparing the lilac one.)
Glancing at the mirror in the wardrobe, Draco grimaced—the result didn't satisfy him. The black silk shirt was missing top buttons, the belt was too wide, and the toes of the patent leather boots were too pointed. The dark wood wand twitched impatiently in his hand, clearly ready to fix the situation.
— It'll do, — Draco said.
Tweaking already transfigured clothes is always risky—you can ruin the already cast charms, and then the shirt could easily become pink-lilac striped. Horror.
So Draco moved away from the mirror and continued testing the wand, repainting the furniture green and silver. Only the tapestry in red and gold tones by the door resisted—its patterns just swirled like a kaleidoscope. Annoyed, Draco paralyzed Crookshanks, then removed the spell and treated the cat to the bacon left from breakfast. Draco was just finishing the sandwiches when a bronze glint caught his attention.
Hermione's Astrarium.
Draco sat at her desk to examine the astrarium closer. A truly impressive chronometer sparkled in the sunlight with polished planets. Draco tracked each tiny planet in turn, especially retrograde Pluto, moving in a wide inclined orbit. A cold, dark planet, as he once read somewhere—either in Astronomy or Muggle Studies. An outcast of the Solar System. Doomed to follow a lonely orbit, cut off from light and warmth...
Unknown how much time Draco spent watching the silver ball chase the golden Sun, but finally managed to tear himself away from this spectacle and settled on the sofa with a fresh portion of firewhisky. Crookshanks jumped onto the pillows.
— Thanks for the help, — Draco grumbled, scratching the cat behind the ear. — You're definitely better than most animals.
Meanwhile, that stupid S.P.E.W. survey was right in front of him. The authors clearly had no clue about men. Draco summoned Hermione's Muggle pen and began flipping through the pages. He flatly refused to fill out the questionnaire—instead using the empty lines for criticism. "Trying to standardize sexual practices is idiocy," he wrote. "Perhaps women apply the same methods time after time, but for men, such an approach is unacceptable. Only bastards like Tennant behave like that. Each woman needs a special approach—depending on circumstances, place, and degree of her attractiveness." "The survey methodology contains flaws," he continued, "the data will be distorted, and the evaluation criteria are simply ridiculous."
Snorting displeasedly, Draco put aside the stack of parchments and stretched out on the sofa, dangling his legs over the armrest. The high peaked ceiling of the room was painted red with gold stars, the rafters were also gilded. Even the chandelier sparkled with gilding. Crystal pendants shimmered in the sun and swayed slightly in the invisible air current near the ceiling. Does the wind never die down here? Draco involuntarily relaxed to the quiet chime of crystal, the rattling of windowpanes, and the measured crackling of the fireplace.
Kicking off his too-pointed boots, he stretched out to his full height, and the fingers of his right hand, hanging from the sofa, bumped into a hard leather binding. A battered copy of Hogwarts: A History, which he accidentally knocked onto the floor. Some strange urge made him prop himself up and open the tome—yes, just as boring and verbose as he remembered. Crookshanks purred at his side as Draco wrote lewd notes in the margins with the Muggle pen. The dark wood wand even helped improve some illustrations.
— You turn out not to be so bad, — he told the wand. — I liked how you worked on Godric Gryffindor's hairstyle.
This activity absorbed Draco for a good hour, and he was just turning the pages, admiring his edits, when the bedroom door flew open. Hermione.
Merlin, the witch looked simply terrifying. Some thick brown substance was smeared on her face and jumper, and the so-called bun barely deserved the name.
Draco expected immediate explanations for her absence, and maybe even profound apologies and hints at interesting compensation. But Hermione just stared at him, mouth agape—she stank of tar, and in her hands, she held a wooden bucket. She looked as if she had fallen into an abandoned well and barely climbed back out.
When she finally spoke, her voice sounded weak.
— You... uh... — She averted her eyes, scanned the room briefly, then stared at Draco again. — Why are my curtains green?
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