Chapter Text
Her hand in his was cold, her fingertips mimicked little pinpricks of ice but, truthfully, he didn’t mind. He ran his thumb along her knuckles, both to soothe and to massage heat back into her. Draco would hold her hand in his, warm it the muggle way if he had to, anything but suffer the absence of her
Their relationship had taken him by surprise, it had arrived in his life like a storm and left him in blissful disarray in its wake. He had expected to return to Hogwarts for 8th year, to suffer in his vowed silence, and then leave as quietly as possible. Draco’s ultimate plan had been to fade from public consciousness on completion of his NEWTS. He had long since committed to the life of a living ghost, intending to haunt the corridors of Hogwarts like the Baron. He didn’t want to return, of course, would have thrown his schooling to the metaphorical winds and allowed himself to waste away within the confines of Malfoy Manor; like father, like son. But, per the stern words of Headmistress McGonagall, Draco had returned to Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry and would, just like every other student, complete his education.
Education had been the last thing on his mind when he stepped onto Platform 9 ¾ at the start of term. It remained the last thing on his mind throughout the term and not because Draco Malfoy was a sullen, spoiled, overgrown child. No, it was because he had been ensnared, mind, body and soul by the Golden Girl, Brightest Witch of her Age and Gryffindor’s princess herself Miss Hermione Granger. However, the only moniker that he cared to call her was girlfriend, even if she didn’t indulge his whimsy and berated him anytime he spoke of her as his betrothed.
‘That is far too antiquated Malfoy!’ she would say, swotting him with whatever humongous tome she happened to be carrying.
‘Ah! But I am nothing if not a traditionalist Miss Granger.’ He would say in response, each time. ‘I am courting you and a gentleman does not publicly court a lady without the proper intentions.’
Draco’s intentions were serious but he was a lover of theatrics and would do and say, anything that made his witch’s hair crackle and her eyes roll in frustration. He looked down at Hermione, bundled under a ridiculously long scarf and observed her as she watched the first years run to and from the lake in childish attempts to rouse the giant squid. Her brows were drawn tightly inwards, in what he assumed to be a frown but were indecipherable with her face covered by the mountainous pile of wool that she called a scarf.
“You did far worse than that at their age.”
Hermione turned to face him muttering a string of expletives muffled by her winter wear. Her countenance was now certainly a frown, his smirk widened into a grin as she tore the dull orange scarf from her face.
“You are a bloody arse,” she said. “Did you know that?”
A rhetorical question if he ever did hear one. Then again, when did he, a Malfoy, know when to shut up?
“I daresay,” Draco bent forward, his silver eyes glittered against the snowy landscape. “That I am your arse. Your burden to bear. Till death do us part.”
He pressed his lips to hers before she could protest against his declaration. Draco knew that Hermione considered herself a modern woman. Yet to the Malfoys, the antithesis to every pureblood tradition. He adored her for it. He adored her but Salazar be damned if he wouldn’t use every opportunity to shower her with his words of adoration.
He pretended, for the most part, that his words were exaggerated. His bold declarations are simply theatrical displays. Which could not be further from the truth. He meant each word. Each ridiculous proclamation. He knew that she wouldn’t believe them, so he hid the truth amongst his eccentricities and allowed her to roll her eyes at him. Instead, he poured those unspoken feelings of adoration and infatuation into the kisses that he could steal from her.
He held her face as though it was as breakable as the finest china and kissed her as though he would never need oxygen again. She moaned against his lips, an intoxicating sound to his ears and he indulged his witch. He deepened the kiss, allowing himself to taste the honey that lingered from breakfast hours earlier, her french toast drenched in its stickiness. Allowing himself to inhale her heady scent - newly bloomed gardenia and clove. His hands became lost in her curls. He cursed himself endlessly for the insults that he, regrettably, made about her hair when they were children. He’d use every given to him to show how much he loved her wild hair.
He felt Hermione pull back to catch her breath, it came in warm, small pants against his face. But he had not wanted to stop kissing her and so, he trailed his lips across her jaw, stopping to nibble the lobe of her ear before he continued on his merry way down her neck.
Or, at least he wanted to. That blasted scarf, wrapped once too many times, obstructed his ministrations.
“Granger.” His voice came out low and gravelly. “Give me one reason that I should not incinerate this monstrosity immediately.” His right hand tugged at the frayed edges.
“Mrs Weasley knitted this, she’d be terribly upset if I let it get damaged.”
“I said a good reason.”
“No,” Hermione replied, shifting slighting to stare into his eyes. “You said to give you a reason - singular. You did not specify that the reason had to be anything other than a reason in and of itself.”
“Merlin.” It came as a gentle exasperation. He closed his eyes and leant his forehead against hers. Damn her for being pedantic.
They remained this way, mirror images of identical content expressions, frozen under the snowfall until their breathing evened out.
“Can we return to our dorm?” She asked the tip of her nose the shade of deep rose. He nodded, unable to source the appropriate words from his vast vocabulary that would allow him to compliment her beauty at that moment.
She was a vision. Clusters of snowflakes had made temporary homes in her curls, along the fold of her wool hat, and scarf, and in the spaces between her lashes.
She had flourished in the months since the war. She had filled out, a far cry from the scrawny frame he had seen at the Battle of Hogwarts and whilst she complained endlessly about her growing hips, Draco could not help but covet them. He could and would, trace the curves of her body for hours. Wrapped around her frame.
She was all woman, regardless of her size and yet he would be a liar if he did not admit he liked her like this. Rounder, fuller. More of her that was his. He despised it when she would shy away from him when she would change out of her robes in the evening.
He knew that despite his best efforts he had more work to do. Being the Slytherin that he was, there were no ends to his devious plans to teach Hermione to love the body she was in, in just the same way that he did. There was only one small hitch in that plan. A small hitch that he intended to soon be rid of.
They strolled towards the main entrance, fingers laced together, blanketed by a comfortable silence. When it hit him…
“Did you say our dorm, Granger? I wasn’t aware that our relationship had progressed to that level. I shall instruct the elves to - ouch - Merlin woman! Must you always be so aggressive?”
Convinced that he would have a lump on his head for the rest of his life if she insisted on violence on every occasion, Draco gingerly rubbed the place where Hermione had swatted him, shotting her a small glare that served only to prompt Hermione to stick her tongue out at him.
Hermione was too cold, too tired and too hungry to care about propriety. Her boyfriend, however, was not. He followed behind her. Lit the fire with a nonverbal charm. She watched Draco take off his outer robes with a stupid amount of care, something she believed had been ingrained through his aristocratic upbringing and watched as he gently stored away each item of clothing.
Meanwhile, she kicked her shoes into the far corner of the room, and her coat and robes were thrown haphazardly on the back of the worn sofa as she let the acre-long scarf drop to the floor. He swiftly levitated her clothing to its rightful place and summoned a thick blanket to wrap her in. She could have protested but Draco liked to feel useful and she hadn’t the heart to deny him.
“Tea or hot chocolate?” He asked. “Hot chocolate.” He decided for her, with a short, sharp nod of his head. “Yes, yes I know, extra whipped cream. Perhaps even a dash of cocoa powder on top if you give me a kiss.”
Hermione used the collar of his shirt to drag him on top of her. Frustrated that she couldn’t feel him through the thick blanket that he had wrapped her in, she nipped playfully at his bottom lip. If he wanted a kiss then she would leave him breathless. She was a perfect student after all. A teacher’s pet who studiously aimed for first place. She delighted in the way he flushed when she kissed him for longer than needed and enjoyed seeing him draw in shaky breaths. It made her feel powerful - desired. She kissed him until her lungs were tight, crying for air.
The weight of Draco pressed against her, pushed her deeper into the soft cushions of the sofa and her skin burned. She was uncomfortably hot, in a way that had nothing to do with the fire or the bloody blanket that was tangled between them. The blanket that she wanted to do away with, preferably by sending it directly into the flames of the open fire. She could faintly feel Draco’s hard length against her thigh. She lifted her leg, with the intent to wrap it around him and let his hips slot into place when Draco pulled himself backwards.
A pout morphed her features. He always did this. Pulled away when the passion between them ignited. She did not begrudge him but it left her frustrated. Always just on the edge. His upbringing had raised Draco to hold a plethora of views that were outdated, especially to a muggle-born like herself. Draco believed that he was the financial provider, that Hermione should never open a door in his presence and, the one that bothered her the most, Draco believed that sex was reserved for married couples.
She had hoped the war may have overturned his views, as it did on his anti-muggle and muggle-born propaganda, but it seemed that his no-sex before marriage rule was one that he would be holding to steadfastly.
She watched Draco move around the Head dorm space, making her hot chocolate the muggle way with a soft smile playing at the edges of her lips. A sight that she never thought she’d see. He’d watched her make coffee one morning without the aid of magic, the process had fascinated him. He had confessed that he found the process to be akin to potion-making.
Hermione let her mind wander while she dazedly observed the boyfriend she did not anticipate having. The focus of her 8th-year return was to promote inter-house unity, to mend the fractured mess of the student body left in the wake of the Carrow’s cruelty. Slytherin had taken most of her focus in the weeks since the start of term. The children of that house had borne the sins of their fathers, particularly Malfoy. From September he had been an elusive, withdrawn and haunting embodiment of the terrified boy she recalled from 6th year. Hermione could not have his misery lurking in the halls of Hogwarts and so, she made the rash, reckless decision that she would mend their friendship. Much to Malfoy’s chagrin.
She had started a chain of events that quickly lept out of her control. An uncertain agreement of friendship evolved into terse, silent study dates and Hermione had found she spent more time watching the candlelight illuminate Draco’s eyes than she did learning Arthimacy. It was October 12th when Hermione’s reckless streak resurfaced. She kissed him without ever really realising that she wanted to. Draco had pinned her against the wall within moments and had fled to his common room before Hermione’s world had righted itself.
She watched Draco top her drink with a copious amount of whipped cream, his mannerisms precise and swift, a skill which coincidentally made him a dab hand at potions. She wondered if she was too pushy with Draco. He had become far more comfortable giving and receiving affection with her. Their morning walk full of kisses, wandering hands and suggestive looks had been clues that she had overlooked by the lust fuelled haze of her brain.
Perhaps it would be healthy for her to learn patience.
Draco tucked himself into the space to her left, their drinks floating behind him. The sleeves of his cashmere jumper were rolled up carefully and she was convinced he cast a glamour charm regularly to mask the scarring left behind from the dark mark. Draco’s insecurities towards his body were apparent, another reason that Hermione believed he was hesitant to take the next step in their relationship.
“Sickle for your thoughts Miss Granger.” He arched a perfect brow.
She shook her head. “Not particularly.” The first sip of her drink was exquisite. She swiftly downed the hot chocolate. Paused to lick away the whipped cream that she managed to get everywhere and wracked her brain for something to say. “I wondered if you had given any thought to this year's festivities?”
Hermione cared for Christmas in the same capacity that she cared about divination. The holiday had lost all meaning without her parents in her life and this rang true for many of her peers; Hogwarts was unusually full this time of year.
“Not at all. I thought we were on the same page about this.” He stood, stretched his tall frame and placed their empty mugs in the sink. She catalogued his movements and cursed herself for touching his sore spot. “I have no desire to return home and fall victim once again to the melancholia that is eating away at my parents.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to”
“Why did you ask?”
“I guess I wanted to know your plans.” Hermione sighed. It would be a miracle if she could pull this conversation around. "New Year will be here within the week. That’s as good a time as any to plan ahead.”
Draco’s eyes softened and with it, tension uncoiled from her spine.
“Does that big brain of yours have an off switch?” He laughed when she shook her head. “No, I suppose that was a silly question. No, Granger, I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’m still trying to process the last month with you.”
“Do you want to? Think that far ahead.” She quickly clarified at his questioning look.
“Are you asking for me to make a new year’s resolution?”
“Yes. I suppose I am.” She stood, the thick blanket fell to the floor and she let it. Once she was at eye level with Malfoy, she continued. “You returned here nothing like the boy I thought you once were and now there’s a spark back in your eyes. You deserve to live a full life as much as the next wizard, Malfoy. So, make a plan. Say it out loud so I know it's true.”
If Draco thought she was batty, he didn’t point it out. His hands were on her waist and she fought the urge to shy away from his touch. Food had been scarce during their time hunting Horcruxes' and it had created within her a divergence. Food became her crutch, her safety and her harm. Emotions that were too big to name, too vast to feel had been projected onto her meals. Food wasn’t the enemy and she was learning to find a balance between bingeing and starvation. As though he could read her thoughts his grip on her became bruising and she shifted her gaze back to his.
“I do have one wish for the new year.”
She held her breath and waited.
Waited and waited.
“Do you want to know?”
“Yes.”
“My New year's resolution? Losing my virginity.” His eyes crinkled with his smile. “To you. Should that not already be obvious.”
All the air vacated her lungs, and all thoughts in her mind went silent. She couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly?
“My, my, my!” They both turned their heads to the Head Boy’s bedroom. “The great and wonderful Draco Lucius Malfoy is ready to be deflowered. Quick! Call the Daily Prophet, we just might make it from tomorrow’s headlines.”
They groaned in unison.
“Oh don’t look so embarrassed. I think I can be of some assistance.” Theo took a deep bow, almost bending himself in half before he shot them both a wink.