Notes:
TW: Ronal Weasley... again
The Floo spat them out with a familiar whoosh, sending Hermione off balance with a stumble. She straightened her robes, a wave of relief washing over her as the cool air of their familiar living room greeted her face. Sunlight streamed through the dusty window panes, illuminating the motes dancing in the hitherto unnoticed dust motes. Bookshelves overflowed with titles like old friends, and a half-finished potion bubbled cheerfully on the side table, a testament to their interrupted life.
"It's good to be home," she murmured, a genuine smile blossoming across her face as she deposited her suitcase with a thud.
Draco followed her out of the fireplace, his immaculate robes marred by a dusting of soot. He swept the room with a glance, a flicker of something indecipherable crossing his features before settling on a small, reluctant smile. "Indeed," he agreed, his voice softer than its usual imperious tone. "Though Italy was undeniably… enchanting."
Hermione chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Enchanting is one way to put it. It was refreshing to see a different side of you, Malfoy," she added, a playful glint in her hazel eyes.
Draco raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge flickering in his own steely gaze. "Oh? And which side might that be, darling Granger?"
"The side that doesn't feel the constant need to bicker," she replied with a smirk, stepping closer to him until a comfortable warmth filled the space between them. "The side that enjoys devouring gelato and exploring forgotten museums with childlike curiosity."
Draco let out a low chuckle, a sound that sent a shiver down Hermione's spine. He closed the gap between them, his hand hovering near hers. "I suppose it's easier to get along when you're not constantly surrounded by old grudges," he admitted, his voice laced with a hint of self-deprecation.
She met his gaze, her expression softening. "Yes, exactly," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Maybe we can find a way to keep that going here."
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching hers. Then, with a gentle smile, he took her hand. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through her, and as they stood there, hand in hand, a flicker of hope ignited in Hermione's chest. Maybe, just maybe, their forced marriage could blossom into something more. They had a long road ahead, filled with unknown possibilities, but for the first time, she wasn't afraid.
As they settled back into their routine, Hermione couldn't help but wonder what the future held for them. But for now, she was content to take things one day at a time, hopeful that they could build something real out of their unexpected union.
~~~~~~
She hadn't realised how much she missed the quiet.
The moment she stepped into the bedroom, the tension in her shoulders eased. No drama. No Florence crowds or overzealous waiters trying to flirt with a Malfoy wife. Just stillness and the faint scent of lavender, faintly clinging to the sheets. Crookshanks padded toward her with a deliberate air of disapproval, his ginger fur puffed slightly as if to scold her for the extended absence.
"Oh, I know, I know," Hermione said softly, crouching down and offering her hand. "I left you for ten whole days and I didn't even write. You have every right to be dramatic."
He gave a low meow in response, tail swishing as he rubbed his head against her hand in half-forgiveness. She smiled, letting her fingers scratch beneath his chin.
"You missed me, didn't you, old champ?" she murmured, and he responded with a deep, rumbling purr that settled something warm in her chest.
She rose, casting a glance around the room. The bed was slightly rumpled from where she'd made it in a rush before the honeymoon. Her worn dressing gown hung from the hook on the wardrobe. On her nightstand sat the book she'd meant to finish two weeks ago, a half-empty mug of forgotten peppermint tea beside it.
Home.
Without ceremony, she peeled off her robes and changed into her favourite cotton pyjama bottoms and a loose, slightly faded t-shirt she'd stolen from Draco during their sixth month of marriage. Crookshanks leapt onto the bed and promptly made himself comfortable in the middle, sprawling out like a king.
"You haven't changed a bit," she said, laughing under her breath as she tossed her travel-wrinkled clothes into the hamper. "Still convinced everything here belongs to you."
He blinked slowly, unbothered.
She wandered into the bathroom, scrubbing away the remnants of the journey, brushing her teeth with the quiet rhythm of someone grateful for routine. When she returned, the bedroom was cast in a warm, honeyed glow from the single bedside lamp. She slid beneath the covers, sighing as the mattress dipped to her shape, the familiarity of it all working its way through her bones.
Crooks nestled beside her, paws tucked neatly beneath his chest, purring like a tiny furnace. She reached out and stroked the length of his fur, slow and steady, her mind finally beginning to settle.
"Goodnight, Crooks," she whispered.
Her eyes flickered to the empty space on the other side of the bed. She didn't say his name out loud, not really. Just formed the words in her head, a soft, fond echo of everything they'd just been through.
And goodnight, Draco.
A faint smile tugged at her mouth as she closed her eyes. There would be unpacking to do tomorrow. Maybe laundry. Maybe they'd argue over who used up the last of the toothpaste. But for now, there was peace.
Home. Her cat. Her "husband". Her life.
And sleep, curling at the edge of her mind, finally ready to take her.
~~~~~~
Hermione stirred in her sleep, the last scraps of her dream breaking apart as a scream tore straight through the quiet of the house. Her whole body jolted, heart slamming against her ribs, breath catching in her throat. It took her half a second to realise it had not come from her.
For a moment she stayed completely still, eyes wide in the dark, listening.
Another sound followed. Low, guttural, wrong. Not the kind of noise anyone made with their eyes open. It rumbled through the walls, raw and broken, filled with a kind of pain that did not belong to this safe, quiet bedroom.
Draco.
Beside her, Crookshanks shot upright with a furious hiss, his fur standing on end as he arched his back. Hermione pushed the covers aside with shaking hands and swung her legs out of bed, her feet meeting the cold floorboards. She grabbed her robe on instinct, fingers fumbling with the fabric as she hurried into the corridor.
She did not think. There was no time for that. No time to prepare herself, no time to remind herself who he was or who he had been. All she knew was that the sounds coming from down the hall were wrong, and that she needed to get to him.
The corridor seemed longer than it ever had before. The sconces cast a weak, flickering light, shadows jumping along the walls as she ran. Her pulse pounded in her ears, matching the ragged cries coming from behind his door.
She did not stop to knock. She shoved the handle down and flung the door open.
Whatever ideas she had once held about Draco Malfoy, about his composure, about his unshakeable arrogance, shattered in an instant.
He was sprawled across the bed, sheets twisted around his legs, his body fighting itself. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. His face, usually held in that irritating mask of cool control, was contorted in sheer terror. His mouth was open in a soundless cry, the kind that scraped out of a throat when the voice had already been used up. His chest heaved, breath coming in desperate, uneven pulls, hands clawing at the air as though he were trying to fend off something only he could see.
He looked like a man drowning.
"My Lord!" The words tore out of him in a hoarse, broken shout, ripped up from somewhere far beyond the safety of this room. "No. Not again, I did not betray you, I did not, please."
Hermione went cold, as if someone had opened a window to the dead of winter.
The title hung in the air like smoke, heavy and choking. This was not an ordinary bad dream. This was not a vague fear or a half-remembered worry. This was a memory dragging him back under, hand around his throat.
Her skin prickled. The war, which had felt so far away a moment ago, was suddenly here again, breathing with him in the dark.
She was moving before she even knew she had decided to, crossing the room in quick, unsteady steps before dropping to her knees beside the bed.
"Draco." Her voice came out low and urgent, threaded with a calm she did not feel. It sounded like something to hold on to, something to follow out of the dark. She reached towards him but stopped short of touching, fingers hovering a few inches from his arm. He was still lost somewhere she could not see. "Draco, wake up. Please, wake up."
His whole body jerked once, a violent convulsion that made her flinch. Then his eyes flew open.
She had braced herself for confusion, for the wild, unfocused panic of someone dragged too quickly from sleep. What she saw was worse.
For one long, unbearable heartbeat, he did not see her at all.
His gaze cut straight through her. He was looking at someone else. Bellatrix, perhaps. Or one of the robed figures who had stood over him in those years when the house had belonged to terror. Someone with a wand raised and his life dangling from their whim.
His breath hitched sharply and he recoiled, shoving himself back against the headboard as if she were the one holding him there.
Hermione's chest tightened. It was not pride that pulled him away, nor anger. It was fear. Raw, unfiltered, choking fear.
"It is alright, Draco," she said quietly, forcing her voice to stay steady and warm. No sudden movements. No sharp sounds. Her every instinct screamed at her to grab him, to shake him fully awake, but she knew enough to keep still. "You are safe."
His shoulders remained locked, every line of him ready to bolt or to fight. His hands were fisted in the sheets so tightly that his knuckles had blanched, tendons standing out like cords beneath his skin.
"I am not going to touch you," she went on, keeping her tone even. "Not unless you ask me to." She drew in a slow breath and let it out again. Then she extended one hand towards him, palm open between them, not quite bridging the gap. An invitation, not a demand. "You are here. With me. It was a dream."
He did not answer. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, lungs dragging at the air as if it hurt. His eyes, normally sharp and guarded, were huge in the half light, flickering between her face and some point far beyond the room. He looked like he was trying to decide which world was real.
At last, something in his expression shifted. Her words seemed to filter through the mess of whatever still clung to him. The line of his shoulders sagged by a fraction. His gaze caught on hers and held, as if he had finally found something solid.
"Voldemort is gone," she said, more softly this time, careful with every syllable.
He swallowed, the sound rough in the quiet. His whole body trembled. When he tried to speak, the first attempt broke apart on his tongue. A strangled sound tore from his throat, half sob, half breath, and he snapped his jaw shut as though he could swallow it back.
"Hermione," he managed at last, her name rasped out on a ruined voice. All the polish had gone. Nothing remained but the man underneath. "It felt real. It felt…" He stopped, shaking his head once, as if the words themselves were too dangerous. "Too real."
The nightmare had not let him go. She could see it in the way his eyes kept darting, in the way his grip on the sheets refused to loosen. He was still there, in that place. In that house. In that hall.
He saw her there. Not as she was now, alive and breathing, but as he had watched her once before. Her body on the floor. Blood everywhere. Her eyes open and empty. His hand reaching, never quite making contact. That awful distance that nothing could cross. Helplessness wrapped tight around his ribs and squeezed until it stole his breath.
For a moment he seemed to disappear again, his gaze unfocusing, chasing images only he could see. His chest hitched. His mouth moved soundlessly.
He had lost her. Again.
He forced his eyes open with an effort, dragging himself back to the room. The terror did not vanish. It stayed under his skin, curled cold along his spine. His gaze darted wildly around the dark space, searching for proof. Bed. Wall. Wardrobe. Window. Then her. Sitting at the edge of his mattress, hand still held out, close but not touching.
She had seen him in many guises. Arrogant and sneering across classroom desks. Smug in a Ministry corridor. Smooth and infuriatingly composed during their marriage hearings. She had seen him charming, biting, cold as ice. She had seen him brave.
She had never seen him like this.
He looked stripped bare. No mask. No carefully arranged expression. Just a man who had been dropped back into a moment he had never really escaped. He looked young. Lost. Absolutely terrified.
The weight of it hit her in the centre of her chest. This was not some vague fear spun into a dream. This was his past, dragging its claws through his sleep, refusing to let him go.
"Draco, you are safe," she said again, choosing each word. Her voice came out low, gentle but firm, the tone one used to coax something frightened from under a bed. "You are here. With me."
His fingers twitched, still clutching the sheets, knuckles white and shaking. She knew that hold. She had clung to her own wand like that, after the war. After the cellar. After Bellatrix.
She shifted slightly closer, just enough that he could see her properly, and lifted her hand a little further. Still no contact. Not yet.
"It is over," she said. "Voldemort is gone. He cannot touch you. He cannot touch me. Not ever again."
He blinked once, then again, and his breathing changed. The air still came rough and uneven, but the sharp edge of panic dulled.
Then his face crumpled. Guilt. It rolled across his features in a fresh wave, deeper than the fear.
"I thought I lost you," he whispered, the words barely formed, barely there. "I thought…" His throat closed on the rest.
She did not have time to answer. All at once he moved, reaching for her with a sudden urgency that made her flinch on instinct. His hand found hers and grabbed on, fingers digging into her palm with painful force.
She let him.
His grip hurt. She did not pull back. It felt less like a handhold and more like a man clinging to a rope above a drop.
Her heart twisted at the feel of his shaking fingers tangled with hers. He was acting as if she might vanish if he let go, as if the room might peel away and leave him with nothing but stone and screaming and that cursed mark on his arm.
"I am here," she said quietly. There was no wobble in her voice now. "I am right here. You can hold on as tightly as you need to."
He dragged in a ragged breath, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. The tremors in his shoulders did not stop, but they changed, from sharp jolts to a long, shuddering line that ran through him.
She did not ask what he had seen. She knew.
When he spoke again, it came out cracked and thin. "It was him."
She stayed still. The room seemed to narrow around the two of them.
"Voldemort," he said, the name almost soundless. "He had you. I tried to stop it. I could not move, I could not speak. You were screaming and I just stood there like a coward."
His hand clenched harder around hers, as though he could crush the memory by force alone.
She watched his eyes. The years fell away behind them. She could see the boy he had been, trapped in that house with monsters, watching what they did.
"You were not a coward," she said quietly.
"I did nothing," he shot back, his voice rough with self-loathing. "I should have done something, anything, but I froze. I just watched. I was useless."
"You could not," she replied, cutting across his spiral with a calm that surprised even her. "You were a prisoner, just as I was. Just as so many of us were in different ways. You were a boy in a house built on fear. You were not in control."
He looked at her as if she had spoken in a language he did not quite understand. His jaw worked, the muscles tight, as if he wanted to argue and did not have the strength.
She held his gaze, steady and unflinching, then did the last thing she had been holding herself back from.
She lifted her free hand and set it, very gently, against his cheek.
His whole body went rigid, every muscle drawing tight beneath her touch. For a second he did not seem to breathe at all.
"Hermione," he said, her name raw in his mouth, as if he had forgotten what it felt like to have her this close without blood between them.
Her thumb moved in the smallest of strokes along his cheekbone, barely there, more a suggestion of comfort than a full gesture.
It felt like nothing. It felt like everything.
His breath left him in one long, uneven exhale. The kind that felt torn from somewhere deep, the kind that scraped on the way out. His eyelids fluttered shut for a heartbeat, then opened again, dazed. He turned his face toward her palm with a kind of wordless instinct, like something in him had remembered that her hand was safe. That it belonged here. That she did too. Her skin against his cheek seemed to anchor him, the weight of her presence pulling him back inch by inch from wherever his mind had been dragged.
"You woke up," she whispered. Her voice was soft enough to belong to the dark, her forehead nearly resting against his. Their breath mingled in the narrow space between them. "You're safe now."
He opened his eyes again. And this time—this time he saw her. Not through the haze of memory or the panic of a world gone sideways, but properly. Clearly. And what she saw looking back at her was something unguarded. Fragile. A little stunned. But not broken.
She smiled. Just barely. "See? Not lost. I'm still here, dearie."
His throat moved as he swallowed, his gaze flickering across her face like he couldn't believe she was real. "Yeah," he said, voice rough and full of gravel. "You are."
He nodded, small and unsure, and she felt the change before she saw it—his breathing slowing, his hands no longer fists. The air between them softened.
Tentatively, his fingers found her arm, brushing along it in a way that felt more like reassurance than affection, more like a silent thank you than a reach for comfort.
But after a long pause, he shifted again. His hand lifted to her cheek, fingers trembling just slightly as they found the curve of her jaw. He touched her like she was something he wasn't sure he was allowed to hold. And she leaned into it, into him, her eyes closing for a brief second as her face pressed into his palm.
Her skin was warm. His hand was warm too. And none of it felt like a dream.
"Thank you," he murmured. "For everything."
She could have teased him, lightened the moment. But something in his voice told her not to. So she nodded, eyes searching his.
"We'll get through it," she said quietly.
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her. Long and searching. There was something different in his eyes now. Something neither of them had dared let in until this moment. A quiet question. And maybe the beginning of trust.
The silence stretched between them, but it wasn't empty. It pulsed with something unspoken, something new. Slowly, almost cautiously, he began to lean in. It wasn't a practiced movement, not charming or slick or calculated. It was hesitant. Careful. Honest.
He stopped, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the faint tremor that hadn't fully left his body. She could smell sleep and sweat and the last traces of fear clinging to his skin. But underneath it was something else too. Something steady. Something that wanted her here.
So she closed the distance.
It was barely a kiss at all. More a press of lips, soft and unsure, like the first cautious step into unfamiliar terrain. Just breath and skin and a kind of aching gentleness. Gratitude lived in it. And relief. And a spark—tiny, trembling, but alive.
When she pulled back, her cheeks were warm. His were too. They didn't speak. There was nothing to say.
They just looked at each other, and something passed between them, quiet and new. It didn't need naming. It simply was.
The room stilled around them. Crookshanks had returned to the foot of the bed, curled into a tight ball, his soft purring filling the silence like background music. Outside, the wind moved through the trees, branches rustling against the windows. But in here, in this small pool of shared breath and whispered promises, it was peaceful.
Draco's eyes slid shut again, just for a moment, as though he was testing whether the calm would hold. When he opened them, the panic that had gripped him earlier was no longer there. He looked tired. Wrung out. But clearer.
"Thank you," he said again. Quieter this time. No edge to it.
She smiled, the kind that didn't need words to carry weight. "Anytime. I'm here, Draco."
He reached for her hand, their fingers tangling like it was the most natural thing in the world. His grip this time was firm but not desperate. Just steady.
"I know."
And they stayed like that. Not speaking. Her hand in his. His breath slowly finding rhythm again. The memory still lingered, but it no longer owned the room.
Eventually, he shifted, drawing closer until his forehead rested against her shoulder, the crown of his hair brushing her collarbone. She brought her arms around him, wrapping him in something fierce and protective.
His body softened into hers, chest rising and falling against her ribs. She could feel the tension ebbing from him with each exhale.
She held him. And for the first time in a long time, he let himself be held.
Lying there, in that quiet cocoon of warmth and silence, Hermione felt something shift inside her. A root pushing further into the earth. Whatever this was between them, it was starting to grow into something with shape.
And as the hours passed and the room slowly dimmed into the hush of early morning, neither of them let go. They drifted into sleep side by side, fingers still clasped, breaths syncing without effort.
~~~~~~
In the pale hush of morning, Hermione stirred. Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, still heavy with sleep. The room was quiet, filled only with the gentle sound of steady breathing and the soft rustle of the sheets as she shifted.
A familiar warmth pressed along the length of her back—solid, safe, and real. Draco. She didn't move right away. Just lay there, listening to the even rhythm of his breath near her ear, feeling the calm of it wrap around her like another blanket.
She turned her head slightly, careful not to wake him, and watched the early light spill across his face. His features, usually sharp with tension or cool detachment, were soft in sleep. Peaceful. He looked young again. Not untouched by pain, but no longer trapped in it.
As if sensing her gaze, he stirred beside her. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused for a breath before they found hers. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The kind of smile that belonged to a place like this, to a morning like this, tucked between cotton sheets and the faint scent of sunlight warming the floorboards.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep, the edges rough and low.
She returned the smile without hesitation. "Good morning, dearie," she said, her voice warm, quiet. "How are you feeling?"
He let out a breath, soft and deep, and tightened his arm around her waist. His forehead dropped to rest lightly against the curve of her shoulder.
"Better," he said simply. "Much better."
She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his where they rested against her stomach. Her thumb brushed across his knuckles, slow and steady. It was nothing dramatic, just a quiet promise. A silent reassurance.
"I'm glad."
They didn't need more than that. The stillness around them stretched into something tender. No rush. No demands. Just the comfort of waking up without fear.
Golden light slipped between the curtains, painting the walls in warm tones. Outside, a bird chirped once, as if to remind them that the day had begun whether they were ready or not. Inside, it still felt like the world hadn't quite caught up with them yet. Their room held the quiet scent of cotton and dust and the faint trace of lavender from her lotion. The air carried the crisp edge of an early summer morning.
Crookshanks, ever the tactful observer, leapt onto the bed with a thud that startled neither of them. He gave a soft grunt of approval before curling into a lazy ball at their feet, purring like a motorboat.
Draco chuckled low in his throat, his fingers brushing the cat's fur. "Looks like he's decided to forgive me," he said, casting a sideways glance at Hermione.
She laughed gently, the sound light and tired in a good way. "He's always liked you more than he let on."
Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but said nothing more. His attention returned to her, and the look in his eyes softened again. He reached out to tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, the motion slow, almost reverent.
They didn't speak for a while after that. The world outside the window could wait. For now, the bed was a small sanctuary, filled with warmth and quiet breathing and the subtle weight of what they had both survived.
Eventually, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips barely touching her skin. He didn't rush the moment. His mouth lingered there as though the kiss itself was more for him than for her—something grounding, something real.
She closed her eyes, breathing him in.
The shadows of the night before still lingered at the edges of her memory, but they felt smaller now. Manageable. As though whatever had broken open between them had been, in some strange way, necessary.
His arms tightened around her again, not with desperation this time, but with something calmer. Something like belonging.
And as the sun climbed slowly higher and the sounds of the waking world drifted closer, Hermione felt it too. That fragile shift. That sense that maybe the worst had already passed. Maybe, finally, they could begin to build something out of what was left.
~~~~~~
After a leisurely breakfast, Hermione found herself settled in the living room, a steaming cup of tea in hand and Crookshanks sprawled at her feet, purring like a spoiled prince. The penthouse was bathed in the soft glow of morning light, the kind that made everything seem almost peaceful—almost. She took a slow, deep breath, relishing the rare moment of calm after the nightmare that had been the previous night.
And then, like some divine punishment for ever thinking she could have a moment of peace, the Floo flared violently to life, spewing soot and chaos straight into her morning.
Ronald Weasley, in all his unwelcome glory, came stumbling out, looking like he had just lost a fight with his own coordination. He shook off the ash from his second-hand robes, barely glancing at the mess he had made as his eyes scanned the penthouse—and darkened considerably.
Hermione sighed, setting her cup down with a deliberate clink before slowly rising to her feet. "Ronald?" she said, her voice already exasperated. "What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"
Ronald barely spared her an acknowledgment before continuing his shameless gawking, his gaze sweeping over the elegant decor with something between suspicion and resentment. His lip curled slightly, as if the very air of Malfoy's penthouse was offensive to his sensibilities.
"I needed to talk to you," he finally said, his tone a tense mix of determination and frustration.
She crossed her arms, already bracing herself for whatever this was. "Alright, let's talk. But why in the world didn't you send an owl first?" she asked, arching a brow.
He scoffed, clearly unimpressed by the very suggestion of basic etiquette. "I couldn't bloody wait."
And that was the exact moment she knew this was going to be one of those conversations.
"Oh, fantastic," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Alright then, Ronald, by all means—what's so urgent?"
His eyes snapped back to her, brimming with barely restrained anger. "I couldn't believe it when I heard. You actually went on a honeymoon with HIM?"
She let out a slow, measured exhale, because if she didn't, she was going to throw her teacup at his head.
"Ronald," she said, her patience already thinning, "please tell me you didn't come all the way here to whine about something that is literally none of your business."
His jaw clenched. "None of my—? 'Mione, this marriage isn't real! You don't have to play along like this!"
She barked out a short, humorless laugh. "Play along?" she repeated, her voice dripping with incredulity. "Ronald, in case you somehow missed the last few months of our lives, I was forced into this marriage, just like you were with Lavender. So unless you have a plan to miraculously overturn the Marriage Law, spare me the theatrics."
He took a step closer, his voice dropping as though he thought he could somehow talk sense into her. "But it's Malfoy. After everything he and his family did—"
And that was it.
The last frayed thread of her patience snapped.
"That. Is. Enough, Ronald," she cut him off, her voice sharp enough to slice through stone. "Are you actually jealous? Is that what this is? You got stuck with Lavender, and now you can't stand the idea that someone else— someone better—might actually treat me with more respect than you ever did?"
His face went from red to scarlet, a mixture of anger and something dangerously close to embarrassment flickering behind his eyes.
"Maybe I am jealous," he snapped before he could stop himself. "Seeing you with him, it's just wrong!"
She blinked before letting out a slow, disbelieving laugh. "Oh, that is rich," she said, shaking her head, her voice laced with biting amusement. "You have the audacity to stand in my home, which, by the way, you entered uninvited and act like you have any right to tell me what's 'wrong'? What exactly do you think is wrong, Ronald? The fact that I'm making the best of this situation instead of throwing a tantrum? Or the fact that you can't stand the idea that I'm moving on?"
He looked like he had just swallowed an entire lemon, whole.
He opened his mouth, but Hermione steamrolled right over whatever excuse he was about to offer.
"Because let me remind you of something," she sneered, "we are not together anymore. We haven't been together in years. So I don't need you barging in here and playing the wounded party, as if you weren't snogging Lavender's face off before my side of the bed even went cold."
His jaw snapped shut so fast, she almost heard it click.
"That's not—!"
"Oh, but it is," she cut in with a mockingly sweet tone. "You weren't this concerned about my well-being when you ran right back to Lavender after we broke up. So why, exactly, do you care so much now?"
His ears were burning red. His hands balled into fists at his sides. And for the first time since he had stormed in, he looked unsure of what to say.
Hermione stood in the living room, her frustration boiling over as she faced Ron. "You should be stronger than me," she snapped. "You've been here longer than me. Don't you know that you're supposed to be the man? Do you know why we broke up?"
Ron looked taken aback, his expression shifting from confusion to hurt. "What are you talking about?"
"You're not supposed to pale in comparison to who you think I am," she continued, her voice rising. "You always want to talk things through, but I don't care! I always had to comfort you when I was there, and what I needed from you was for you to be strong, to stroke my hair when I needed it."
He opened his mouth to respond, but dhe cut him off. "I've forgotten all of young love's joy because of YOU. I felt like a grown woman while you acted like a BITCH!"
"That's not fair," he protested, his face flushing with anger. "I did my best."
"Your best isn't good enough," she retorted. "You're supposed to be stronger than me. Why did you always put me in control? All I needed was for my man to live up to his role."
"I just think we need to talk things through," he said, his voice dropping.
Ronald looked hurt, but she pressed on. "You said you respected me and made me earn it, that I had so many lessons to learn. But you don't know what love is, Ronald. Get a grip! You sound like you're reading from some tired old script."
He launched himself forward to grab Hermione's face, his face contorted with frustration.
"Remove your hand from my wife, or I'll remove it for you," Draco's voice cut through the tension like a knife, cold and deadly. He stepped into the room with a menacing glare, his presence commanding and fierce. "If you ever touch her again, I swear I will kill you. And not with magic—muggle style. You won't see it coming, and there will be no saving you."
Bullet through his skull sounds nice.
Ronald froze, his anger quickly giving way to fear as he met Draco's icy gaze. There was no doubt in his mind that he meant every word.
"This isn't over, Hermione," Ronald muttered, his voice trembling slightly as he backed away.
As he disappeared back through the Floo, Malfoy remained where he stood, his eyes still fixed on the spot where he had been. His expression was unyielding, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Finally, he turned to Hermione, his demeanor softening.
She took a shaky breath, her voice a mere whisper as she recounted Ron's anger and accusations. Each word is a fresh wound, reopening the ache in her heart. He listened intently, his jaw clenched with a barely contained fury.
"He... he didn't believe me. He thinks... he thinks it's all a game."- her voice barely a whisper.
A muscle twitches in his jaw. His hand tightens around hers, a silent vow of protection.
"You're safe with me. No one is ever going to hurt my wife," he said firmly. "No one. Not anymore."
The word "wife" hangs heavy in the air, a new reality settling around them. She looked into his eyes, seeking solace in their depths. He pulled her into a tight embrace, his arms a comforting haven. She buried her face in his shoulder, the conflicting emotions swirling within her.
She felt a shiver run down her spine at the intensity in his voice. She looked into Malfoy's eyes and saw the depth of his determination, a possessive fierceness that made her feel a mix of safety and unexpected dampness in her knickers.
"Thank you, darling," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "For everything."
He gave her hand one last kiss before pulling her into an embrace. "Always, darling. I'll always protect you."
As he held her close, he spoke softly into her ear, "I would like you to call me Draco if you feel comfortable with it. I love hearing my name from your gorgeous mouth."
She blushed, her heart racing at his words. "Alright, Draco," she murmured, savoring the way his name felt on her lips. She had said his given name by accident a few times before, but in this moment, it felt deliberate, almost like a prayer.
His eyes softened as he held her, his hand gently stroking her back. "I love the sound of that," he admitted quietly, his voice filled with warmth.
And I love you, he felt it was the best thing that had ever left her swotty mouth, and he wanted to test what other delicious sounds she would make.
She tilted her head back to look at him, a small smile playing on her lips. "Draco," she repeated softly, testing the name once more. It felt right, a word that held a newfound intimacy between them.
In that quiet moment, as they stood embraced in the dimly lit room, they both knew that their bond had deepened, strengthened by their shared trials and the growing affection they felt for each other.