Chapter Text
Hermione’s POV
“So,” Ginny said for what had to be the tenth time in twenty minutes, voice low and lethal, “you’re telling me the ferret has never told you he loves you.”
Hermione stared into her butterbeer like it might offer her a loophole.
“No, Ginny. It’s not—” Her throat tightened. “It was never… that. We never— I mean, it was supposed to be casual. And then I… I just…”
After Hermione had stumbled into the Gryffindor common room that morning—eyes swollen, chest aching, dignity scattered by the fire—Ginny had taken one look at her and dragged her to the Leaky Cauldron like Hermione was a casualty and Ginny was the only one allowed to touch the wound.
“Casual?” Ginny hissed, leaning forward. “Casual, Moine, are you joking?”
Hermione flinched.
“I hate him,” Ginny continued, like she needed Hermione to understand the full tragedy of this. “I do. But he looks at you like you’re the sun. Like you’re—Merlin—like you’re his whole bloody world.”
Hermione shook her head hard enough her hair fell in her face. “No. He never said anything. Not love. Not a relationship. Nothing.” Her voice cracked. “And I told him about Australia. That I have to move. And he just—”
Her breath hitched.
“He ignored it.”
Ginny’s eyes went dark. “That coward.”
“And I—” Hermione’s vision blurred. “Ginny, I love him. I love him and I don’t know why. I hate him for what he was and I— I love him anyway.”
Ginny’s arms were around her instantly, fierce and warm. Hermione clung back like she didn’t have a choice.
“That arsehole,” Ginny muttered. “I’m going to—”
“No.” Hermione pulled back, wiping at her face with the heel of her hand. “Don’t. We never talked about anything. There’s nothing to confront him about.”
Ginny scoffed. “Nothing? Hermione, that ferret killed his insane aunt because she touched you.”
“No,” Hermione said automatically, reflexive. “He said it wasn’t me. He said the Order needed Harry. He said I wasn’t the reason.”
Ginny’s expression turned positively murderous. “And you believed him?”
Hermione went quiet.
Because she hadn’t. Not fully. But she’d wanted to, because the alternative—that Draco had done all that and still couldn’t say what he felt—was worse.
Ginny exhaled, long and sharp. “Moine… he might pretend he’s a casual king, but I’ve been watching him since before the war. He used to follow you like a creepy little ghost.”
“No,” Hermione whispered, exhausted. “We just had classes. That’s all.”
Even as she said it, her chest ached with the lie.
She was so tired. Tired of crying. Tired of wanting. Tired of feeling like her heart was something Draco held in his hands without even noticing.
She wanted to be held.
By him.
Fuck.
The pub doors slammed open.
Hermione flinched.
And then she saw him.
Silver hair slightly disheveled. Shirt half untucked. Wand in hand like he’d forgotten it was visible. His eyes—storm-cloud grey—scanning the room with frantic, violent focus until they landed on her.
His face changed in an instant.
Relief. Fear. Something raw and unguarded.
He crossed the room like he was running out of time.
“Granger.”
And then she was off the ground.
Draco lifted her like she weighed nothing, arms locked around her like a restraint and a rescue at the same time. He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in like he needed proof she was real, like air wasn’t enough without her.
Hermione’s hands hovered uselessly, torn between shoving him away and clinging.
“Are you alright?” he demanded, voice rough. “Are you hurt? Why are you here? Why didn’t you wake me?” His hands moved over her shoulders, her arms, her waist—searching for injuries that weren’t there, touching her everywhere like he didn’t know how to stop.
So much for not letting him touch her again.
His eyes finally met hers and—too late—he saw.
Tears. Red-rimmed eyes. Swollen mouth.
His face went terrifyingly pale.
“You’re crying.” His voice broke. “Why are you crying? Darling—what’s wrong?” He swallowed hard, fear flashing sharp. “Is it your parents?”
Hermione’s throat tightened.
This was exactly why she had left without looking back.
Because the second he looked at her like that, she forgot how to be angry.
“Weaslette,” Draco snapped suddenly, turning toward Ginny like she was an enemy combatant. “What did you do?”
Ginny stood so fast her chair scraped. “Excuse me?”
“What I did?” Ginny repeated, furious. “What I did?”
Neville appeared between them with the resigned expression of a man who’d seen worse and still hated shouting. “Alright—everyone calm down—”
“Fine,” Hermione cut in, voice tight. She shoved at Draco’s arms until—reluctantly—he loosened. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” Ginny snapped, pointing at Draco. “And this ferret has no right to come in here and manhandle you like—”
“You steal her away every time you have a minor inconvenience,” Draco shot back, furious now, muscles tense. “And you think I’m the problem?”
“My Inconvenience! Mine! That’s rich coming from a guy who literally uses her as his emotionally support human! I mean look at you! She was gone for what? Two hours? And you lost it! Not just that you are a fucking asshole who didn’t even tell her that you lo…”
Hermione had enough.
“GINNY.”
Both of them froze.
Hermione took a breath. Forced her hands to stop shaking.
“Neville,” she said, voice steadier than she felt, “take Ginny to the bar. Order butterbeers. Please.”
Ginny’s mouth opened. Closed. She looked like she wanted to set Draco on fire.
Hermione squeezed her hand, pleading without words.
Ginny exhaled sharply, then stabbed Draco with a look that promised violence later. “Call me if you need me,” she said to Hermione, then turned and stalked away.
Hermione turned back.
Draco was watching her like she was about to vanish again.
“Draco,” she said, swallowing. “We need to talk.”
Before he could speak, she grabbed his wrist—ignored the way his skin sparked under her fingers—and hauled him toward the nearest small room off the pub.
A card room, maybe. It didn’t matter.
She shut the door behind them and locked it.
Privacy.
Good.
Now all she needed was courage.
Draco was behind her before she could turn.
His hands slid around her waist, pulling her back against him like it was instinct. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he didn’t know how to be in the same room without claiming space on her skin.
“We need to talk?” he murmured into her hair, already pressing kisses to her neck. “What do you want to talk about, darling? Why couldn’t you talk to me in our bed?”
Our bed.
The phrase hit Hermione like a slap.
Oh, this absolute arsehole.
She wrenched herself away and spun, planting both hands on his chest to keep distance between them.
“Draco,” she snapped, voice sharp because if it wasn’t sharp she would cry, “we have to stop.”
He blinked like he hadn’t understood the language.
“Stop?” he repeated, confused. “Stop what, darling?”
He tried to step closer.
Hermione backed up immediately, heart hammering.
“No. Stay there.” Her voice went smaller despite her efforts. “Don’t come closer.”
Draco’s hands hovered in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them if they weren’t on her. His face shifted—storm to rain, anger collapsing into something raw.
“Hermione,” he said quietly.
Hearing her name like that nearly broke her.
She swallowed hard. “This—” she gestured between them, furious at her own trembling, “this thing. It can’t keep happening.”
Draco’s POV
Her voice—we have to stop—hit him like a curse.
He stared at her and felt his body go cold all at once, like someone had opened a door in his chest and let winter in.
“What?” he said stupidly.
Hermione backed away again, palms out like he was something sharp. “Don’t. Don’t touch me.”
Draco’s hands hovered midair. His fingers twitched with the effort of not reaching for her anyway.
She was crying.
She was always too brave to cry for long, too stubborn to let it take her down, but right now her eyes were red and wet and furious with it.
And Draco had no idea what he’d done.
Or maybe he did.
Maybe this was what he’d always known would happen: the day she woke up and remembered she was Hermione Granger and he was…him.
“Granger,” he said, voice breaking before he could stop it, “please. Let me—just let me hold you. You’re not making sense. We can go back to the castle, I’ll make you tea, we can talk—”
“No!” she snapped, sharp and shaking. “We’re talking now. And you’re staying there.”
He moved closer again
“You are NOT touching me again Malfoy! Do you understand? We are going to talk here, and you are going to stay at that corner till I am finish talking!” Malfoy? Not touching me again!
Malfoy. She hadn’t called him that in months. Not since the beginning.
Draco stopped moving.
Hermione pressed her hands to her face, took a breath like she was forcing herself into shape. She mumbled something to herself—like a pep talk. She did that when she was terrified.
And it terrified him.
“This thing between us… that we… that we—” Hermione’s voice snagged, fraying at the edges. “This needs to stop.”
Draco went very still, like if he didn’t move the moment wouldn’t become real. “Stop what?” he asked, too softly.
His mind scrambled for something small. Something fixable. Something that wouldn’t end with her walking away.
“It’s the pillow thing, isn’t it?” he blurted. “I—fine. I’ll stop. I will. I won’t—” His throat worked. “I won’t pull you in. I won’t—use you like that. Just—tell me what you want.”
“No!” Hermione shouted, then immediately covered her face like she hated herself for the sound. “No, it’s not— I mean yes, and—fuck! Why is this so hard?”
She dragged in a breath that shook.
Draco’s chest tightened painfully. She was crying. Again. And his whole body screamed to cross the room and hold her until she stopped breaking—until the tears dried and her breathing smoothed and the world made sense again.
But she’d told him no.
So, he stayed where he was, hands half-raised like a man trying to prove he wasn’t a threat.
“Granger,” he said, gentler, voice stripped down. “Darling… look at me. Please.” He swallowed. “Breathe. One. Just one deep breath. I’m not moving. I swear. I’m right here.”
Hermione hiccupped.
“I—”
Draco flicked his wand and conjured a glass of water, sliding it toward her like he was offering peace. Hermione took it with shaking hands and drank too fast, like she was trying to drown the words before she had to say them.
She set it down. Stared at the tabletop. Then up at him—eyes red, furious, terrified.
“I can’t be with you anymore.”
The room went silent.
Draco felt something inside him go cold and hollow, like the world had stepped back and left him standing alone in it.
Hermione’s voice trembled. “I know we never discussed… this. Whatever it is. But it can’t continue. I can’t. I can’t keep—”
“Granger—” Draco took a step without thinking, the name torn out of him.
“No!” Hermione flinched and held a hand out, pleading. “Please, Draco. I can’t— you know I can’t think properly when you’re touching me.”
He stopped like she’d hexed him.
His throat burned.
He’d known. Deep down he’d always known this day would come—the day she woke up and remembered she was Hermione Granger and he was… him.
The boy who’d hurt her first.
The man who didn’t deserve the way she softened under his hands.
Sweet Salazar, he’d wanted to anyway.
“School ends in two months,” Hermione whispered. “And I think we should stop this… this… this relationship.”
Relationship.
The word punched him right in the lungs.
He’d never asked for it to be one. Never earned the right to call it that. But hearing it now—hearing her name it while she was ending it—made him feel sick.
He had never understood why she’d given him a chance at all. But she had, once, and he’d swallowed it whole, greedy and terrified, letting himself believe for six months that maybe she might choose him.
And now she was taking it back.
“Why?” Draco asked. His voice came out soft, but there was something desperate in it anyway. “Why are you doing this?” His chest rose too fast. “I thought— I thought you were happy. That I… that I made you happy.”
Hermione’s face crumpled for a second, like it hurt her too.
“It’s not healthy,” she said, voice shaking with anger and grief. “This thing between us—you—you can’t even sleep without me.”
Draco flinched, guilty and exposed.
“And I—” Hermione swallowed hard. “I missed you when you were gone for two days, Draco. Two days. Like an idiot. Like—like I’m addicted to you.”
Draco’s stomach twisted.
She took a cautious step toward him, then stopped, as if her body wanted to go where her mind was forbidding.
“This started as… you know how it started,” Hermione whispered. “And we never talked about what we are. About what happens after Hogwarts. And I have to move to Australia in two months and I—” Her breath hitched. “I can’t keep having sex with you and letting you hold me and touch me like it means something when you refuse to say it means something.”
Draco’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Because it did mean something.
It meant everything.
He just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like a liar.
Hermione’s voice broke completely. “This is hard… I lo— I…”
Draco couldn’t take the distance anymore. Couldn’t take the way she looked like she was bleeding out in front of him and he wasn’t allowed to touch.
He crossed the room in two strides.
Hermione startled, breath catching—
But Draco didn’t grab her this time. He caught her face carefully, like she was something fragile, thumbs brushing away tears before they could fall.
“Say it,” he demanded, voice rough. Not cruel—just terrified. “Say it.”
Hermione’s eyes blazed, wet and furious. “I love you,” she spat, like the confession tasted like fire. “I love you, Draco. Okay?”
Draco stopped breathing.
Hermione tried to fold back into herself immediately, already bracing for impact. “I know you— that you don’t— I—”
“No,” Draco whispered, cracking.
And then his arms were around her.
Too tight. Too desperate. Like if he loosened his grip she’d slip out of his life forever.
“Oh, Hermione,” he said into her hair, wrecked.
For one horrible, perfect second she softened into him—like she’d been waiting, like she hated herself for it—and Draco felt his heart stutter with something dangerously close to relief.
“You mean it?” Draco pulled back, still holding her like she might evaporate. His eyes searched her face—wild, disbelieving. “You… you love me?”
Hermione’s laugh came out broken. “Why wouldn’t I mean it?” She shoved at his chest, furious and trembling. “Draco, unhand me—oh, for Merlin’s sake—”
Draco’s hands slid up her back anyway, fingers tangling in her hair like he couldn’t help himself. Like letting go was impossible. “Say it again,” he whispered, wrecked. “Just—say it again.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” she snapped, even as her voice shook. “I already said it.”
“You’ve said it before,” Draco blurted.
Hermione stilled. “When did I—?”
“In your sleep,” he said quickly, almost sheepish. “You talk when you’re asleep.”
“What?” Hermione gasped, horrified. “I do not.”
“You do,” Draco insisted, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Mostly it’s gibberish. Sometimes you’re arguing with someone about schoolwork.” His eyes flicked away for a second, fondness sneaking through the cracks. “You even tut.”
Hermione stared at him, scandalised.
Draco looked back at her, softer now. “And sometimes,” he said, voice dropping, “you say my name.”
Hermione’s breath caught.
“And you say,” Draco finished, gentle as a confession, “that you love me.”
Hermione’s throat tightened painfully. “You absolute arsehole,” she whispered.
Draco swallowed, helpless. “I didn’t tell you because—” His voice cracked. “Because I wanted you to say it awake. When you could look at me and still mean it.”
For a beat, neither of them moved.
Hermione blinked hard, anger fighting with something softer. “So, you just… kept it to yourself?” she demanded. “Like it was yours to keep?”
Draco flinched. “I—”
“And you left,” she snapped, the hurt finally finding teeth. “Two days. No explanation. No goodbye. Just an owl and silence. Do you know what that did to me?”
Draco’s hands tightened once, involuntary. “Hermione—”
“Stop kissing me like it fixes things,” she hissed, even as he leaned in again. “Stop—”
He kissed her anyway, because he was Draco Malfoy and apparently incapable of learning the correct lesson on the first try. It was frantic at first—starved, shaking—like he needed her mouth on his to keep himself upright.
Hermione made an angry sound into the kiss and shoved at him. “You—”
Draco breathed against her lips, desperate. “Let me speak.”
“Then speak,” she snapped.
He forced himself to let go.
It looked like it hurt.
Draco took a step back, hands clenched at his sides, chest heaving. “I’m not good at it,” he said, voice rough. “Feelings. Saying things.”
“Shocking,” Hermione muttered, but her eyes were wet again.
Draco dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Snape started giving me Occlumency sessions in fourth year,” he said, as if admitting it cost him blood. “Training me to shove everything down until it stopped showing. Until it stopped… existing outside my head.”
Hermione’s expression shifted—anger cracking around the edges.
Draco’s gaze held hers, unflinching. “And then you happened.”
Hermione’s breath hitched.
“I’ve been obsessed with you since I was thirteen,” Draco said, voice raw. “I hated you for it. It drove me mad.” His hands flexed like he was fighting the urge to reach. “I hated Krum for dancing with you. Hated Weasley for touching you like he didn’t realize what he had. I hated everyone who could have cherished you the way I—” He swallowed hard. “The way I wanted and didn’t think I was allowed to.”
Hermione looked stunned. Like she couldn’t decide whether to bolt or cry.
“And then the war started,” Draco continued, shaking now, “and I was terrified. Not for me. For you.” He laughed once, broken. “People call me some noble war hero. They’re wrong. All I wanted to do was take you and run.”
“Draco,” Hermione whispered, hoarse.
She stepped closer on instinct, hands lifting.
Draco stopped her with a look—not cruel. Just urgent. Like he needed to get the words out cleanly before he drowned.
“I love you, Hermione,” he said. “I always have. I always will.”
Hermione’s entire body went still.
Then her resolve collapsed.
She surged into him, arms around his neck, and Draco made a sound like relief hurt. He folded into her like he’d been holding himself upright by force alone.
“Draco,” she breathed against his mouth.
“Granger,” he whispered back, reverent.
Their kiss turned slow—shaky, careful—then deeper, as if neither of them could afford restraint anymore. Draco pressed his lips over her tears, brushing them away like apology, like worship. Hermione felt it in her bones, that strange, impossible pull—like something finally locking into place.
It was surrender of the sweetest kind.
“But…” Hermione whispered, breathless, fingers fisting in his waistcoat. “I still have to move to Australia.”
“I know,” Draco said immediately.
She pulled back, suspicious despite the ache. “You know?”
“That’s why I went to the Manor,” Draco said.
Hermione’s heart stuttered. “What?”
“I needed to talk to my solicitor,” he admitted, voice tight.
“Your solicitor? Why?” Hermione demanded, disoriented.
Draco’s mouth tilted—smug, infuriating, unmistakably him. “Because I needed to purchase a property.”
Hermione stared at him. “Draco—”
“In Australia,” he said, and there was no humour now—only certainty. “Near two very brilliant dentists who don’t know they’re brilliant yet. International paperwork. Transactions. Two days.”
Hermione swallowed hard. “No, you didn’t.”
Draco lifted his hand and wiped her cheek, gentle enough to make her shiver. “Yes,” he said simply. “I did.”
Hermione’s breath trembled.
“You will not go alone,” Draco continued, voice turning fierce and absolute. “You will not pretend you’re their patient. We’ll be their neighbours. We’ll be there, with them, every step. With you.” He leaned in, forehead to hers. “You really thought I would let you go?”
Hermione’s eyes burned.
“Oh, Granger,” Draco murmured, voice breaking. “I couldn’t let you go even if I tried.” His hands slid to her waist again—careful now, like he’d finally learned the difference between holding and claiming. “You’re stuck with me. And I want all of you. Your anger. Your brilliance. Your imperfections. I want it all.”
Hermione stared at him like she didn’t trust happiness to be real.
Draco’s mouth twitched, softer.
“Not to mention,” he added, with infuriating fondness, “I can’t really sleep without my pillow.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed instantly. “You—absolute—”
Draco kissed her before she could finish the threat, smiling into her mouth like he’d just won something he’d been afraid to want.