The clock in the hallway struck one.
Sunlight slanted in through the sitting room windows, casting a golden warmth over the scattered blankets, old books, and a single pair of shoes Hermione had kicked off near the stairs.
She hadn't moved from the sofa since mid-morning.
Wrapped in Draco's oversized jumper — one she had definitely not asked to borrow — Hermione laid curled up under a throw, her hair a wild halo around her flushed cheeks, her legs aching from a mix of exhaustion, teaching, and… well. Last night's fire.
Draco returned from the fireplace, brushing soot off his sleeves. "McGonagall thinks we've both been hit with a minor hex reaction from field spellwork. Didn't question it. Might actually be impressed we're finally coordinating."
Hermione grunted. "Coordinating, or conspiring?"
"Both," he replied, sauntering over with a slow, satisfied smirk. "She doesn't need to know we're conspiring to spend the day horizontal."
She raised an eyebrow. "That ship has sailed, Mr. Malfoy. I can barely walk."
Draco laughed and slid onto the couch beside her, one leg folded beneath him, the other dangling off the side. His arm slid easily around her shoulders. "You should've stopped me. Or at least written me a warning."
"I tried, but you silenced me," she murmured with a grin, tilting her head toward him.
"You're welcome."
They sat quietly for a while, the sunlight warming the floor, the tick of the enchanted clock echoing softly through the house. Hermione melted against him, breathing in the scent of cinnamon, ash, and something unmistakably him.
"I forgot what stillness felt like," she whispered. "No protests. No classrooms. No parchment. No speeches. Just us."
Draco ran his fingers slowly through her curls. "This is the version of life they never warned us about. The one that feels earned."
A beat.
"I don't deserve you," Hermione said quietly.
Draco stilled. "Don't do that."
"It's true."
He turned to her fully, cupping her face in both hands. "No. No more of that. You survived the war, the cruelty, the titles, the hate. You've carried our daughter through it. You've taught the next generation how to stand up for themselves. You're not some tragic girl in the background of a Death Eater redemption arc, Hermione."
His voice thickened.
"You're the story."
Tears welled unexpectedly in her eyes. He kissed them away before they could fall.
"I'm sorry I ever made you feel less."
"I'm sorry I ever thought you couldn't change."
They kissed then — not heated, not rushed, but deep — like they were writing apologies and promises and confessions with their mouths.
Later, after they'd drifted into silence again, curled under the soft thrum of afternoon light, Hermione whispered:
"Let's not go back to work tomorrow."
Draco, already half-asleep, murmured, "Say you liked me again instead."
She smiled into his chest. "Only if there's cake."